Dianne Duvall: Darkness Dawns

Withdrawing her hands, she stared at it with disbelieving eyes. Still lodged in his palm, it was roughly a foot and a half long and covered with clumps of dirt and roots.

He motioned to his legs. “I’ll remove the other one while you go to work on my ankles.”

Nodding, she turned toward the blond and nervously searched the ground around him.

“It’s by my hip,” Roland told her, assuming she sought the knife.

Her gaze moved to Roland’s hip, skipped to his groin, then back again. Pale face flushing, she retrieved the knife and hastily moved to his feet.

Did he not suffer so much, Roland would have smiled. Instead, he was just glad he still had something that could make her blush. For a moment there, when the kid had cut away Roland’s clothes and crouched over him with the knife, he had feared the boy intended to geld him.

As the woman started sawing through the heavy rope at his ankles, Roland rolled his upper body toward the restrained arm until his hands touched. Though bone, muscle, and tendon had been damaged, he forced the fingers of his free hand to link with those of his other and began the excruciating task of pulling the second spike free.

“I saw a thing on the news once,” the woman said, her voice taut with tension, “about these kids who had an illness like yours. And once a week they gathered at a park after it closed so they could socialize and play on the equipment in the dark.”

Roland struggled to pay attention while he steadily forced the spike out of the ground. He hadn’t felt this weak since … well, since before he had been transformed over nine centuries ago.

“In the car on the way there,” she continued, “the children had to wear protective suits and helmets because even the headlights of passing cars would hurt them. Is your skin that sensitive?”

“Yes,” he growled as the spike came loose.

Panting, he lay still for a moment, trying to shut out the pain. The knife she wielded slipped and sank into his flesh.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.

He shook his head. It wasn’t her fault. The rope was so tight he doubted even he could cut it off without giving himself a few nicks.

The pressure on his ankles loosened, then fell away. The woman dropped the knife and began to tug on the spike, raising it enough for him to slip his feet free.

Sitting up set the stab wounds in Roland’s abdomen ablaze.

While he caught his breath, the woman moved to his side. Every few seconds she cast the horizon an apprehensive glance.

Seizing the bar lodged against one palm, he started to pull.

She grabbed his wrist. “Don’t. If you remove it now, you’ll drag dirt, bacteria, bugs, and who knows what else into the wound. And the spike might be curbing the flow of blood. Let the paramedics do it later.”

Leaning forward, she pressed her face to his chest and slid her arms around him.

Roland was so shocked it took him a minute to realize she was trying to haul him to his feet.

She couldn’t, of course. He weighed twice what she did. But he appreciated the effort.

His ankles (and most of the rest of him) screamed in protest as he dragged himself upright. As soon as he stood, the woman shifted to his side and carefully drew one of his arms across her narrow shoulders. The top of her cap barely reached his chin.

“Can you walk?”

He nodded wearily and let her steer him toward the trees.

The cool shade there provided welcome relief from the burning that already lashed his skin. Despite their hurry, his petite rescuer took great pains to protect him, holding back branches that would have otherwise brushed his wounds or jostled the spikes in his hands. She even warned him of sharp twigs and other hazards on the ground that might harm his bare feet.

When they reached the edge of the trees and he saw the bright, empty meadow ahead of them, Roland swore.

The woman bit her lower lip and cast him an apologetic look. “I live on the other side of those trees. Should we take the long way around and stay in the shade or can you make it across the clearing?”

Damn it. He needed to get to shelter before he fell flat on his face. “Cross the clearing.”

She didn’t hesitate or second-guess him. She merely propelled him forward, righting him when he stumbled and hastening him until they were practically jogging.

“Is it me or are you already turning pink?” she asked.

“It isn’t you.” A few more seconds and blisters would begin to form.

They made it to the trees, where she again warded off combatant branches. On the other side of the cluster of foliage, Roland saw a small frame house preceded by a deck and a densely shaded backyard.

He would be shielded from the sun all the way to the back door.

“Just a little farther,” she said breathlessly, the arm she had looped around his waist giving him a faint squeeze of encouragement he found oddly endearing.

Across the grass. Up the steps. A brief pause on the deck while she retrieved her keys from her shirt pocket and unlocked the door. Then the two of them squeezed inside a very narrow laundry room and secured the door behind them.

Both Roland and the woman at his side emitted simultaneous sighs of relief.

“What’s your name?” he heard himself ask.

“Sarah Bingham. Yours?”

“Roland Warbrook. Thank you for saving my life, Sarah.”

Still tucked under his arm, Sarah ushered him into a small, spotless kitchen. “Who were those guys? Why did they do this to you?”

His sore feet soothed by the cold wood floor, Roland opted not to answer and instead took in the adjoining living room.

Of average size, it was divided into two areas. One half housed exercise equipment: an inclined sit-up bench, a treadmill, a spincycle, and a Total Gym. The other boasted a black futon with solid red and white throw pillows, a glass coffee table with a matching entertainment center, and tall black bookshelves full of DVDs, VHS tapes, and books. Black curtains covered the windows and blocked out the morning light. Several modern paintings that immediately appealed to him adorned the white walls. Strategically placed about the room in black wrought-iron stands, a dozen or so large houseplants formed splashes of color and lent the room a warm, cozy feel.

Sarah moved past him and ducked through a doorway into a miniscule bathroom. When she emerged, she carried a stack of towels in her arms.

All but one she tossed on the futon. The last—a large white one—she shook out as she approached him. Her gaze met his, then flickered away as a blush once more climbed her cheeks. Stepping close to him, she wrapped the towel around his lower body and tucked the ends in at his waist, sarong-style.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.” Staring up at him with concern, she gently grasped his elbow. “Come sit down.”

Roland let her lead him to the futon and sank down onto the surprisingly comfortable cushion. His head began to throb unmercifully.

“I’ll call 911,” she said, moving away, “then see what I can do to—”

Roland grabbed her wrist, hissing when his mutilated hand protested.

Her head snapped around. “What is it?”

“You can’t.”

Her forehead crinkled beneath the bill of her cap. “Can’t what?”

“Call 911.”

Her gaze turning wary, she twisted her arm to free her wrist and backed away. “Why? Are you wanted by the police?”

“No.”

Hell. What was he supposed to say? It had been so long since he had spoken to any human who wasn’t a cashier in a grocery store that he didn’t have an explanation readily available.

He couldn’t tell her the truth: that he was an immortal who had been led into an ambush by the vampire he had been hunting. She would think him insane.