Blood Brothers (8 page)

“I didn't intend to scare you,” he added, almost grudgingly.

At last Lucy was able to move. She pulled away and put distance between them as he retreated into the shadows.

She'd seen it earlier, camouflaged between some shelves, along one of these walls. She hadn't been able to open it before, but maybe—if she moved fast enough, if she could somehow break it down . . .

She dove headlong through the darkness. But instead of finding a way out, she found herself immediately trapped in Jared's arms.

“If you're looking for that door,” he said, “you have a terrible sense of direction.”

There was no force this time.

Lucy's captivity lasted only a moment before Jared released her.

It had nothing to do with courtesy or consideration, she was quick to realize—but because his strength was rapidly giving out. She could feel his exhaustion, the weakening of his grip. And in the silence of the cellar, his breathing was ragged with pain.

Jared's words sounded clearly in her head, though she knew he hadn't spoken aloud since letting her go. She began backing away from him again, then stopped abruptly, overcome with confusion and fear.

How had he known she would bolt for that locked door? She hadn't even known it herself until the last possible second. How had he seen her in the dark? How had he caught her so fast?

Without warning the flashlight came on. The bright glare caught her full in the face, and she put up both hands, trying to shield her eyes. She felt like a deer trapped in headlights. And suddenly, the fact that he would put her at such a deliberate disadvantage made her furious.

“Turn that off!”

Lucy swung out blindly, sending the flashlight into a wall. With a weird sense of satisfaction, she heard plastic smashing apart.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why are you doing this?”

His answer was a long and guarded silence.

She couldn't see him, couldn't see
anything
except lingering pinpoints of light, but she stepped forward and threw out a challenge.

“I can wait just as long as you can. But we'll do it on equal ground.”

Again the silence. A silence so lengthy that Lucy felt compelled to speak again.

“What is this anyway? Some kind of sick joke?”

Why wouldn't he answer her? Why wouldn't he talk? Her head felt as if it was going to explode.

And then she sensed a stirring in the shadows. A calm presence . . . and curious . . . and much nearer than she'd expected.

“Why would you think it's a joke?” Jared asked softly.

“Why? Well, why
not
? I see the looks at school—I hear the rumors. It's not like I don't know what's going on.”

“What
is
going on?”

“Things! Things that just happen to me!” The words burst out before Lucy even realized. She hesitated, unsure of what she'd just said, and unsure of why she'd said it.

His voice gave her a solemn prompting. “Tell me about those things.”

“Things,” Lucy said, evasive now as she stared through the dark at his question.
Crazy things like wounds healing all by themselves.
But out loud she added, “Things that nobody would ever believe. Unless those things really
were
jokes.”

There was no response from Jared this time. Lucy forced a harsh and humorless laugh.

“So if this really
is
some kind of trick you're playing,” she said bitterly, “let me set the record straight once and for all. I'm just as sad about Byron as you are—probably even more. I feel guilty every single day, because he died and I didn't. I wish I'd never come to this stupid town. I wish I'd never met Byron. I'd give
anything
if things could be different. I'd leave here in a second if I had some other place to go, but I don't. So please. You've had your fun. Just leave me alone.”

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She faced the shadows defiantly, but they seemed to be empty now.

Jared was standing right next to her.

His whisper caressed her like velvet.

“I'm not who you think I am, Lucy. And if you were mine . . . I'd never leave you alone.”

A shiver went through her, languid and warm.

His fingers closed around hers.

“Let me see your hand,” he said.

“What?” Lucy felt strangely disoriented. She was still angry, still determined—hadn't she made that clear? He was supposed to be letting her go now, but he wasn't. She was pushing him away, but he was getting closer.

“Your hand—it's still bleeding. Let me see it.”

Still bleeding?
She'd completely forgotten about falling on the stairs. But as Jared spread her fingers and pressed his lips against her palm, it wasn't the nasty scrape there that made her cry out.

Lucy clutched at her chest.

The pain was so intense, she couldn't bear it. It was as though her heart were being pierced—rendered in half—sliced straight through with a keen, swift blade. And then, just as quickly as it had struck, the anguish was gone again, leaving her breathless and shaken.

“It's a very deep splinter,” Jared was saying. “It'll have to come out.”

Lucy stared at him in amazement. Couldn't he see how she was trembling? Hadn't he seen what just happened? Wasn't he the least bit concerned?

“Jared—” she began, then broke off with a gasp.

His mouth was warm against her palm. She felt the splinter shift slightly beneath her skin . . . the effortless glide of it through her flesh, as Jared drew the splinter out.

“That's a very interesting scar,” he whispered.

She wanted to give him an answer—something believable and acceptable that he would never recall again. But her mind had gone hazy, and her eyes had drifted shut. Darkness flowed over her, but she wasn't afraid. She knew she was awake, yet she seemed to be dreaming.

“A girl was killed last night,” Lucy whispered, and like before, she wasn't quite sure why she'd brought this up. It was such an effort to talk now. Her hand was throbbing, and her body felt flushed. Her pulse beat much too slow. “I can't stop thinking about it. I keep imagining how scared she must have been.”

Silence stretched around her. When Jared finally spoke, his voice was low and emotionless.

“Maybe there wasn't time for her to be scared.”

“But it was dark. And she was all alone.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “I know.”

She dreamed she was in a storm.

