“I don’t want your help, Karen,” he said, his voice as cold as the steel blade that had lanced his skin. “Don’t you get that?”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “Damn it, Jag,” she bit out through clenched teeth. “Stop with the macho act. You’re hurt. You can’t go without it being healed.” She lowered her voice. “And you do need me.”
Her words were mute to his ears as a memory snapped in his mind and pieced his heart. One of Caron standing in front of him, her curls bouncing around her head, reprimanding him for working with an injured hand.
Jag squeezed his eyes shut, shocked at the vividness of the image in his mind. No! he screamed in his head, rejecting the memory. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t face the ghost of the past while he faced the beasts of the present.
Twisting slightly to reach for Karen’s wrist, Jag barely contained a grunt from the pain the movement delivered. He grabbed Karen’s hand and removed it from his arm. “I told you to stay away from me, and I meant it.”
Karen watched Jag disappear into the hallway, and fought the urge to follow. He needed help. Stubborn man, acted like he needed nothing, no help, no treatment. But it wasn’t true. She’d seen the deep wound in his back, and it needed attention. How did he expect to take care of others if he was dead?
He might not like to accept help, but he was going to have to get used to it. She didn’t know what the future held for them together, but she knew the past now. Or parts of it at least. Enough to tell her he’d been her husband, and the love of her life. The more she remembered, the more she felt that love, and the clearer her purpose became. She’d seen the enemy, past and present. Jag needed her help, and he was going to get it.
Sooner or later, he’d accept that. She’d make sure of it.
Casting a quick glance at Marisol, Karen considered her next action, and then sighed heavily. She couldn’t leave. She couldn’t stay and offer any real help though, and she should be helping.
Yet, Rock still wasn’t moving, in fact, he looked…Karen swallowed the bile forming in her throat…he looked dead. The thought made her stomach twist and turn with dread, a feeling that worsened as she surveyed his ghostly white complexion and unmoving body.
“Please let him make it,” Karen whispered, watching him, hoping for some sign of life.
Marisol sat on the floor with him, his head in her lap, her hand on his forehead. Karen hoped the Healer could save him, but feared it was already too late. How long would Marisol try to pull Rock back to this world before going to the others who needed her?
How long should Karen wait to interrupt Marisol? Jag hadn’t said, and Karen felt the weight of other lives on her shoulders. How many “recruits” were there? Karen wondered. And how many were hurt and waiting on Marisol?
Even as a million questions rang in her mind, another followed. What must it feel like to be Marisol? To know every day of her life she might be the only hope others had of survival?
Hopelessly in limbo, Karen sat down on the edge of the bed next to Eva, stroking her cheek. Wishing she knew how to make things better. For Eva. For Rock. For the men waiting to have Marisol visit them.
Everything happens for a reason. Her mother’s words, spoken often during Karen’s youth, replayed in her mind. She had thought of those words during her parents’ funeral, wondering what purpose thier death could possibly serve.
Still, those words, everything happens for a reason, repeated in Karen’s mind. With them, the oddest feeling of belonging, in this room, in this ranch house, in this moment, filled Karen. Even more so, her sense of having purpose grew.
She belonged here, a part of this battle being fought. Karen’s chest tightened as she glanced down at her sister, wishing she could pull her back into this world. Did Eva belong here or was she simply a victim of association, brought into this because of her relation to Karen?
Fear flooded her mind. Fear of losing Eva. With this fear, Karen thought of Jag. Had he lived with the pain of watching his wife die and not being able to save her? How horrible it must have been, still must be, in fact.
He’d fought for Eva. He had saved them both.
Karen let out a deep breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding. She couldn’t dismiss her dream, or the flashbacks, any more than she could pretend the beasts were figments of her imagination. None of this was normal, but it was real.
If everything happened for a reason, then Karen had to believe the dream had been a message. One she had to figure out and fast. Because at this point, for all Karen knew, after what she’d seen this day, that dream held a clue that could save lives. Hers. Eva’s…maybe even Jag’s.
