Knowing Angel might take another look, Abbie lowered herself, so only her head appeared above the water. It was a dark night. There was every chance Angel would fail to see Abbie from this distance, with so little of her on display, even if she tried to look. And the further from the balcony Abbie moved, the harder she would become to spot.
The temptation was to get going straight away, but Abbie fought it. For over a minute, she remained where she was, clinging to the rocks and taking slow, deliberate breaths. Only once she was sure she had the strength to keep the tide from taking her under did she get going.
The journey onwards was nowhere near as troublesome as had been the journey so far. Keeping close to the rocks, Abbie half swam, half dragged herself around the edge of the cliff until she reached the turn. Once around the corner, she could see the beach. Reaching it would not make her safe but would at least mean she had thwarted one enemy—the tide.
After twenty more seconds of her half-swim, half-drag, Abbie found the tips of her toes could touch the sand beneath the sea. Ten seconds after that, it no longer made sense to swim. Abbie placed her feet on the ground, kept hold of the rock, and pulled herself on.
A minute later, only her ankles were covered by the water. Finally, she removed her hand from the cliff and staggered on until she was past the tide's reach and dropped to the beach.
As had the water before, exhaustion tried to drag her down. Her eyes fluttered; a black screen tried to fold in from the edges of her vision.
There was plenty of pain. Abbie tried to focus on that—knowing it had more chance than anything of keeping her awake—and forced herself to sit up, though she wanted nothing more than to roll over and sleep in the sand. She forced herself to stand even as her consciousness continued to try to slip away.
Once standing, she stumbled into the cliff. With her back to it, she stared along the beach.
No parties tonight. No doubt, a few young couples would sneak down here for a few hours of privacy away from the homes of their parents. But if there were any nearby, they were concealed by darkness. Fine by Abbie. In any case, they would have no interest in her.
Her clothes were sodden and felt like weights on her back. Lifting her hands, Abbie inspected her palms. The left was fine; the right sliced from her altercation with the jagged rock. The cut wasn't deep, but it was bleeding, and its edges were smudged with dirt. Moving from the rock, Abbie stumbled to the water's edge. She swiped her hand through the saltwater and grimaced at the pain. Forcing herself to keep her hand submerged, she cleared away as much dirt as possible.
There was every chance the wound would become infected. Now was not the time to concern herself with such trivial matters.
Once the wound was as clean as the saltwater could get it, and with tears of pain in her eyes, Abbie dragged herself back up the beach. As she reached the cliff segment against which she had previously stood, she grabbed the hem of her tee and dragged it over her head.
Her torso disagreed with her decision to force it into so much movement as she stretched her spine and hauled her arms above her head. It was as tricky ignoring the pain pulses as it was to tug her tee's tight neck over her head.
At last, it came free. If not for the cliff, Abbie would have crashed to the sand. Instead, she pressed her back against the cool stone and found it acted as an ice pack.
The tee, she used as a makeshift bandage, wrapping it around her right hand and tying a knot that was uncomfortable but would hopefully keep enough pressure on the wound to prevent her bleeding to death. For the time being, at least, she would have to be a lefty.
Hand handled, Abbie went to her jeans, unbuttoned them, and shoved them down. More pain as she kicked them off, but they had to go. Her body was covered in fast emerging bruises which darkened by the minute. Her right ankle, both knees, and left shoulder were significantly affected. Still, the bashes and bumps were the least of her worries. It had been a cold February day, and the water was freezing. Shock and adrenaline had protected her mind from noticing the chill so far, but she was beginning to shiver. It was mentally manageable, but Abbie knew it didn't matter how cold she felt. Hyperthermia was a genuine possibility if she did not get dry and warm, and soon.
Moving away from the cliff, Abbie left her jeans in the sand. They were drenched; she couldn't dry them. In her fight against the cold, they would do more harm than good. At least the T-shirt served a purpose.
Keeping the cliff to her left, Abbie moved to the rock wall, which marked the divide between beach and road.
From here, she made for the nearest set of stone steps and started up.
In a perfect world—given Abbie was both undressed and unarmed while Angel had a gun and at least one henchman—Abbie would take some time at this juncture to form a suitable plan of attack.
The world was beautiful. It probably would be perfect if not for the infestation it had suffered, otherwise known as humanity. Time and again, people reminded Abbie how far from perfect they were. Forcing her to dive off a balcony into the ocean was only the latest example.
The cold which had claimed her body and threatened to damage her beyond repair precluded any time for reflection or planning. Abbie could only
