LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

how to respond. His matter-of-fact tone sounded a hollow note against my painful reality.

      “Dad,” Shea interjected, coming to lay a hand gently on my shoulder. “Can we talk about something else?”

      Thatcher sat up straighter in his chair and cleared his throat. “Of course. I don’t suppose it does any good to rehash the past. But I am sorry, Anya, for what those men did to you.”

      His expression was sincere enough, confusing me all the more. He was a difficult man to read, and I couldn’t determine if his inquiries came from a desire to know because he was somehow involved, or if he was trying to help. In the end, I remained guarded and on alert.

      “Go on to bed,” he finished. “I’m sure you’re tired.” Meeting Shea’s eyes, he added, “I suggest you and your mother re-dress Anya’s wounds. Her outing this morning won’t have done her back any good.”

      With a nod, Shea went to retrieve the medical supplies from a cupboard over the stove, and we walked together to the bedroom.

      “This is your room, isn’t it?” I asked upon entering, drawing my conclusion from the clothing I had found in the wardrobe.

      “Yes, I’m sleeping in with Marissa and Maggie for now. Dad thinks it’s best this way.”

      “Afraid I’ll devour you in the middle of the night?”

      “Good guess.”

      “I was joking.”

      “So was I.” She grinned and pulled out some fresh bandages. “Let me have a look at you.”

      I sat on the bed, turning away from her so she could methodically re-dress my wounds. At some point, Elyse came in to observe Shea’s progress. After a few minutes, she set a vial on the nightstand.

      “For pain,” she explained, not quite meeting my eyes. “Two sips should dull any discomfort you might have.”

      “Thank you.”

      A smile flitted across her lips. “You’re quite welcome. Now get some rest. It’s important to a speedy recovery.”

      She gave her daughter a nod to tell her she was doing fine work, and departed.

      “There,” Shea declared, coming to her feet. “Now be a good patient. Even with that juice from my mother, this is going to take a while to heal. Every time you tear it open, you set yourself back.”

      “Got it. And thank you.”

      She went to the door, then turned about with an impish smile. “Just so you know, I expect you to return every stitch of clothing you take from my wardrobe.”

      I laughed, and she disappeared from sight, leaving me feeling relaxed for the first time all day.

      * * *

      I was awake early enough the next morning to hear Thatcher leave the house. I scrambled to my feet, dressing as quickly as I could given my sore muscles and ungainly movements. After grabbing my cloak, I passed through the cabin and out the front door, wanting to take a look around. My excursion to the Bloody Road hadn’t allowed me much opportunity to scout the area. Seeing tracks that led into the woods, I assumed Thatcher was gone, and trekked around the side of the cabin.

      It was cold, the morning light so faint it appeared to cast a shadow. I stepped slowly, cautiously, the crunch of my boots resonant in the still woods. I rounded the corner to reach the back of the home and came to a stop, eyes on a shack nestled among the trees. It was roughly built, giving the impression it had been erected in a hurry; it stood as though its knees were drawing together. I approached, my senses on full alert. If Thatcher knew more about the hunters than he had revealed...what might be hidden inside? Were my wings or those of other Fae tacked along the walls?

      The door was locked. Glancing upward, I saw a small window set below the eaves. Without thought, I flexed the muscles that would have unfurled my wings, but instead of rising off the ground, I doubled over in pain. As the agonizing stabs in my back diminished, I mentally berated myself. Straightening, I spotted a sturdy branch that overhung the building. If I could drop from it onto the roof, I could lay flat and lean over the edge to get a look in the window. Plan in place, I scaled the tree, gritting my teeth against the stretching and tightening of my back muscles. When I was high enough, I inched out onto the branch and swung down, hanging by my arms as I prepared to drop.

      “What the hell are you doing up there?”

      My fingers went to jelly and I barely managed to maintain my grip on the branch. Thatcher stood ten paces from the shed, holding a string of rabbits in one hand, his hunting gun in the other. His expression was a blend of incredulity and displeasure that made him look like he’d taken a drink of sour milk.

      “I, um...I can’t fly, so I climbed the tree.” Unable to lie, I told the truth, although not the complete story.

      “I see.” He rested the butt of his gun against the ground and rubbed his brow. “For what purpose?”

      “To get higher?” My arms aching, I let myself drop onto the roof. I landed more heavily than I’d expected, gravity apparently the only element that had an interest in me, and I nearly tumbled backward into the snow below.

      Thatcher snorted. “Looks to me like you wanted to get on top of my shed.”

      I gave him a sheepish shrug. “There’s a good view from up here.”

      “A view of what exactly?”

      When I didn’t respond, he hoisted his hunting gun so the barrel rested against his shoulder and took a few steps closer.

      “In case you’re interested, that window’s too dirty to see through. So I’d suggest you get down. There’s nothing of interest for you here.”

      Embarrassed, I slid to the edge of the roof and dropped to the ground, wincing upon landing. As the cold wind erased some of the heat from my cheeks, I labored over what to say. Did I owe him an apology? Should I risk asking him about the things that troubled me?

      “Just go back inside,” he ordered, stepping past me to unlock the shed.

      I nodded, but didn’t move, trying to perceive his character, to understand his motives.

      “Out with it,” he abruptly directed, hand on the door latch. “What is it you want to know?”

      I bit my lip hard and met his eyes. “Are you or were you a Fae hunter?”

      He laughed shortly. “I won’t hold that question against you, Anya, but no, I don’t hunt your kind. I find the sport, if you want to call it that, barbaric.”

      I offered him a weak smile, for I believed he was being honest. “Thank you. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

      “No harm done.” He gave his string of rabbits a shake. “Now go inside so I can skin these.”

      I headed back to the house, knowing I should feel better about Thatcher in the aftermath of our encounter. But something about his behavior still made me uneasy, and I finally realized what it was—he hadn’t opened the door of the shack while I was there.

      Everyone else was up when I reentered the cabin. Shea cast me a quizzical look, but did not ask where I’d been, nor did I volunteer any information. I simply began to help with breakfast preparations. Human cooking wasn’t much different from Fae cooking, despite the ridiculous gossip in Chrior that they ate their food raw, drank blood and cannibalized one another when their hunger grew too great.

      Thatcher came inside in time for the meal, and we all ate together, though I made no attempt to participate in the family’s small talk. When I was finished, I retreated to my bedroom and kept to myself the rest of the day, wanting to concentrate my energy on healing. I was recovering more slowly than I had from any previous injury, and I could feel the anxiety this bred building within my body. My attempt to cross the Road had made me acutely aware that I was in a race against time. I needed to find Zabriel and bring him to Chrior before

Скачать книгу