Page 70 of Skotos
The priestwrenched free, releasing the dagger as he stumbled backward and bolted toward the side door.
Thomas recovered in a heartbeat and sprinted after him.
I started to follow, but by the time I reached the threshold, Thomas had stopped. He stood there, breathing hard, watching as the priest dove into the back seat of the Fiat.
The driver didn’t hesitate as the engine roared, a beast freed from its chains. Tires screeched and dust plumed as the car tore down the road and vanished into the mist.
Thomas turned slowly. His hand was still pressed to the cut on his arm. His shirt was stained red.
“Damn it, Thomas,” I said without thinking.
He gave me a sheepish grin—the one that usually got him into trouble—and said, “At least I didn’t get shot this time.”
I scowled and turned away, reaching down to pick up the dropped dagger. It was heavier than I expected. The hilt was old and worn smooth, but the blade—
I turned it in the light. “Oh, shit.”
Etched near the base of the steel was the unmistakable shape of a spearhead, the same as the one carved into the bullet casings, the same one Marini was researching when he was killed.
Thomas stared at it, his face suddenly pale.
“They were never just watching,” he said. “They werewaiting.”
33
Will
Thomas sat heavily on a half-collapsed pew, clutching his arm.
“Let me see it,” I said, already rummaging through the inner lining of my coat for the emergency kit I always carried. It wasn’t much, just gauze, a tiny bottle of antiseptic, and some field tape, but it was enough to give his cut a basic cleaning and simple dressing. He’d have to wait until we returned to our hotel for me to do a more thorough patch job.
“It’s not that bad.” He grunted, flinching as I peeled back the torn sleeve. Blood soaked through the fabric, glistening angry red where the blade had sliced him. I pressed a wadded cloth against Thomas’s arm. He winced, sucking in a sharp breath at the sting of the antiseptic, but didn’t complain.
“Not that bad?” I shot him a look. “You’ve been shot, stabbed, now sliced. What’s next, a crossbow? You’re like a one-man exhibit of wartime trauma.”
Thomas managed a crooked smile. “I’m building character.”
I dabbed at the cut with a disinfectant pad a little firmer than necessary. He hissed.
“Character-building hurts, apparently.” I shook my head, trying to keep the pressure steady. “Next time, try dodging. Just once.”
He chuckled. “You’d miss taking care of me if I got too good at this.”
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I wrapped his arm with gauze, tight enough to staunch the bleeding but not tight enough to stop the teasing in his eyes. I tied off the bandage and then met his gaze. The light from the broken stained glass spilled across his face, catching in the brown of his eyes, giving them an almost golden hue.
We sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the creaking of the building around us and the whisper of wind through broken stained glass.
“Babe, you can’t keep doing this,” I said, quieter now, my voice trembling slightly. “One of these days . . .”
“Easy there. Just breathe.” He reached out, brushing my hair with his hand. “One of these days isnottoday.”
“I know.” I blinked hard. “But every time you get hurt, it feels like . . . like the ground opens under me.”
“Will, running toward danger is kind of our job. We can’t avoid it and be any good at saving the world.”
I knew he was trying to lighten my mood, to remind me of who—and what—we were, to lend me some of his inexhaustible strength. All he did was send my blood boiling.
