Page 9 of Under a Wicked Moon
“Ky!” She lunged toward him, but not in time to help. The sound of the cringeworthy head whack replayed over and over in her mind. Did he have a concussion? He could be dead.
Don’t be dead. I don’t want to be alone in here.
As she rolled him over, she winced at the blood that coated hisface from where he’d bitten his lip, and there was a gash over his left eye. She cradled his upper body in her lap and pressed her hand against his forehead. “You with me?”
No answer.
The voltage alone was enough to stop him but shouldn’t have knocked him out.
He breathed but remained unconscious.
At least this solved their avoidance-of-sex problem. Maybe he’d stay out all night. She lifted a middle finger and flashed it at one of the cameras.
The minutes stretched out as she sat with his head as deadweight on her lap.
His bleeding had long since stopped. The rate of his super speed healing correlated with him being old or at least above sixty. Once the blood had stopped gushing, she could’ve moved away, but she liked holding him. She hadn’t been this close to another person when not threatened in a long time, apparently years.
She moved the long blond hair off his head and stroked it a few times like she used to do with her cat, Gary. She hoped Gary wandered out the cat door and found a new home, since she never came back. How she missed the grumpy overweight Siamese who did affection on his terms.
The soft strands of Ky’s hair tickled her fingers. As she lifted it, she exposed a small hoop earring in his right ear and a small tattoo of a solar cross just beneath. It wasn’t the only inked mark. She traced designs up his powerful right forearm to his shoulder. How she wished to see his other side but didn’t want to turn him over simply to appease her curiosity. These weren’t pictures simply for the sake of ink art, although each represented intricate work done by a master tattoo artist. They displayed all manner of protective symbols—a Celtic knot, a pattern of runes, a Hamsa hand with its intricate fire designs, and the mostbeautiful was a Norse Helm of Awe. The Helm of Awe spanned his entire shoulder with its complicated star-type design. Each point represented the expansive universe and all it offered from the good to the evil. Her father taught her the meaning of these sigils long ago.
Ky must have reason to need permanent protections. They could offer a spiritual defense against evil. Or…
She studied his opposite arm, unwilling to touch the blue band around his wrist. It radiated a foul, oppressive magic. Her hand hovered above it, but instinct warned her not to touch it. Maybe the inked designs protected against whatever kind of magic came from the wrist mark.
“I won’t let the humans hurt you,” she whispered in Gaelic. “Enough people have died because of me.”
He smelled odd. Like mop water mixed with the stinkiest human body spray imaginable. She highly doubted they’d allowed him to bathe before being dumped in here, but he’d been wet. Their captors must’ve doused him and spritzed him, thinking it’d make him more attractive to her. Beneath the horrid fake smell, her nose found the real him.
Oh my.
Her mind wobbled, dizzy. She reached out and took his hand to steady herself. His hand remained limp, but heavy, in her hold. It was solid. The feel of his rough, callused palm sent a surprising wave of calm through her.
The hard linoleum floor seeped coldness through the flimsy nylon pants after a while. Felt almost wet when it was only cold.
His thumb brushed along the top of her hand. She jerked, her heart racing. A flush of adrenaline tingled throughout her body.
“Get away from me,” he snarled. “I’m weak…can’t resist.” He tugged himself to a seated position, remaining on the floor, but upright enough to prop himself against the bench.
She crab-walked backward and rose to a shaky stand. At thesink, she washed the blood off her hands and arms and threw water on her face. He was a mess. She pulled some toilet paper off the roll, the only absorptive product in the cell other than their clothes, and dampened the cheap one-ply.
“Here.” She held it out to him. Her voice strangled in her throat. The blood on his forehead reminded Vivi of the last time she saw her sister. Nova had fought with every ounce of strength. Vivi, on the other hand, had been paralyzed by terror. If she’d fought harder, if she’d drawn their focus to her instead of Nova, her sister wouldn’t have been struck in the head. Vivi never got to know if her sister survived beyond that, since they’d been separated. To get out of this cell and find Nova, she had to survive.
She choked out, “Your face is covered in blood.”
She shook the dampened toilet paper in suggestion for him to take it.
He didn’t move.
Kneeling near him, she wiped at his face. The thin paper fell apart almost instantly and did little to clear the crusted blood. She ran to get more, and the same thing happened again. Tears clouded her vision as she ran for more a third time.
He caught her hands on their way to his face. “Stop. I’m okay. It’s just blood.”
Her chest hurt like something heavy was crushing it. She swallowed against nausea. When she tried to raise her hand to get his face clean, her hand trembled. Needed to make this right. She should’ve warned him. This was her fault.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
She wiped her stuffy, running nose.
