Air caught in my throat, and I wiped my hands over my damp cheeks. My watery gaze fell to the log. A weed poked through the bark, springing up with green, spindly leaves.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I dragged in a deep breath and forced my mind to go empty—to let all the hurt wash away, to stamp down the fear that settled in the back of my throat. If I could just touch something and not kill it, then things would change.
They had to.
Slowly, I held my breath, reached and brushed the tips of my fingers over the velvety leaves. The weed shuddered once under my fingers. The soft leaves turned rough and crispy. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my lip. When I did open my eyes, the weed lay limp against the bark. Dead.
“I really am Death,” I muttered. Then I hiccupped as another salty tear rolled down my face.
A popping sound followed, and then something whizzed by my head, slamming into the tree behind me. Tiny pieces of bark splintered and shot through the air, raking the back of my head.
My heart jumped into my throat as I pivoted, grabbing the edges of the dead tree. An arrow was thrust deep into the tree, still quivering. Vaguely, I realized it was one of those arrows professional hunters used. My dad had owned a set.
“What the he—” Searing pain lanced through me, stealing my breath. The force of the blow jerked me around and I toppled over the log. The back of my head cracked off a rock. Light burst behind my eyes, and then darkness pulled me under.
Chapter 22
When I opened my eyes, it was dark and there was a raccoon digging at the ground by my face. I drew in a deep breath, whimpering as pain shot down my arm and through my skull.
The raccoon froze, and its ears went back. A heartbeat passed, and then it scuttled off.
Groaning, I sat up slowly and touched the top of my arm. The material was ripped and felt sticky. I pressed harder and yelped. In the dark, my hand and the sleeve of my shirt looked like it had been dipped in oil. A few feet from me, where the raccoon had been, an arrow lay nestled between two rocks and a patch of grass.
I’d been shot by a frikkin’ arrow. My God, I had the worst luck known to man.
I rolled to my feet, swaying as a wave of dizziness nearly brought me to my knees. Placing my hand over the wound, I ignored the bite of pain and pressed down. Blood seeped through my fingers.
Things were foggy as I stumbled back through the woods. Luckily, I’d managed to stay on the trail and reached the road leading to Cromwell’s house. The bad news was that the hike was mostly uphill from here, and I seriously doubted I was going to make it. I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other, stopping every once in a while to wipe the clammy sweat dotting my forehead.
Every few seconds I had a moment of clarity. Had someone shot me on purpose or had it been meant for a deer? But those questions slipped back in the haze. I was exhausted, legs shaking as I climbed the road.
Out of the darkness, a yellow light cut through the night, and then a voice, “Ember!”
I started walking faster, tripping over my own feet. “Hayden…?” My voice came out hoarse, weak. I doubted he heard me.
“Hayden, I can feel her. I think… I think she’s hurt,” I heard Phoebe say. “Her emotions are off, tainted somehow. She’s in the road.”
There was a muffled curse, and then the sound of pounding feet. The light swayed erratically, passed me and then swung back. A few seconds later, Hayden was running out of the darkness and grasping my shoulders.
I cried out as pain shrieked down my arm.
Hayden pulled his hands back. “What happened?” His gaze dropped. “Jesus, you’re bleeding! Are you okay?”
“I was shot… by an arrow.” Those words sounded bizarre even to me.
His response was to move in, sweeping one arm under my legs, and then I was up, my cheek resting against his pounding heart. “Phoebe, run back and tell them to meet us halfway.”
All I heard was her lighter footsteps rushing off. “I can… walk. I’m fine.”
“Being shot with an arrow does
Each step jarred the wound in my arm. I wondered how deep it was. Another scar, I realized dully. I told him everything, skipping over the part where I’d seen him cuddled on the couch with Phoebe.
“Jesus, you’ve could’ve been killed,” he said. I opened my eyes, but the hard lines of his face gave nothing away. He looked down, his eyes drifting over me. “Does your head hurt?”
“I’ll survive.” Assuming someone didn’t shoot a rocket at me next.
A car roared down the road, coasting to a stop in front of us. Kurt jumped out of the driver’s seat, spinning around to open the back door. “Put her in here.”
“When… when did he get back?” I asked.
“An hour or so ago,” Hayden replied. “He’s going to take you to the hospital.”
I clenched his arm, not wanting to go anywhere with Kurt. “What about you?”
“I’m coming with you.” He placed me in the back seat. “Don’t worry.”
“No.” Cromwell turned around in the front passenger seat, his eyes coolly assessing everything. “I want you to go back to the house, Hayden.”
“But—”
“I need you to make sure everyone stays calm, Hayden. I need you here. We can take care of Ember.”
I shuddered as my eyes bounced from Kurt to Hayden’s father. I had a death grip on Hayden’s arm.
Hayden looked reluctant to let me go. He watched as Kurt climbed behind the wheel. Pressing his lips together, he faced me. “It’s going to be okay.” Then he was letting go and closing the door. His pale face filled the window.
Kurt tore off, leaving Hayden behind. I turned to the front of the car, my eyes meeting Cromwell’s as I held my injured arm close to my side. Balls of ice formed in my belly.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
I told him the same thing I’d told Hayden, and the whole time I felt Kurt’s eyes watching me from the rear view mirror. The balls of ice grew, drenching my veins. It sort of struck me then. Nothing in the past had been an accident. Why would the car the night of the bonfire—or this—be an accident?
I hadn’t been in a hospital since the night of the car crash, but this by far won for the most bizarre hospital visit ever. Cromwell stayed by my side, using his Jedi mind tricks to make sure the nurses and doctors gloved up before ever coming into contact with my skin.
Ripped and soaked with blood, my favorite hoodie was toast. The arrow had caught the upper part of my arm, digging deep enough to require stitches. Watching the blank-faced doctor suture my skin was an event I never wanted to experience again. I kept waiting for his fingers to slip.
The nurse returned halfway through the procedure, wearing the same indifferent mask as the doctor.
She handed me a small cup and a couple of pills.
“What’s this?” I asked, glancing at Cromwell.
“It’s for the pain,” she replied. Her slight southern drawl was flat. “The local anesthesia will wear off and you’ll be aching for sure.”
The tugging on my skin stopped and the doctor studied the x-rays they’d taken of my head. “It looks good, Mayor Cromwell. No signs of a concussion or serious injury.”
Cromwell nodded. “That’s a relief to hear.”
Swallowing the pills, I sort of doubted that. I handed the empty cup back to the nurse. The numb part of my arm already tingled pins-and-needles around the edges.
“I’d keep an eye on her for a few days. If she experiences any dizziness, memory loss, abnormal fatigue or
