Fantasyland 04 Broken Dove (2 page)

Thus there was no safe place. Not in this apartment.

Not anywhere.

Unless I made it safe.

I darted to a corner of the room and hunkered down, eyes aimed through the dark at the door, saying, “Gotta go now.”

“Ma’am—”

“Bah-bye,” I whispered, hit end call, dropped my phone on the floor and shrugged my purse off.

I then lifted the gun to point it at the door.

Shit.

The outside door crashed open.

Shit!

I checked to make certain the safety was off.

It was off.

Could I do this?

I sucked in breath through my nose.

I could do this.

But only because I had to.

I moved my finger to the trigger.

I heard the thumping feet. Running. One man, not several.

Pol wouldn’t be running. That wasn’t Pol’s style. He sauntered, he didn’t run. Not unless he was on a state-of-the art treadmill while making drug deals on his Bluetooth.

Then again, he’d been deprived of his favorite toy for three years. He didn’t treat that toy nice, far from it. But it was still his favorite, he’d want it back and he got what he wanted.

Always.

I sucked in another breath, then whispered, “Not tonight.”

A shadow came through the door.

My throat closed and I froze.

I’d planned for this. Damn it, I’d planned. I’d been psyching myself up for this exact moment for years.

Why was he getting closer and I wasn’t pulling the stupid trigger?

“Stop, I’ve got a gun!” I shouted my warning.

He didn’t stop and was almost on me when my finger remembered my plans and squeezed.

I jumped at the loud sound of the gunshot, heard a surprised, pained grunt and the shadow was reeling back.

Oh God.

I’d shot a man. Crap! I’d shot a man!

God, how I
hated
Pol.

But I saw now that man wasn’t Pol. I knew it because I could feel it and see it. Pol was taller than that staggering shadow, not as bulky.

And he was right behind that shadow when it fell back.

I knew this because I heard his hated but nevertheless deep, attractive voice that I
so
never wanted to hear again clip, “Jesus, what the fuck?”

I wasn’t prepared for him to be so close.

So I wasn’t prepared when his hand snaked out catching mine that held the gun at the wrist, twisting so hard the pain shot up my arm, shoulder and even my neck, making my ear tingle.

I’d planned. I really had.

But I’d also planned before.

And Pol, fucking, fucking
Pol
always got the best of me.

In order to focus on not getting some part of my arm broken, I had to twist my body with it and my fingers let loose around the grip of the gun.

Pol let me go, caught the gun and clearly flipped it to hold it by the barrel because the next thing I knew, the butt was coming down hard on the flesh under my cheekbone.

Freaking
ouch.

I fell to one hand at my side, the other one instinctively going up to my cheekbone as agony radiated through my cheek and eye, causing black spots to form in my vision.

Shit, I’d forgotten.

If you told me I’d ever forget how this felt, I wouldn’t believe you.

But three years without it, I’d forgotten how fucking much
it hurt.

New thing, though, even though the spots were still flickering behind my eyes, the rest of my vision was turning an eerie, emerald green.

Weird and probably not good.

“You shot Manny. Jesus, Ilsa, you stupid
cunt,
” Pol barked from close and as usual, he didn’t hesitate.

I felt his foot connect with my ribs so hard, it lifted me straight up and turned me so my back slammed against the wall.

I came down hard on my side just in time to hear a terrifying masculine roar.

Not a shout.

Not a bellow.

An animalistic (but still human)
roar
of unadulterated
rage.

At first, I thought it was coming from Pol and I stiffened in order to brace for the next blow. But when it didn’t come, as I lifted my eyes, that eerie green light was so bright it was illuminating the room so I could now see everything clearly.

Still, I blinked and shoved up to my forearm, the pain in my face and ribs completely forgotten because I was pretty certain as clear as things were in that strange light, I wasn’t seeing correctly.

This was because I was seeing the impossible.

And the impossible was that there were two Pols.

One was the Pol I was used to. Tall. Powerfully built. Fit. Hair well-groomed. Tailored slacks and shirt making him look classy and hot (if you didn’t know what an asshole he was, that was).

The other was a different Pol.

Still tall and powerfully built, he was, however, more fit.
Clearly
more fit. Like, by
a lot
. He made the other Pol look like Pol Lite. This new Pol was a Pol Powerhouse.

His dark hair was also not well-groomed but in need of a cut and it looked like he just got out of bed. And he wasn’t wearing classy, tailored clothes. He wasn’t even wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

I blinked again.

Good God, he was wearing what looked like breeches, tall boots that went up to his knees, a lace-up-the-collar shirt, and a freaking
cape
of all things.

Yes. A cape!

Apparently, being pistol whipped made you hallucinate. But there it was. The vision before me was Pol in a dude-from-a-romance-novel-cover outfit
hammering
the normal Pol with his fists, the mighty, nauseating thud of flesh against flesh thumping through the room.

Holy cow.

The Pol I knew was down on a knee. But he suddenly twisted away from the romance-novel-cover Pol and began to lift his hand that was still carrying my gun.

That was when I heard an attractive, cultured, insanely bored-sounding female say, “Apollo,
chéri,
the other you holds a deadly weapon.”

