“Right here. Is it bruised?”
She stopped so he could inspect the spot.
“Aye. ‘Tis darkening.”
“Touch it.”
“Whit?”
“Lay hands on it or whatever. Just hold it.”
Broch rested a hand on the spot. “Lik’ this?”
“Yes. Hold it for a second.”
Broch squinted into the afternoon sun. “This is mad.”
Catriona shushed him and waited, unsure how long his magic might take. When she thought as much time had passed as the time he’d held her wrist, she pulled way and clawed at the spot with her opposite hand. She poked and pushed on it, unable to find the bruise.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
The spot between Broch’s eyes bunched. “Aye?”
“Is it still bruised?”
Broch inspected her arm. “Nae.”
Catriona took a deep breath. “What do you think that’s about?”
He shrugged and held up his hands, his gym bag still hanging across one palm. “Ah dinnae ken. Ah ken ah’m magic.”
She chuckled. “I ken you are.”
As they walked toward the car, Catriona felt as though she had a lot to think about. She didn’t want to have to pay attention to the road.
“You want to practice driving?” she asked as they approached the Jeep.
“Oan the road?”
“Yep.” Previously, she’d only allowed Broch to drive around Sean’s lot and on obscure roads where she didn’t think he could run into trouble. Without a social security number, an iron-clad I.D., or really any form of identity other than a worse-for-wear kilt, it was risky letting him drive, but he had to know how.
She threw him the keys and took his bag from him before he jogged to the driver’s side like a kid running to the tree on Christmas morning.
She threw the bags in the back and hopped in to sit on the passenger seat.
“Ready?” he asked, grinning as the Jeep roared to life.
“Don’t kill me.”
“Ah wouldnae dae that.”
“That’s what all the people who’ve killed me said.”
Broch looked at her. Catriona waited to feel the lurch of the Jeep slipping into to reverse, but it never came.
The weight of his stare became too heavy. “What are you doing?”
“Ah dinnae ken if ah kin bear it any longer.”
“What?”
No sooner did she say the word, than she saw by his expression what he meant.
He’s going to kiss me.
No. More than that. That look said something more.
She felt a trill in her abdomen.
I can’t. I shouldn’t.
She’d just finished telling Pete how she was going to hurt Broch. It wouldn’t be fair—
Broch touched her arm and it felt as if a fire ignited in her veins.
Screw it.
He leaned forward and they grabbed at each other as if they were a meal each had been denied too long.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fiona opened her eyes to find herself in a what looked like the living room of the saddest, loneliest man in the world. Beside her sat a maroon, threadbare sofa, one cushion dark with greasy overuse. Beside it stood a chipped, light blue stool acting as a stand-in for the side table that wasn’t there. On it, sat a can of beer.
She tried to raise a hand to rub her eyes, only to discover her arms were bound to her body by a thin but secure rope. She tilted back her head and felt it clunk on the back of the high-backed wooden chair. The chair peeked out on either side of her thighs.
She sighed.
Not again.
Fiona twisted her neck to get a better view of the rest of the room. On the walls sat racks and racks of weapons. Well, racks was a strong word for the mishmash of hooks and makeshift shelving, but each DIY project protruding from the wall held a prize. Swords, nunchucks, maces, sticks she assumed were made for the express purpose of hitting people in the face, darts and plenty of other oddities she couldn’t identify.
Because I’m not a psycho.
She noticed what looked like a long, bamboo pole hanging close to the darts and found her attention lingering. The fuzzy memory of a parking lot returned.
The feel of a pinprick.
Sonovabitch.
He shot me with a blow dart.
He. Probably, statistically, a he. But who? It had to be Rune, but as she looked around the depressing bungalow the place didn’t feel like Rune’s house. What little she remembered of him, he’d always been fastidious. Not sloppy. Not gross.
Who else would want to hurt me if it isn’t Dad?
She hadn’t stabbed anyone else in the neck that she could remember.
There is something else.
She squinted, thinking, trying to tie together the loose ends flapping around in her muddled brain.
Ah.
What had happened to the doctor she’d used to get out of the studio?
Did Rune kill him?
It really didn’t matter.
Unless he was in this same sad little house somewhere and could be of use again...
What was his name again?
“Pete?”
She called the name, quietly at first and then tried again and again until she was yelling.
She heard the sound of a door closing and snapped her lips shut, unsure the person coming was the person she was hoping to see.
A moment later, Rune walked into the room.
“Hello, Fiona.”
Fiona felt a strange little burst of relief.
It was Rune.
That still doesn’t bode well, but better the devil you know...
She swallowed and relaxed the muscles in her face until she imagined she looked half-asleep. She hoped to appear still doped, hoping it would give her an edge should the opportunity arise.
Think. Think. What do you say to a man you stabbed in the neck?
She offered him a weak smile. “Hi, Daddy.”
Rune smiled back, surprisingly enthusiastically for the black sheep daughter who’d stabbed him in the neck.
“There’s my girl.”
As Rune grew closer Fiona saw a
