by Caroline Lee
A harsh bark of laughter. “What do you have to negotiate with?” Witcher waggled the revolver. “I’ve got the gun, boy.” He jerked his chin towards the spot where Jack knew Meri still lay, the spot he hadn’t been able to look at, even to see if she was alright. Zelle was quietly sobbing, and Witcher’s smirk showed that the older man knew what that meant, as well. “And you’re all out of options. I’m walking out of here with that kid. You’re going to go and fetch her and hand her to me.” Not in a million years. “Don’t think about trying anything stupid, or I’ll blow her pretty little brains all over these trees, and won’t care. My buyer’s long gone, her family doesn’t want her anymore, so I just want the money and revenge on you.” And then a sickening, thoughtful look came over the man. “In fact, I could accomplish both by killing you and her, right now. The girl first, of course, so you’ll have to watch, but then—”
The stone caught Witcher unaware, when it slammed into his ear. He instinctively turned towards the threat, but Jack didn’t. He knew; Meri was alright, and her aim was true. Another stone soared passed Witcher as he ducked, and pointed the gun over Jack’s shoulder towards Meri.
Jack didn’t give him the chance. He leapt forward and latched onto Witcher’s gun with both of his hands. That sure got the older man’s attention again, and Jack’s oof when Witcher’s other fist slammed into his side just sort of slipped out. But he didn’t let go, knowing that the moment he did, Meri and Zelle would come under the revolver’s sights. He’d put his own body between that danger and his ladies if it came to that.
The two men grappled, Witcher landing more blows with his left fist, until Jack was sure he heard his own ribs crack. He tried to fend off the older man with an elbow, but knew that wasn’t going to work. All he could do was concentrate on not letting go of the hand that held the revolver—
And then Witcher punched him in the temple, and Jack saw stars. God, this wasn’t going to work. He was strong, but Witcher was just as desperate. Even this close, Jack hadn’t been able to look the man in the eyes, hadn’t been able to acknowledge the cruelty and hate he knew he’d see there.
So he did the only thing left to do; Jack bit down, hard, on Witcher’s wrist. He tried to remember what Osbourne had said about the artery running along the inside of the wrist, and he twisted and bit. Witcher’s scream echoed in Jack’s ears as the salty-metallic blood spilled over his tongue. He resisted the urge to spit, and dug deeper.
In his desperation to get away, Witcher loosed his grip on the gun, and yanked his own arm away from Jack’s grip, ripping open the wound farther. Jack stumbled back, feeling ill at the way the blood had caked around his beard and down his chest, and spat repeatedly onto the ground. Witcher had gone pale, his wrist cradled against his chest, a look of disbelief on his face as he took two shambling steps away from Jack.
The older man opened his mouth to say something—something angry and hateful and probably well-deserved—but the stone caught him square between the eyes. Meri. Jack watched Witcher’s head whip backwards, the momentum causing him to step back and over the side of the embankment. There was no splash; he was just gone.
Jack had to see, had to know… But first, Meri. Whirling, he saw his love sinking to her knees, cradling the still-sobbing Zelle in her left arm while an unused stone dropped from her limp right fingers. She was staring at the spot where Witcher had gone over the embankment, but as he watched, her gaze slowly switched to him.
“Is he…?” Her tongue darted out, and he saw her swallow down the rest of the sentence, and then wrap both arms tightly around his Princess.
Fortifying himself with a deep breath, Jack edged towards the bank of the stream. There, lying half in the water and half on the rocky shore, lay Witcher. The man’s arms were flung to either side, like the crucifixion, and the water downstream was tinted pink by the blood still pouring from his right wrist.
No, that wasn’t right. There was too much pink. The older man’s head was half under water, his hair washing across his face, but Jack could still see the large rock under his temple. Still see the way the blood pooled around the back of his old boss’s head. Witcher was dead. If he hadn’t bled out from the wrist-wound, if Meri’s precise shot—exactly the way she’d nailed Jack with the snowball two months before—hadn’t stunned Witcher, then the wound he’d received when he’d fallen backwards onto that rock had. And the rushing water filling his mouth and nose and lungs would ensure it.
“He’s dead.” Was it his imagination, or was that a sigh of relief behind him?
Jack found that he wasn’t feeling the least bit guilty about not jumping down there to see if he could help. Witcher had made Jack into a terrible man; a man he was only now trying to overcome. The crime boss had left New York and traveled across most of the continent to threaten Jack’s love and Princess. No, he wasn’t feeling too charitable at the moment.
Witcher wasn’t going to control him anymore. Wasn’t going to hurt anyone ever again.
Jack took a deep breath, and turned his attention to his family. Meri sat huddled on the ground, curled around a now-whimpering Zelle. Jack thanked God that the girl hadn’t seen the blood. He sank to his knees next to them, willing Meri to look at him, willing her to be alright, to be safe.