“Karen.”
The sound of Marisol’s voice drew Karen out of her reverie. Pushing off the bed, Karen rushed forward, kneeling beside the Healer. Rock stirred, trying to sit up. “How many are hurt?” he asked.
Amazed at Rock’s remarkable recovery, Karen struggled to find her voice. “I don’t know. Jag…he’s hurt but he insists you go to the men. He says there are many hurt. But Jag…his shoulder is ripped open.” Picturing the wound, she grimaced. “It’s bad. Really bad.”
“How am I to leave him injured?” Turmoil flashed in Marisol’s face. “Protecting Jag is protecting his men. He’s their guide. Their strength.”
“Do as Jag says,” Rock said, his voice weak but authoritative. “I’ll go to Jag.”
He started to get up and Marisol grabbed his arm at the same moment he grunted in pain. “You’re not going anywhere but to bed,” Marisol said, her tone firm. “I couldn’t risk fully healing you,” Marisol said. “I need my energy to help the others. You have to sleep and do the rest on your own.” Her gaze went to Karen as she pushed to her feet, and Marisol followed her to a standing position. “Where is Jag now?”
“I think in his room,” Karen said, “but I can’t be certain.”
“I’ll be right back.” Marisol flashed from the room.
Good gosh. Karen grabbed her chest. This magic stuff was going to take some getting used to. “Can I help you to your room?” she asked Rock, realizing he was now standing, the wound he endured no longer bleeding but still a deep gap in his gut. “That looks painful.”
“I’m fine,” he said, leaning against the wall. “Our kind heals quickly.” Dismissing his injury, he added, “Marisol is going to give you a gel to pack on Jag’s wound. No matter how bad the injury looks just remember we aren’t like you. Once we start clotting we heal. The biggest issue is stopping the bleeding. The gel will do that better than stitches or any human medicine.”
Marisol popped into the room, a jar of blue gel in her hand, which she shoved in Karen’s direction. “This—”
“I told her,” Rock said. “She knows what to do. Karen has it under control. Go do your thing. Save lives.”
Still, Marisol hesitated.
“I’ll take care of Jag,” Karen assured Marisol, reinforcing Rock’s words.
As soon as she knew Karen had a firm hold on the jar, Marisol was gone. Rock gave Karen an expectant look. “What are you waiting on? Go. Find Jag.”
Karen didn’t have to be told twice. She headed for the door. Rock’s words, “our kind,” rang in her head, a reminder of the unknowns. Of the need to be cautious.
“Karen.” She turned at Rock’s call. “He’s a stubborn son of a bitch. He’ll bleed to death before he admits he needs help. His bark is far worse than his bite. Just be strong.”
She accepted his words because they echoed what she felt in her heart. After a quick nod, she turned away, already in motion. Jag needed her. And for some reason she didn’t quite understand, that felt more important than her next breath.
Chapter 16
Stay away from me.
Charging a path down the hallway toward his bedroom, Jag’s words to Karen were acid on his tongue. Using the last energy his body possessed, he locked himself inside his bedroom and collapsed against the door. He’d meant what he’d said to her yet, in the same second he’d
spoken the words, he’d wanted to pull them back. So much so that he’d turned away without daring to look into those gorgeous blue eyes, fearing the pain he’d intended to cause with his words.
But why would there be pain? Why did she care what he said or did?
Swallowing against the extreme dryness in his throat, Jag worked his hand to his belt buckle and pushed the speaker on his cell phone.
“Des.”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Status,” he ordered, reaching up to his side where blood seemed to pour in a sudden gush, the sword having dug straight through him. Son of a bitch. That explained why he hadn’t started the rapid clotting the Knights were blessed, or perhaps cursed, with. They didn’t die easily. Instead they hung out and lived hell on earth.
Sometimes he forgot his greater purpose, the way the men needed him even, and wished for death. Perhaps today he would get that wish.
