Нора Робертс - Year One

He let out a sound that tore at her, but she doused it, then pressed a fresh pad against the wound while Eddie, eyes glassy, fought for breath.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I was looking to drink it.”

She put the bottle in his trembling hand so he could.

“I screamed like a girl.”

“You screamed like a man having whiskey poured on a bullet wound.” She got a hand under him, felt the hole in the coat, the wet. “Press that pad, keep the pressure on.” She pressed the second one to his back. “It went through. The bullet went through. I think that’s good.”

“It ain’t so good when you’re the one it went through. Coming out makes a bigger hole. Pretty sure.”

“We’ll take care of it. Max.”

“I’m looking. They’re not following, so I’m looking.”

She took a breath, looked into Eddie’s eyes again. “I think I can help, help slow the bleeding. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Me, either.” He gripped her hand. “Probably going to hurt.”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s find out.” He closed his eyes.

She didn’t know what stirred in her, but it reached up and out, it quivered to help. She kept one hand gripping his, the other pressed on the exit wound. Let it flow out.

It hurt. She heard the pain, felt it, saw it black and pulsing. She opened herself to whatever rose and stirred and flowed—white and cool against the black and hot.

“Stop.” Eddie gripped her arm now, squeezed, shook. “Stop!”

She shivered back. Whatever flowed and stirred in her stilled.

“Stop,” he said again. “You look as bad as I feel. It’s better. Whatever you did there, it’s better. I don’t feel so shaky, and it hurts—Christ knows—but it’s not as bad.”

“Let me try to—”

“Lana.” Max spoke quietly, but firmly. “You can’t push too hard, too fast. You need to re-gather.” He slowed the car. “There’s a house—not much of one. It looks deserted. We’ll try it.”

He turned in slowly, sat, waited.

“I’m going to go check it out. Lana, you come and get behind the wheel. If there’s trouble, you go. I’ll find you.” He turned to look at her. “I’ll find you.”

She nodded, but when he got out, walked down to the house, she stayed where she was.

“No way we’re leaving him,” Eddie said.

“No, we’re not leaving him.”

“So, ah, hey. You guys like gods or something?”

“No.” Gently, she brushed his hair back from his face. “Witches.”

“Witches? Huh.”

Max jogged back. “Nobody here. Doesn’t look like anybody’s been here for a couple of weeks. It’s a dump, but it’ll do.”

He drove around the back, through the snow until he felt certain the car wouldn’t be seen from the road.

He helped Eddie out and, when his legs buckled, picked him up and carried him inside. Lana’s first thought was the kitchen was a small nightmare of filth, garbage, bugs, and mouse droppings.

They’d deal with it.

The living room wasn’t any better, nor was the bedroom Max turned into.

“Wait, don’t lay him down on that. We have to keep the wound clean.” She stripped off the ratty blanket, the stained sheets. “Just wait.”

She dashed back out, dug out the sheets she’d packed, the towels. Inside, she yanked the sheets over the mattress, spread one of the towels over the bottom sheet.

“We have to get his coat and his shirt off.”

“Help him stand,” Max told her.

Between the three of them, they got him stripped down.

“Okay.” She pressed a folded washcloth to the exit wound as Max laid Eddie down. “The bleeding’s nearly stopped, so that’s good. Maybe there’s some antiseptic or alcohol. We make sure the wounds are clean. I think they need to be closed, but I don’t have enough, Max. I don’t have enough to do that. I can’t find that in me.”

“We’ll sew him up. I’ll find something.”

“Oh, man” was all Eddie could manage.

“You’ll get through it.” Lana spoke briskly as she walked across a narrow hall into a disgusting bathroom. She ignored the smell, the stains—more to deal with later—and pried open the rusted medicine cabinet.

“Alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, a roll of bandages. No tape. No soap in here. The way this place looks, there may not be any anywhere in here.”

“Scissors, needles, thread,” Max called out. “Somebody sewed. A lot of scraps of material if we need them. I’ll find soap.”

“I brought some if you can’t. In the suitcase.”

They hunted for what they needed. Max scrubbed off a tray to set it all on. Lana washed her hands until they felt raw.

On the bed, Eddie lay quiet, the dog pressed to his side. His face shined, pale and clammy, but stayed cool to the touch. No infection, Lana thought. At least not yet.

She knew she hurt him, cleaning the wound and using the alcohol liberally until she felt, just felt, it held clean. Then she looked at the needle and thread, steeled herself.

“I’ve got this part.” Max touched her shoulder. “I’ve got this. We could all use some food when this is done.”

“I can’t cook in that kitchen until it’s clean and sanitized.”

“I’ll do this, you start on that.”

“All right. Hang in, Eddie.”

He managed a wan smile for her, which faded when she left. “Any way we could skip this part?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Figured. Don’t suppose you’ve got a joint on you.”

“Sorry. But I’m going to put you into a trance. You may feel some, but if it works, it should be like you’re floating above it.”

“You can do that?”

“I think so. It’ll go faster if you trust me.”

“Dude, can’t deny I’d rather have the joint, but if I don’t trust you by now, my ma raised a complete asshole. Don’t insult my ma.”

“Okay. Look at me. Just look at me.”

Within an hour, Max walked back to the kitchen. She’d hauled out garbage, he noted, washed up the counters, the stove top, the floor. The refrigerator door, propped open, revealed a clean if battered interior.

And she stood, hair bundled up, wearing thick, yellow rubber gloves that nearly reached her elbows as she dumped dirty water into the sink.

Love, the strong grip of it, steadied him.

“How is he?”

“Sleeping. He’s going to be fine—a lot of that’s thanks to you.”

Gloves and all, she all but melted into his arms. “I thought he was dead. When I saw the bullet hit him, I thought he was dead. We barely know him, but … he’s part of us now. He’s ours now.”

“He’s ours. You could use some rest. I’ll finish cleaning in here.”

“You can finish cleaning,” she agreed with alacrity and stripped off the gloves. “There was a dead mouse, still in the trap, under the sink.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I had to. The smell…” She shuddered. “I tossed it outside, trap and all. So you can finish cleaning. I’ve sanitized an area and the stove—I used bleach—so I can start cooking. I’ve got the makings, with what we found in that car, for some soup, pretty hearty soup.”

“I thought I loved you before we left New York.”

“Thought?”

“I thought I loved you as much as a man could love, but I was wrong. Every hour, Lana, there’s more.”

“I feel it.” She pressed to him again. “From you and for you. I think it’s part of what keeps building inside me. It’s love, Max.”

She laid her hands on his face, let herself fall into the kiss, into the love.

“I’m scared,” she told him. “So scared, and yet there’s this part of me, inside me, opening and stretching, and it’s not … it’s not afraid.”