Beneath Blood and Bone Page 6

  And if she didn’t die, what the hell was I supposed to do with her? I had no way of getting her outside the gates. I’d secured Jeffers’s distrust after my epic fuckup with Wildcat. There was no way I’d be allowed in or out without being searched first.

  Gritting my teeth, I continued pacing. What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette, an entire pack of cigarettes, a bottle of the good stuff, and a dark corner to sit in. To die in.

  “Fuck!” I bellowed. Coming to a halt, I sent my fist into the nearest object—a large oak armoire. My knuckles cracked against the wood, and hot waves of pain shot up through my hand and arm. Cursing, I pulled back, shook the pain out, and again sent my fist into the wood, effectively splitting the door in two. The entire cabinet shook, and the items on the top shelf spilled to the floor.

  Avoiding the waterfall of useless shit, I took a step back to survey what fell—a pile of books, a broken wrench, plastic bottles, and a paper bag. I reached for the bag and pulled it open to stare at the contents, small bottles of shampoo and wrapped bars of soap, vaguely recalling the day I’d acquired them. It had been on a scavenging run, at some hotel a few miles from Purgatory. We’d taken everything, even the paintings on the walls.

  After turning to look at the limp form lying on my couch, I glanced down at the bag in my hand and cursed. I could let her die or I could save her. But in order to save her I’d have to clean her, feed her, and hunt her down some antibiotics. Letting her die would be the easiest option, the least demanding of me and my time, but then why the hell had I picked her up and brought her back here in the first place? And why was I already making my way across the room, my attention fixed on the two large plastic storage tubs stacked in the corner?

  Pulling the top tub free, I blew a layer of dust off the top and pried the lid open. Several spiders scurried out, and the ones that didn’t I flicked free of their webs. Tossing the tub into the center of the room, I stared at it.

  I didn’t have nearly enough clean water to fill it; the only water I kept in bulk was as dirty as the earth it came from. But why waste clean water on her? As it was, it would take three or more baths before she’d resemble a human being.

  I was halfway through pouring the third container of water into the tub when she began to stir, moaning in pain. After dumping out the last of it, I noted the tub was now three-quarters of the way full, so I made my way to her and yanked the blanket from her body.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, looking her over. “You really fucking stink.”

  Her shirt was already torn down the center, but it still took quite a bit of maneuvering on my part to free her from it. Her pants were worse, stuck to her body in various places, and tied around her waist with a thick rope, the intricate knot rather impressive. Eventually I gave up trying to pull the rope free and simply sliced it off with a blade. When I pulled the stiff material down her legs, I was greeted with an entirely new set of smells, and none of them good.

  Taking a step back, I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through the sudden blinding rage filling me. This was why I didn’t bother. This was why I didn’t involve myself in others’ bullshit. People like her—people who thought covering themselves in shit and living in trees—weren’t my problem, and I sure as fuck didn’t owe anyone anything.

  Who had been there to help my ass out in the beginning? Who the fuck had made sure I kept breathing? Who the fuck had taught me that while covering yourself in shit might keep the rotters at bay, but would kill you in a second if you happened to have an open wound?

  It sure as hell hadn’t been Jeffers, the sniveling mess of a man that he’d been and still was. It was me, always me. And I didn’t owe anyone anything. Not anymore.

  But if that were true, then why had I rescued her? Better yet, why was I picking her foul-smelling body up off the couch and lowering her slowly into a tub of water?

  “Been doing a lot of shit lately that you shouldn’t,” I muttered.

  Maybe you’re not doing nearly enough, the voice taunted.

  Situating her in such a way so that her arms were dangling over the sides of the tub and effectively holding her body upright, I dumped out the bag of soap and grabbed the first misshapen lump I saw. Unwrapping it, I turned back to her, surveying the mess and wondering where the hell to even begin.

  After several seconds of procrastinating, I started washing her, first her arms, then her chest and torso. By the time I reached her legs, I was on my fourth bar of soap, and the water she was soaking in was nearly black.