“We’re clear here, but I need Marisol. Where the hell is she?”
Des’s words snapped Jag back to the moment. “She’ll be there,” Jag said. “She’s got wounded here, too. Update me in twenty.”
“Who?”
“Rock.”
Silence. Des and Rock argued like enemies, but there was no mistaking the bond they shared. “How bad?”
Des wouldn’t want to be sheltered, not that Jag would have considered doing so. “Bad.”
More silence. Then, “Copy that.” Static. Des had signed off.
Hearing Des’s voice and sensing his struggle to help the other Knights, Jag found new determination to take action. He needed to get himself bandaged up before he keeled over. A little of Marisol’s clotting salve, and he should be able to make it to check on his men.
Pushing off the door, Jag headed toward the bathroom. Though only moments before he could easily have wished for death, he knew, as he always did, he couldn’t accept it. Not when his men needed him. Not when Karen was here, complicating the world as he knew it, and bringing a mountain of trouble along with her.
Yanking open the medicine cabinet over the sink, he shoved things around, trying to find the blue clotting salve, to no avail. Efforts proving fruitless, Jag cursed and reached for a hand towel resting on the sink’s edge.
Pressing the cloth to his side, he contemplated the need to go to Marisol’s cathedral where she kept her supplies, knowing he was too weak. The activity would only speed the bleeding. He felt like a damn invalid, not even capable of taking care of his men.
Jag squeezed his eyes shut at the thought of three of his men gone, praying they had, at least, found peace in a better place. Still, he could barely stomach wondering which three he’d lost.
The memory of the beast charging at Karen replaced that of the faces of his men. If he’d gotten to her one second later…just one second…a flash of Caron in his arms crashed into his mind, her body horribly still, limp.
Karen would end up like Caron if he didn’t act, and act fast. The realization donned with clarity, and brought to life his worst fears…would the beast within be responsible for Karen’s death? His dreams seemed to warn of her destruction at his hand yet, in them, she always welcomed him, encouraging his primal side to take her.
He didn’t understand his dreams, but somewhere inside them were answers he needed. Like, how did he protect Karen from the Darklands and still from himself?
The towel held to his side began to drip, and Jag ground his teeth as he tossed it into the tub. “Damn it!” he yelled into the tiny room, frustration as alive as the pain biting at his nerve endings. He should be with his men, fighting, protecting, guiding. Instead he stood here bleeding like a stuck pig. “Where are you, Salvador?” But even as he called to his mentor, he knew it to be a worthless attempt. Salvador would no more answer him now than he ever did.
In light of the day’s events, Salvador most likely had nothing to say to Jag. After all, as a leader, the one expected to protect his men, to be prepared for anything, Jag had failed.
Self-doubt beat at him, spurring anger. At himself. At years of Salvador keeping him in the dark. Telling Jag he had to find the answers, the path, on his own.
Why was the Healer able to call Salvador, but Jag, the one supposed to be the leader of the Knights, unable to reach out? He led the Knights in a war against evil, yet he was kept at a distance. Why? The question had come to him over and over, often deep in the sleepless nights of the past century.
He’d become a beast that miserable day two centuries before when his human world, his happy life, had been taken from him. What if Salvador had saved him but not destroyed the evil within? With his restored soul, the beast had not been cast aside. What of the evil of the beast? Perhaps it could only be confined and buried, never destroyed. Fearing his own true nature had become Jag’s own personal hell.
Knees beginning to buckle, Jag awkwardly sat down to the side of the tub, weapons still intact. The blood loss was beginning to takes its toll, and Jag blinked away the spots before his eyes. He’d rest a minute and then make his way to the cathedral. Shut his eyes just a minute…
Abruptly Jag jerked to alertness, a sound outside his door drawing his attention. He’d fallen asleep, he realized. For how long? His gaze flashed to his side, taking in the ooze of blood with limited changes, indicating he’d been out no more than a minute or two.
