WAITING IN THE WINGS
The night was mild as I walked through my neighborhood, the air hazy and glowing orange with the street lamps. Familiar faces watched me pass, a few heads dipping in greeting. Less suspicious than before, at least.
It's good to return to my pattern, I told myself. And I had seen Evie on my way out, told her to let Ronan know I'd left for the night. There would be hell to pay tomorrow, probably from multiple directions, and I wasn't so sure now that the few hours' reprieve would be worth it.
Everything was quiet after I turned off Jamaica Street, the shadow of the park at my left looming high, the dark as secretive as it was protective. I reached up to a low hanging branch, wrapping my fingers around it and pausing for a deep breath, aware of the life in my palm. The tree called gently, echoing up from the roots, inviting me closer, offering me shelter. But I was too human to slide into that safe, hollow space a tree could make for a nymph. I'd tried as a girl, and while I could confuse my father's eye for a time, blend the edges of bark over my skin, that was all I'd managed.
I squeezed the branch in thanks and released it, crossing the road to Wellesley Street, quiet and familiar. There was a lamp in the window of the top story of my building, but the middle two were both dark.
My flat was cold as I entered, musty with neglect, and I thought I caught the whiff of something just a little too sweet, possibly rotten. Guilt ate at me in two directions now. Ronan would worry, but I needed to spend some time tomorrow tidying and taking care of my home.
I ignored the fireplace in the front room—it would take too long for any warmth to reach the back of the flat where I slept—and headed for the stove in the kitchen.
I was bending forward, turning the handle of the stove door, when I heard the creak of the floorboard from my bedroom. I stiffened, only long enough for the steps to race in my direction, and then stood up, my mouth opened to scream, my heart rioting in my chest with the sudden flare of panic.
But rising gave the intruder the advantage. I saw the thin blur in front of me and raised one hand before the wire tugged tight around my throat, biting into my fingers and pinching the back of my neck. My scream was stifled by the grip of the wire, and my feet stumbled as my attacker yanked me backward.
Remember what you know, I thought, ignoring the burn of the wire against my hand, the ache of pressure around my throat, as I fought to brace my booted feet against the floor. I had one free arm, and I threw it backwards, but whatever I hit was soft, pillowed. Cushioned. I snarled, tried to scream, and kicked my heel behind me. That collision drew a grunt out, too low and muffled to know if it was familiar or not.
Anything, Hazel. Anything!
I flapped my arm, found my counter and grabbed the first thing I could, and flailed behind me. Porcelain hit the wall, shattering, just as a knocking from my front door sounded. My racing heart stuttered at the sound, and my attacker paused in the strong yank of his grip.
My salvation was clear—I didn't need to fight off my attacker. I needed whoever was on the other side of that door to break in. And with my salvation came urgency from behind me, a hard tug nearly dragging me down to the floor, cutting off my air and any sound from my voice.
I made as much noise as I could, kicking at my cupboards, tripping my chair and sending it crashing to the floor, pulling another dish off the counter and smashing it on the stove. I fought for every whisper of air, made a dozen prayers a second, to any god or ghost who might listen. In all the struggle, there was only one thing that called back to me, drawing a tear out of my eye—my small potted rosemary in the kitchen window, offering a little tendril of peace.
For every tiny victory, there was also defeat. Sound was growing foggy, and my fingers were slipping as I reached for my next weapon of clatter. Hot blood was running down my palm from where the garrote had cut into me. A loud crack and crash from in front of me sounded, and I caught the fuzzy vision of my rosemary plant, its pot now broken, spilling roots over the window sill as if they might come to my aid.
My name was being called, but from inside the apartment or out?
And my attacker made not one sound, spoke not one word.
I know you, I thought, arching and twisting. I know you, and you don't want me to recognize you.
My knees made a dull thump against the floor before I realized I was falling, and my head cracked against the side of the counter before I realized I'd been released. There was a drum echoing, banging off any sensible rhythm, and my vision was spotty as a shadow lurched through my kitchen, rushing out the back of the building with a series of desperate crashes. The floorboards shook beneath me with my attacker's retreat, and then stilled as two figures surrounded me.
"Hazel? Hazel!"
"Come on, nut, there you are. Breathe, Hazel!"
I was breathing, but it was shallow.
"He cut her throat."
"No, no! No, see, it's her hand. It's just her hand. You're all right, nut."
I was breathing and the room was growing clearer, Ronan and Nireas crowding around me on my kitchen floor.
Ronan grimaced, and I whined as he pulled my hand away from my throat and carefully peeled the wire garrote free of my grip.
"Grab a towel," he said to Nireas.
"I'm okay," I whispered, my breaths growing deeper. I ignored the burning in my lungs, blinked to clear my eyes.
Ronan groaned and shifted me into his arms, my next breath full of that lovely toasty scent of his, never so comforting as now. His face was in my hair, body trembling around me, his embrace just shy of painfully tight. He retreated after a moment, and Nireas reappeared, eyes wide and face pale in the dark as he pressed a clean towel to my hand, wincing with me as the fibers scraped against my tender, wounded fingers.
"I'll...find a candle. Lamp," he said.
I would heal quickly, too quickly to be explained away easily, and it was decades of self-preservation ingrained in me by my father that prompted me to speak, words stilted, my throat grinding itself together as I swallowed.
"There's a...healing salve. In the cupboard. Third shelf."
"Shhhh, nut, it's all right now. Should we... Fuck, it's too late to chase him down," Ronan hissed up at Nireas.
I leaned back against Ronan's arm, almost amused by the sight of Nireas hunched in my small kitchen, frowning at the matches in his large fingers. Wait...
"What are you doing here?" I asked, twisting toward Ronan.