  “Fucking hell,” I mumbled. “I need more water.” It took me nearly half an hour to get her out of the tub, then dump the water outside, refill it, and once again situate her inside it.

  Once or twice during the process, she’d cracked open her eyes. Glazed over and unfocused, she’d blinked sluggishly up at me before closing them again. Other times, she made small noises of distress or painful grunts, but for the most part she was oblivious and never once tried to stop me from cleaning her.

  And I kept cleaning her, cleaning her and cursing her, until I began to see skin beneath all that grime. Finally I could make out how pale she was, her skin nearly snow white, as if she hadn’t seen sunlight in years. After moving her matted hair away from her face, I scrubbed the remaining sliver of soap across her cheeks, revealing her features inch by inch. The more I cleaned, the more of her that was revealed, the slower my movements became. When her skin was virtually spotless, I rocked back on my heels and stared.

  She was young, ridiculously so, with smooth skin and small, delicate features. Her eyes were wide, her nose small and pert, and those lips, they were full and pouty, the kind men dream about. But her body wasn’t in any way childlike—her breasts were high and firm handfuls, and her small frame not without curves. The girl’s extraordinarily youthful look couldn’t be ignored.

  Something burned low in my gut, a feeling that both sickened and panicked me. She looked . . . she seemed . . . so fucking innocent. The men here, once they got a look at her, would line up for her. And Liv—that goddamn lunatic—would be elated once she saw her. Murderer or not, the girl was pussy, innocent pussy.

  I ran a hand over my hair. Jesus Christ, is she a virgin?

  They’d fuck her and then they’d kill her for what she’d done. And if they didn’t kill her, they’d damn sure make her wish they had.

  Still feeling sick, I set back to work washing the tangled, matted mass of her hair the best I could. When I’d finished, I carried her naked into my bedroom and laid her out on my mattress. Sifting through a pile of clothing, I pulled free the cleanest items I could find—a relatively clean T-shirt and not-so-clean pair of boxers.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” I said, dragging them up her legs.

  Again I tried to get her to swallow some water, this time managing to get nearly half a bottle down her throat. I’d just covered her up with my blankets and was glaring down at her, debating what to do next, when a knock on my door interrupted my thoughts.

  I waited several minutes, hoping whoever it was would just go away, but the knocking only became more insistent and downright obnoxious, until it was literally a flurry of pounding fists.

  Folding my arms across my chest, I sighed angrily.

  Liv was here.

  Chapter Eight

  Autumn

  I awoke to the sound of howling. A shrill, horrible sound that made my head hurt even more than it already did. I wondered for a moment if it was a bird. Had a biter gotten to it? What else would make it scream so horribly?

  The howling continued, the awful noise causing the tiny hairs on my body to stand on end. I tried to sit up and immediately stilled as pain radiated through my body. The room spun around me and continued spinning until I felt submerged beneath water, drowning against the tide that was rapidly sucking the breath from my lungs. I fought it, fought the feeling with everything I had, but my meager strength was no match. I wasn’t strong enough. I would never be strong enough.

  “Leave!”


  The angry roar penetrated my haze. Was it Eagle, the man who’d saved me, the terrifying man that I still wasn’t entirely sure was real. Was anything real? Everything seemed numb and spongy to the touch, even the air around me.

  “You’ll be sorry!” a feminine voice shrieked.

  That howl and this voice, they were one and the same. But birds couldn’t talk, or could they? An image of a bird with brown feathers and a long orange beak came to mind, a dirty, ugly thing that flew around the biters, circling them, teasing the monsters.

  “You’ll come back begging! And I’ll turn you away!”

  The man laughed, a deep rumbling laugh that was meant to mock the bird that howled at him. The bird howled again, shrieking and screeching. I imagined her flailing, sending feathers in every direction.