Pain radiated through his body as he pushed to his feet, using energy he’d have sworn he didn’t possess, his wound smarting as he reached for the leather-covered handle to the blade sheathed at his waist.
He might die this day but not without taking a few more Darklands with him. A realization came to him, abrupt and fierce, conflicting with that of only moments before. If he, indeed, died, if he met his end, Salvador would come and save his men. And Salvador would save Karen.
Yes. The thought brought peace to Jag.
Maybe, just maybe, death did become him.
Maybe his battle to live was the wrong one. Maybe…he needed to accept defeat. Not from the Darklands. But from himself. A sudden rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins and he charged at the doorway, ready to take his intruder to the darkness with him.
Karen waited outside Jag’s door, holding a bottle of salve in her white-knuckled grip. Having knocked twice with no response, she knew she had to act. Simply standing there wasn’t an option. For all she knew, Jag could be lying on the ground, half-dead—or worse, already dead.
She reached for the knob, and hesitated, her heart kicking into double-time. Intruding on Jag’s private space without warning came with more than a bit of risk. With his abrasive insistence she “stay away,” he wasn’t likely to welcome an intrusion with open arms.
Then again, he hadn’t minded intruding on her, she reminded herself. He’d stormed her room when it had served his purpose. She could do the same.
Straightening, decision made, Karen gripped the doorknob, pushed the door open and entering the room. “Jag.” His name slid into the air in a gasp, her body pulled backward into a harder one, warm breath blowing along her neck, the chill of a steel blade at her throat.
There was no question her attacker was Jag. She could feel his presence like a second skin, familiar. Safe despite that knife at her neck. “Jag,” she whispered, then louder, “Jag. It’s me, Karen. I came to help. I brought medicine from Marisol.”
For several seconds, he held her close, no words. For a moment, she thought he leaned down and inhaled the scent of her hair, but she couldn’t be sure. She didn’t dare move, letting him take the time he needed. Hoping a memory of their past might come to him as it had her.
But then she felt the dampness seeping through her clothes, and she knew she had to act. He was bleeding badly. “Oh, God, Jag. Let me help. We have to stop the bleeding.”
Abruptly he let go of her, setting her away from him. The sound of him putting away his weapon followed by a grunt filled her ears before she could turn to face him. She had only a moment to take in the bloodstained T-shirt before he snatched the ja
r from her hand. He moved to the bed and sat down, cursing as his weapons got in his way. Karen stood there watching, not sure what to do next. Without words, he’d rejected her help.
He dropped the jar on the mattress and unhooked the belt around his waist, before dropping it to the ground at his feet. He sank to the bed, his body hitting it with a leaden heaviness.
Next, he needed that shirt off. Let me help you. “Do you have scissors?” she asked. “I can cut the shirt off.”
Staring straight ahead, giving her his profile, he didn’t turn, nor did he speak for what felt a lifetime to Karen. Finally, “Bathroom drawer.”
Relief washed over Karen. Success. A little, at least. One step forward. One wall torn down. Fearful he might develop second thoughts, Karen rushed forward, darting to the left to enter the bathroom, and then froze, appalled at the bloodstained floor. Her stomach turned at the sight, her gut twisting into a knot, and spurring her back into action. He’d lost way too much blood.
She rifled through the drawer, finding the scissors, and started for the door, then doubled back, deciding she needed towels—wet and dry—to clean the wound. And bandages. She needed bandages. A few seconds later, armed with supplies, she hurried to aid Jag.
When he came into view, she found him sitting on the edge of the bed, his arms rested on his knees, his head forward between his shoulders, dark hair falling forward, shielding his face.
Drawing a deep breath, she walked toward him, cautious as she approached. His presence screamed with a primal edge, a warrior ready to fight. Almost as if his instincts were there on the surface, holding him when he would fall. An injured wild animal trying to survive.
But she didn’t fear him. Not at all.
Stopping at the edge of the bed, she set her supplies on the simple brown comforter now tinged with darker stains. “I’m going to slide behind you and cut away the shirt.”