Sunny - Mona Lisa Craving

I ran all-out into the nearby woods, the silver handcuffs still hanging from my wrists. I’d only broken the chain between them. I tore the separate pieces of metal off me and flung them away. A quick glance down my side told me they had taken my daggers. No weapons. But that was okay. My strength was weapon enough.

They closed the distance between us, moving faster than I was because they tapped into their animal selves—used it to fuel their strength while still in their upright forms, to enhance their senses, increase their speed. I could have done something similar had I not worried that attempting it would bring that tiny demon piece in me out to the fore. It shouldn’t, but the boy’s face…His soft doe eyes flashed in my memory’s eye and I knew I couldn’t take the chance. I didn’t know the parameters or triggers of what I held inside of me well enough to risk it. So I ran unaided. And they inevitably caught up to me as I hit what had probably once been a mild trickling river, but was now a frothing mass of seething water that had almost overswelled its banks. It was more than twenty feet across, something I could have probably jumped. Probably. But I was loathe to do so. The current was strong, and my swimming skills lousy. I turned, ran parallel down along the bank, looking for a narrower point to jump across.

The father tackled me. I rammed an elbow back into his face and kicked free, springing to my feet, which brought me face-to-face with the boy. Maybe it was the pretty face or the innocence I’d glimpsed in those eyes even though they were no longer that soft, melting brown but a sharp piercing gray now, the eyes of his beast. For whatever silly reason, I hesitated to strike him. Fool, I. Because I saw then what I hadn’t seen before in the car—a black gun holstered at his side, a dagger strapped to his waist, bracelet-bands circling his wrists, protecting his forearms, what warriors of old might have worn centuries ago. He was someone trained in the art of combat, and I should have taken him out, because that very modern gun he wore tipped the advantage over to their side. But he didn’t reach for the gun or jump me as he could have. We froze there for a second, in arm’s reach of each other.

“Don’t run,” he said with his hands splayed harmlessly out in front of him. “We won’t hurt you.”

It was his words that broke the spell. He lied. They’d already hurt me. They’d knocked me unconscious, and the blow had not been light. They’d snatched me from my home. Taken me from my people.

I turned and kicked his father—he’d been gathering himself up off the ground—and knocked him back down. I saw surprise flash in the big guy’s eyes.

What? Had he thought the elbow I’d rammed into him had been an accident, that the daggers I’d worn had been only a pretty fashion statement? Had he thought I’d just stand there and let them recapture me like a silly, helpless female?

I darted past him, running upstream. Less than a dozen feet away, a hand caught my arm, and I knew it was the boy who gripped me. Doe eyes or not, I had to get out of there. Big daddy was not far behind him. I turned, struck out at him, and just met air. I struck again, but it was like shadow boxing. A slight shift, a subtle turn of his body, and he slipped out of reach. Each time I turned to flee, his hand grasped me again. Son of a bitch. I had to get in closer to him. Close enough to hit him, make him go down, shake him off me so I could escape. I spun back around into him, and my arm, which he had a solid grip on, unexpectedly twisted back and captured his in turn.

My touch seemed to shock him still. As if the feel of my body flush against his scattered all his thoughts, rendered useless all his training. I kneed him in the groin, saw the pain flash in his eyes. Saw him go down, and turned to run. And found myself still shackled to him by that hand firmly grasping my forearm. That hand that would not let go of me.

We tussled on the ground along the bank, fighting each other one-handed, our other hands locking us together. We were both handicapped, and not just by the loss of one arm. We fought each other, but not with the real intent of hurting each other.

Let me tell you: You can’t fight that way or you will lose. Sure enough, I suddenly felt the ground crumble beneath me, and found myself tumbling down over the edge of the bank. The lower half of my body splashed into the swift-moving water. The only thing that kept me tethered was the forearm grasp we had on each other.

“Give me your other hand. I’ll pull you back up,” he said, reaching his free hand out to me. I almost took the offered hand. It was the sight of his father coming up the bank beside him that made me change my mind and reminded me once more: Enemies. They’re your enemies.

I let go of him, and with a powerful levered twist, broke free of his grasp. Had he latched onto me with both hands, I wouldn’t have been able to do that. But it was only a one-handed grip, his other hand stretched out to me. In a one-handed hold, you always have a weak link—the thumb. A hard, concentrated twist there at that point, and it gave as I knew it would. With nothing tethering me anymore, I fell into the raging water.

The cold shocked a gasp out of me. I had a moment to see the boy jump into the water after me, no hesitation. A moment to worry about him, wonder if he could swim. Wonder if he would float, loaded down as he was with weapons and clothes and those heavy metal armbands. And then the water took me, pulled me under. Washed all thoughts away as I sank down into the icy cold depths.

It was deep, deeper than my feet could touch. And it kept me sucked down for an interminably long time, sweeping me along in its powerful current. I bobbed up, broke the surface, and gasped in air. Tried to doggy paddle—my version of swimming—in an attempt to keep my head above water. It would have been adequate in a placid swimming pool. Not so in fast-moving white-water rapids. I bashed up against a rock and went down again. Hit another rock underwater with stunning force. I hung there dazed, suspended deep in the water for a few slow-ticking minutes, letting the current take me where it willed, until the need for air tickled my throat. I felt my feet scrape against bottom and pushed up, broke the surface, took in sweet air.

“Here, my lady!”

I turned and saw the boy cutting through the water toward me with strong, powerful strokes. This time I was willing to be rescued by him. Would have waited for him had I been able to, but he was too distant, over twenty terribly long feet away, and I was too weak a swimmer to stay afloat for that long. The current pulled me down under again, but this time I fought it. When I surfaced again, he was closer, his eyes that sharp, fierce gray.

“Hold on,” he cried.

I tried to. Kicking to stay afloat, I reached for him. Before he could grasp me, our course shifted. We rounded a bend—God, how swiftly we traveled—and I smashed up against another big boulder and went down. I felt the pain reverberate throughout my entire body, felt all the breath whoosh out of me, and tried to grab onto the damn rock. But the slippery, mossy surface was impossible to hold on to, and the current sped me away in an underwater tumble. Dazed and disoriented, I released my last few bubbles of air, watched which direction they floated, and followed them up, kicking and moving my arms sluggishly until I broke the surface.

I sucked in air, blinked wildly to clear my vision, and felt a hand grab ahold of one of my flailing arms. “Gotcha!”

Sweeter words, I’d never heard.

An arm came around the front of me, pulling me back against a hip, floating me up in the water in a lifeguard’s grip. “Just hang on,” he said.

I took him at his word. My hands clamped down on that arm, holding him securely to me. It uncomfortably pressed the thick metal wristbands he wore into the tender flesh below my breast, but comfort didn’t matter so much as keeping us together. If he lost me again, I would drown.