A winter storm so fierce and cold that it was turning her into a solid block of ice. She could feel her limbs freezing, inch by inch . . . her hands . . . even her lips . . . until she couldn't struggle anymore, couldn't even scream for help. And yet there
was
help close by, searchers with dogs, trying to find her, calling her name, walking slowly past her and leaving her buried in the snow . . .

“I'm here!” Lucy screamed a silent scream. “Please don't let me die!”

She could hear their footsteps crunching over the frozen ground; she could smell the damp, musky fur of the dogs. Someone fired a gun—one single muffled shot—and then the whole world went white and still.

Lucy's eyes flew open.

There was no white world around her now, only black, murky shadows. She was gasping for breath, and her mind scrambled furiously, trying to make sense of where she was. Still trapped in a nightmare? The cave in the woods? Her bedroom at Aunt Irene's?

Every instinct warned her to escape. Yet at the same time, she began to realize that something was holding her down.

A fresh wave of panic engulfed her. She was too frightened to move, but her whole body trembled uncontrollably. It took several endless seconds for the truth to sink in. And even then, the truth seeemd unbelievable.

She was lying on her side, nestled in the curve of Jared's body. His left arm was draped across her shoulder, and her forehead rested lightly on his chest. She couldn't remember how she'd gotten here, couldn't remember even falling asleep. In fact, the last thing she remembered at all was Jared pulling a splinter from her hand.

Her right hand was pressed to Jared's heart. His skin was warm, and she could feel the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. But there was a vague sense of discomfort, as well—as though her palm were swollen and tender. And a lingering throb of pain kept time to Jared's heartbeat.

Lucy heard him moan. As his body shifted against her, she was able to ease out from underneath his arm. The lantern she'd brought was glowing near the bed, and the initial terror she'd felt was finally beginning to subside. She propped herself on one elbow and watched him.

She wished this
were
a joke.

Because then, in the end, there would be answers, and everything would go away, and nothing would be real.

But Lucy had no answers. And nothing had gone away except people and things she loved.

And real was
here
; real was
now
.

Just like the change in Jared.

It was obvious that his wound had healed even more. Since the last time she'd checked it, it seemed to have shrunk to nearly half its original size. No matter the weakness she'd sensed in him before, or the quiver she'd heard in his voice—now the sharp hollows of his cheeks were beginning to fill in slightly, and the bruising had practically vanished around his eyes. Even his lips looked different, Lucy thought—fuller somehow, and no longer pale. The transformation was nothing short of miraculous. Yet even though he found respite in sleep, she could tell that the pain hadn't left him. Not all of it . . . not yet.

She placed her hand gently upon his brow.

Wind . . . earth . . . sweat . . . blood . . .
They drifted from his skin and from his hair, though not unpleasantly. And with them came a sense of some deep, inner struggle. Something far more desperate—more dangerous even—than a struggle for self-survival.

Lucy's fingertips slid lower, tracing the jagged mark across his face. The shock she felt was immediate and unexpected—a bolt of rage, a hatred so intense that she nearly reeled from the impact.

Alarmed, she took a closer look.

It was even deeper than she'd thought, and much more gruesome. As though something had not merely stabbed the flesh, but twisted . . . not only cut the flesh, but slashed with relentless force.

Lucy gazed at him with a kind of awe.

A dark, compelling beauty, full of secrets . . .

“Stop now,” she whispered to herself. “Don't go any further.”

But she was already touching his arm.

Trailing her fingers lightly over the puckered skin of his burn . . . the charred remains of his tattoo . . .

This time, she cried out when the shock wave hit. As the uncontrolled fury surged through her, searing every artery and vein.

She jerked backward, clutching her fingers, shaking violently, and becoming certain of two things:

At some past time, Jared had been tortured.

And both of his scars had come from the same merciless hand.

She'd never expected to see such cruelty.

Such brutal anger . . . such excruciating pain.

Was it even humanly possible, she wondered, for someone to inflict—or bear—that kind of suffering?

She'd only touched Jared's scars for a moment.

How many other scars ached deep within him, far beyond her reach?

Lucy sat on the bed and watched him sleep. It was colder down here now, and she could hear the wind outside, rattling the chain on the doors. An occasional burst of snow gusted through the cracks and settled on the stairs, as if the cellar were a giant coffin and she and Jared were being buried alive.

It reminded her of the dream she'd had earlier.

She'd forgotten about it till now.

Lucy slid quietly from the bed and stood up, flexing her cramped muscles. She had no idea what time it was, or how many of her classes she'd missed so far. The office had probably already called Irene to report Lucy missing from school. She shuddered to think about it. She'd have to come up with one more really convincing excuse. Except it was getting harder and harder to keep all her excuses straight.

She glanced anxiously over at Jared. He was still sleeping, but there was a flicker of pain across his face, and she noticed a small amount of blood seeping from his wound. She found her backpack and pulled everything out. After tending to Jared as best she could, Lucy piled the blankets on him and arranged the other items within arm's reach of the bed. Then she opened the thermos of brandy-laced coffee and dropped in several sleeping pills.

“Drink this,” she whispered to him. “It'll help the pain.”

He seemed to understand this at some level. With his eyes still closed, he allowed her to lift his head and tip the cup to his lips.

A wave of sympathy swept through her. And then resentment and frustration. She felt sorry for Jared, and she felt sorry for herself. How could another day of her life have turned out so badly, so quickly? And how had this stranger—who looked so much like Byron—slipped into her world with such heartbreaking familiarity?