I was about to take my eyes away from the two Pols to look where the woman’s voice was coming from but didn’t when I heard what I could swear was the hiss of steel.

Yep. I was right. It was the hiss of steel. I knew this because the romance-novel-cover Pol was now wielding a sword.

A freaking
sword!

What the hell!

Then I pressed myself back into the wall when, with a practiced, economical, cool-as-shit (if it wasn’t scary-as-all-get-out and seriously gross besides) slice going around almost in a full circle, the romance-novel-cover Pol
cut off
the regular Pol’s hand.

Yes.

Cut off his hand!

I made a noise in my throat as I swallowed hard against the vomit that surged up and Pol emitted a violent rumble of fury and pain, clutching his still-there hand to his now stumped wrist.

Okay. I wasn’t hallucinating.

I was unconscious and having a very sick disgusting dream.

Still, even knowing this, I didn’t wake up which I really wished I would.

But no. The dream continued and the romance-novel-cover Pol with his big sword came around for another pass. I closed my eyes and shrunk back further, pressing into the wall behind me like I wanted it to absorb me because it looked like he intended to cut Pol’s head off.

I heard a thud of a body hitting floor (though not a second thud which would indicate a head hitting the floor) and I again swallowed bile and terror as police sirens sounded in the distance.

I didn’t know if this was good or bad. I could explain my need for a gun and I’d do my time if a jury of my peers thought I deserved it.

I couldn’t explain a beheading.

“We must leave
tout de suite
.” The woman said and she didn’t sound bored anymore. She didn’t sound freaked like I was (in a big fucking way). But there was a hint of urgency to her voice.

I opened my eyes just in time to be lifted up in romance-novel-cover Pol’s arms.

Uh-oh.

This wasn’t what unconscious felt like. I’d been that way often in my life and not just due to sleeping. I knew what it felt like. And this was not it.

His arms around my middle back and behind my knees caged me iron tight to his broad chest as he peered down at me, straightened and turned, walking to the middle of the room and stopping.

I would have protested. I
should
have protested.

I didn’t protest.

This was because I was looking in Pol’s eyes.

But this was not Pol.

I’d seen a myriad of looks in Pol’s eyes. Love. Hate. Fury. Annoyance. Passion. Humor. I could go on (and on).

This man in his weird clothes did not have any of the looks Pol had given me over the way too many years we were together.

He was gazing at me with a tenderness that was so acute I swear it looked like he was in pain.

And not a little of it, the tenderness
or
the pain.

“You’re not Pol,” I whispered.

“No. I am not,” he replied, steel threading through his tone, his voice Pol’s voice and yet…
not
.

His arms held me close as all around us went black.

The loss of the green didn’t concern me. This guy concerned me. This guy who wore weird clothes, knew how to wield a sword and didn’t hesitate using it and looked at me like I was his reason for breathing concerned me.

So I kept talking.

“You’re not a hallucination.”

Some of the tenderness leaked from his eyes but only so amusement could replace it and this was far from unattractive.

“I’m not that either, my dove.”

My dove?

What the hell?

“Do I have a brain injury?” I asked, figuring this was the only explanation, and his eyes dropped to my cheek.

The tenderness and humor vanished before his gaze came back to mine.

“We shall see.”

That wasn’t a good answer.

I mean, I was uncertain about a reality where some dude had beat the shit out of Pol, cut off his hand and maybe his head, but only because there’d be a lot of explaining to do with the police. And I didn’t care what that said about me. Perhaps dismemberment was a wee bit harsh a punishment for all of Pol’s transgressions. But only a
wee
bit.

I wasn’t uncertain about not wanting to have a brain injury. Pol had inflicted a lot of damage over the years (broken wrist, broken ribs, concussions, contusions, sprained ankles, etc.) but he’d never put me into a coma.

Before I could come to terms with any of this, new Pol was gently lying me down on a bed and it was a fluffy bed that felt great (thus I knew it wasn’t my lumpy bed in my apartment that didn’t feel great).

He muttered to the room at large, “Light,” which I took as an order to the unknown woman I sensed still with us because, within seconds, weak light lit the room.

I didn’t get the chance to process this new impossibility of me being on a comfy bed because he sat by my side and lifted his hand to rest it on my cheek. The flat of his thumb was just below the still stinging, tightening (thus swelling) flesh where Pol hit me with the butt of the gun.

Oh, and he’d bent deep, his face was close to mine and that sweet look was on it again.

“What did you endure prior to our arrival, Ilsa?” he asked, his voice low, deep, warm and chock full of concern.

And near as sweet as his look.

Right. Time to reassess. I was all geared up to defend myself when Pol found me, so geared up I was ready to go down fighting (if I had to, though obviously this was not my preference). I’d even shot Manny, who was a dufus and a pathologically mean one and those two things didn’t go well together, but I still didn’t want to shoot him (or anyone).

I was not prepared for whatever the hell was currently happening.

Therefore I answered, “Uh…”

“Do I need to call a physician?” he asked.

I knew the answer to that. It might have been years and that pistol whip hurt like a mother but this was tame in comparison to what Pol could do to me.

“No, thanks,” I answered then stupidly got chatty. “I’m good. I’ve had way worse. Thanks to uh…
you,
he didn’t get the chance to get started so I’ll be all right.”