Page 7 of Bloodbane

CHAPTER SEVEN

Joining the Dots

{ R U B Y }

Screams—human and metal—split the freezing night before dying abruptly. The sickening crunch of my head smashing against the window steals all sound but shrill ringing.

Metal folds and glass explodes, sending sharp shards flying toward me, slicing me, and warmth—wet and sticky—spills out over cold skin. The world tilts fiercely as I fall back onto the seat; the hard landing steals the breath from my lungs.

Searing pain breaks through the haze of shock, and I touch a trembling hand to the source of the agony radiating from my chest: the jagged metal spike impaling soft flesh. When I lift my hand again, dark red glistens grotesquely in the bright moonlight.

Panic constricts my throat. I turn to search out the figures in the front seats, needing reassurance, but finding only still, slumped silhouettes instead.

I want to cry, to scream, to run away, but I’m so cold and so, so tired. Fighting to keep my eyes open, I watch the swirls of white dance around me, blurring in and out of focus, pulsing in time with my slowing heartbeat. Scattered glass sparkles like diamonds in the light, the only bright spots in my darkening vision. Another screech of twisting metal pierces the ringing in my ears as the icy darkness finally claims me.

The scream tears from my throat as I fight my way into consciousness, thrashing in the damp sheets coiled tightly around me. The keening cry breaks on a sob, and I rake nails down my chest, over the painful pounding below. I curl inward, knees to chest, and wrap trembling arms around my pillow. The red cotton drinks in my tears greedily as I try and scrub away the fragmented memories.

Just a dream, just a dream, just—

I shove my face into the pillow to muffle my anguished roar, attempting to push the terror from my body with the rush of air.

I should have expected this. The horrors of yesterday have unearthed demons I’ve never been able to bury deep enough to escape. Trapping the air in my lungs, I start to count.

I don’t even make it to six. The problem with slow-breathing techniques is that they’re slow. I don’t have time for slow today.

Kicking off the sheets, I sit and grab the vodka from the bedside table. The liquid splashes into the glass and over the rim, but I blame my haste rather than the tremble in my hand. I pour three fingers—two more than I should, and three less than I want—before exchanging bottle for glass. The burn of alcohol down my throat momentarily eclipses both the erratic pounding in my head and the matching beat under my ribs.

The back of my hand slides across my forehead, dragging the long strands of hair from my face as I eye the bottle covetously. Another three fingers can’t hurt, can it? But there’s no point, nothing less than half the bottle will help. And wouldn’t showing up at the station completely off my face set a great example? I could put it down to the concussion, but Cooper would probably cite me for drunk and disorderly just for the fun of it, and take great delight in tossing me into the cell.

The cell that’s currently occupied.

Gray eyes flash in my mind, and I file my lip through my teeth, latching on to the new image in my head with all the desperation of a drowning woman clinging to a life preserver.

Allowing the mysteries of the present to push down the familiar terrors of the past, I set the empty glass back on the table before dropping my head into my hands. The heels press hard enough against my closed lids for shooting sparks of color to light up the darkness.

There’s something about Grayson, a strange familiarity that pulls at me. With the truly horrific damage to his face, it’s impossible to say for certain that I’ve never seen him before. Still, I’m pretty sure I would remember that voice.

And those eyes.

I stifle a groan as I sit up. Though I haven’t read Cooper’s Code of Conduct handbook, I’m willing to bet inappropriate thoughts about murder suspects are generally frowned upon.

The eerie squeal of barren branches scratching at my window agitates my already raw nerves, jolting me back to reality. The storm has continued through the night, though the shallow line of snow decorating the sill is evidence that it’s more bark than bite. I wrap my arms around myself, watching the trees bend alarmingly in the wind as the first rays of light peek over the horizon. No longer warmed by a hammering heart, my sweat-slicked skin starts to chill uncomfortably.

I turn from the window and pad to the bathroom.

Waiting for the water temperature to reach almost scalding, I roll my stiff shoulders. The dull ache throbs through my muscles, pressing in on my joints and settling into my bones. Maybe I should have listened to Milo and taken it easy yesterday... not that I’ll ever admit it out loud. Who knew you were meant to stretch before moving corpses?

The temperature-sensitive LEDs I’d placed in the showerhead change from blue to red as steam begins to fog the air. Taking simple pleasure in the colorful display, the strain pinching my mouth eases for the first time since waking as my lips curve up in a small smile.

I step under the water stream, placing my palms on the tiles and dropping my head low, shielding the wounds on my face as much as possible. The waterproof dressing Milo affixed over my ribs yesterday is still intact, but I add grabbing a few more to my already too-long to-do list, right below getting Grayson to consent to medical attention.

If he survived the night .

A bolt of cold streaks through me despite the heat raining down on my skin. Ignoring the intrusive thoughts crowding my head, I set my focus on the day ahead. I need to take more blankets to the station, and maybe some fresh clothes for Grayson. His will be needed for evidence anyway, and a show of goodwill might earn some trust, and hopefully more information along with it. The odds aren’t great, but it’s worth a shot, even if the man seemingly prefers spitting riddles to stir up more questions than he’s willing to answer.

“You don’t need to know how I ended up under your truck, only how you—”

The frustration surging past my lips echoes off the tiles.

Only how I… what?

The interrupted proclamation had needled my brain the second it reached my ears and had me tossing and turning for hours last night before exhaustion finally won out.

I’m no closer to solving the riddle this morning, either.

Whoever said ignorance is bliss is an idiot. Knowing there’s something I don’t know is a constant irritation. It eats at me, nibbling around the black hole my memories have disappeared into. I try to coax them out, replaying what little I can recall again and again.

Driving, seeing the wolves, climbing out of my truck…

Driving, seeing the wolves, climbing out—

I suck in a sharp breath, coughing on the steam as the puzzle pieces finally slide into place.

Son of a bitch.

I stand motionless under the spray as my mind races, joining the dots. The answer to the riddle is so simple... but everything else just got a lot more complicated.