  “You’re going to regret this, Adler! I’m going to make you—”

  The rest of the bird’s screams were cut off by a loud slam of metal against metal. Heavy footfalls echoed around me and I trembled, wishing I could disappear into the softness I was lying upon.

  “You’re awake.”

  My eyes popped open and met with a pair of the blackest eyes I’d ever seen. My father had always said you could tell a lot about someone when you looked in their eyes. And these eyes were full of death.

  “Thirsty?” the eyes asked.

  Thinking I was imagining things again, I blinked several times, attempting to clear my vision. I was both heavy and light, my body useless and trembling, my teeth chattering despite the suffocating heat that seemed to come from every inch of me. Widening my focus, I tried looking past the eyes to find a pair of lips thinned in displeasure and surrounded by a thick beard. I knew this face; it was the man who’d saved me. It was Eagle.

  I blinked again, feeling sluggish, heavy, aching. The light was too bright, my tongue lay flaccid inside my mouth, and it hurt to breathe or even swallow. A drink, God, yes, I needed a drink.

  “Thirsty,” I rasped, gagging over the lone word.

  My body jerked, and I found myself suddenly floating, lifted above the softness and missing it instantly. Eagle’s face loomed over mine, and it took me a moment to realize I wasn’t actually floating. He’d lifted me, and I was in his arms, so close to him I could feel his cool breath fan across my face.

  Something cold nudged my lips and I readily opened my mouth, eagerly swallowing the water he offered. I swallowed slowly at first, the liquid splashing over my lips and spilling down my chin and chest. My hand reached up, wrapping around the cup—around his hand, and I tipped it back, needing more. I swallowed greedily until there was nothing left and the cup was gone, snatched from me.

  Crying out, I grabbed for it, growling and slapping at his hand as he held it out of my reach.

  “No more,” he said, and tossed the cup away. “You’ll puke again.”

  As if on cue, I started to feel queasy. I snarled up at him, hating that he’d been right.

  “Keep growling at me,” he muttered. “And see what the fuck happens.”

  As he set me down, a thousand thoughts trampled through my mind, running rampant and wild. I tried to grab on to any one of them, but every time I had one in my grasp, it slipped instantly away. Looming above me, Eagle stared down at me, his nostrils flaring as if it were paining him having to breathe the same air as me. His eyes were narrowed, anger burning outward from their depths while his arms were crossed in front of him, his large muscles twitching.

  He didn’t speak, and neither did I. Dislike and distrust swung back and forth between us until my stomach surged in protest. Placing a hand over my stomach, I attempted holding the nausea at bay only to realize something. These weren’t my clothes. Panicked, I awkwardly patted myself down, my hands roaming over unfamiliar material, clothes that were obviously not my own.

  I lifted my arm and my eyes widened at the sight of my skin. My pale and clean skin.

  It was gone, all of it. My camouflage, my weapon, my protection . . . it was all gone. He’d taken it from me, taken all I had left. Furious, I looked at him and a growl tore from my throat, but he merely shrugged and shook his head.

  I couldn’t take it anymore, it was too much—this place, these people, this man. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened my mouth to scream, and the anguished wail freed from my lungs.

  “Shut up!” I heard him shout.

  But I wouldn’t, I couldn’t.

  A hand clamped over my mouth, and my eyes flew open. He was close again, too close, and his mouth was moving, yelling things that I couldn’t make out. I thrashed beneath him, no longer caring about the pain I was causing myself. I would fight until I had nothing left. I would fight until he killed me.

  His hand raised, looming over me as his fingers curled into a fist, and I watched as it barreled toward me. I bit down on the other hand clamped over my mouth and heard him shout out in pain, and then . . .

  Everything went black.

  • • •

  I blinked against the veil of darkness, panicking for only a moment before calming. I was home, inside my cave, and I was safe. Straining my ears, I listened, as I did most nights, to the sound of the wind blowing through the treetops, rustling the leaves, and the soothing sound of water rushing through the ravine. Breathing out slowly, I closed my eyes again.

  Another sound broke through the near silence of my cave. A sound both familiar and wrong, the sound of snoring, loud and intrusive, similar to the noise my father used to make while he slept. I would hear him through the walls, his loud snores keeping me awake at night, frustrating me to the point where I would put my head beneath my pillow and squeeze my ears.

  But my father was dead. Everyone I had ever known was dead. And this snoring was all wrong, louder and deeper than my father’s. The panic returning, I bolted upright and let out a short sharp cry as pain sliced through my middle. I clutched my abdomen against the pain and felt something strange. Lifting up my shirt, I found a strip of cloth wrapped tightly around me.

  I’m clean.

  My panic rose, tightening like a noose around my neck, my breaths coming short and fast, leaving me light-headed and dizzy.

  I was clean.

  They would smell me.

  They would come, and they would feed.

  I gasped, desperately needing air.

  “Calm down,” a deep voice ordered. “Just calm the fuck down.”

  Eagle.

  Eagle. Eagle. Eagle.

  His name beat a steady rhythm through my muddled memories.

  “Just breathe,” he said, his voice a low rumble through the darkness. “It’s too early for this shit.”

  I did as he said and took a slow breath, attempting to calm my raging heart. I played his unsympathetic words, and his voice, over and over in my head, letting them take hold of me. Eventually I calmed some, and with that calmness came the realization that I felt better than I had before. My body still ached, still riddled with various aches and pains, but nothing like before.

  “How long?” I asked, my voice a raw scratch against the silence. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  Although I couldn’t see him, I could plainly hear his frustration in his voice. “Two days. Three if you’d let me sleep.”

  Three days.

  Almost three days I had been here with him, hidden inside his home, safe and protected from the others. He’d looked after me, I realized uncomfortably, and cleaned me. How long had it been since someone had looked after me? How long had it been since I had been protected, since I’d slept without fear? This man had given me three days of peace and protection.

  I stared into the darkness, wondering what had happened to the howling bird, and thinking of my father. He told me to never trust anyone, not one single person, but especially men. Thinking of the man in the room with me, somewhere in the darkness, I wondered if that was true anymore.

  “Why?” I whispered. “Why did you help me?”

  He never replied, and somewhere between the rising morning and
the night slipping away, I forgot that I’d asked. Maybe I never did; maybe, like the howling bird, it was just another product of my imagination.

  Chapter Nine

  Eagle

  “What are you up to?” Grannie demanded, her wrinkled hands sitting on her wide hips, her sharp blue eyes crinkled at the corners, staring daggers into me.

  In the middle of the marketplace, inside Grannie’s tent, I glared right back at the old broad, purposely crossing my arms over my chest in an effort to refrain from sending my fist into her face. “You don’t get to ask me that,” I gritted out.

  “You come here demanding antibiotics,” she shouted, not at all cowed by my aggressive demeanor. “And expect me to just hand ’em over.” Tutting at me, she shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you, Mister E. You do your worst if you have to, but you’ll never find them pills you want.”

  The elderly were usually never afraid of me, nor were the very young. The young were too stupid to know better, or looking to prove something. And the old ones knew they were already knocking on death’s door, so they simply didn’t care one way or the other what I threatened to do to them.

  “I’ll trade you whatever the fuck you want,” I spat out. “Name your price, old woman, and it’s yours.”

  Surprising me, she merely shook her head, her eyes now tiny slits of fury, angrier than I’d ever seen her before. She was usually a batty sort of woman, always talking too much and far too friendly for my liking, so I’d made a point to only do business with her when it was absolutely necessary.

  Grannie was the go-to woman for clothing, bedding, and shoes; she’d mend, create, or somehow obtain whatever you needed of the fabric or footwear variety. And since I’d never had the need to special request a goddamn thing, I hadn’t had all that much interaction with her. Still, knowing what I knew about her, I hadn’t expected this level of hostility from a past-her-prime hippie with a proclivity for gossip.