When she finally did raise her eyes to his, he caught his breath. There was so much confusion in her expression—hope, trust, fear, pain—he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Instinctively he reached for her, wanting to reassure her, wanting to tell her that everything was okay now. He needed to touch her, to check the little trickle of blood that dripped from the corner of her mouth where Witcher had hurt her. He hoped that she needed his touch just as much.
But his heart damn near broke when she flinched, pulling away from his hand. God, what had he been thinking? He was covered in blood—he could still taste it on his tongue—and he’d killed a man, in front of her.
Jack felt a chasm opening in his chest. She’d thought him kind and caring, and then heard the truth about him from the man who ought to know... And then watched Jack brutally kill Witcher, right there. Of course she was disgusted, terrified of him now. Of course she didn’t want him to touch her, to comfort her. Of course she didn’t understand how or why he could do such a thing, be such a man.
And so, his heart as empty as his mind, Jack helped her stand up—with minimal touching—and offered to hold Zelle. Meri glanced at the blood covering his neck and shirt, pursed her lips until they were pale, and shook her head. He sighed, knowing she was right.
They were a silent trio that made their way back to the cabin. A trio who had once been a family, and now… Now? Who were they? Jack resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair, knowing that he needed to wash as it was.
Who was he?
CHAPTER TEN
The walk back to the house seemed to take much longer than their flight from it. Maybe because each step sent a new pain slicing through her jaw. Maybe because Witcher had been chasing them... Or maybe because this time, Jack’s silent presence beside them was almost overwhelming.
She’d helped him kill a man. An evil man, certainly, but a man nonetheless. She’d never had the chance to take her final oath, but she lived by it every day; help others. Cure others. If a patient died, it wouldn’t be on purpose. But today, she’d joined Jack in protecting Zelle. By killing.
And to her surprise, she realized that she didn’t feel the tiniest bit of guilt. Jack had been in danger, and she would’ve done anything to protect him. Thanks to his brave actions, a bad man was dead, and wouldn’t threaten them—or anyone—ever again. From where she’d laid there on the ground, Meri had seen the indecision, the fear, warring in Jack’s expression. She’d tried to show him her faith, her trust. Her love.
And it had worked; Jack had jumped on Witcher, bitten Witcher—Meri shuddered slightly to imagine the taste of the evil man’s blood—to protect her and Zelle. Together they’d killed a man, and she wondered if he regretted it as little as sh
e did.
Meri stumbled over a tree root, and his hand was there on her elbow. Just that little touch leant her strength, and she straightened. He’d offered to take his daughter, but Meri hadn’t been able to let the little girl go, not after almost losing her like that. Besides, she’d made sure that Zelle’s face was tucked against her chest, so the little girl couldn’t see the fight; seeing all of that blood could give her nightmares. And one look at Jack—covered in it—had made her determined to keep Zelle close for the moment.
It was probably for the best; sometime during the long walk, the girl’s breathing had evened out and her hiccups had subsided. By the time Jack pushed open the back door—his face an impassive mask—Meri could tell that his princess had fallen asleep. It was for the best; Zelle needed a soothing nap to chase away the fear, and she needed a chance to talk to the girl’s father.
She went right to the small bedroom and laid the sleeping princess down on the bed. Gently, she managed to extricate herself from Zelle’s grasp, and then pull the blankets up over her. Meri crouched over the bed for a long moment, caressing the little nose and plump cheeks with her eyes, and finally placed one soft kiss on the girl’s forehead.
“I love you, honeybear.” Zelle murmured and rolled over, and Meri’s jaw clenched to think how close she’d come to losing this precious part of her life. The motion reminded her of the blow Witcher had dealt her before he’d yanked innocent Zelle from her grasp, and she figured she’d better go find a cold compress.
But her intentions fled when she softly closed the bedroom door and looked up. Standing at the table, over the stack of his clothing Meri had been folding when Witcher had arrived, Jack had just finished pulling off his bloody shirt. He’d dropped it to the floor before he looked up and met her gaze.
He was…magnificent. In two months of living with him, Meri had never once seen him without his shirt on. They’d always been careful to use the bedroom as a private place to change, and now she regretted it.
Jack’s chest was lean and muscled from the callisthenic exercises she’d seen him do, with old white scars peppering his pale skin. She held her breath as her eyes skimmed over his body, wishing that she wasn’t so far away, wishing that she could touch him… And then she met his gaze once more. He blinked, an unexplained look of despair in his eyes, and turned to the basin to wash the blood off of his hands and face.
His back was a mass of scars. Whip marks, if she didn’t miss her guess. She gasped, to realize that this man, who sought to heal, who regretted taking a life, had been whipped. Maybe he heard her pity, because he stiffened, paused, and then went back to washing. When he finished his almost-mechanical actions, he shrugged into a new shirt, buttoning it up but leaving it untucked, all without facing her.
Watching all of that skin disappear under the crisp flannel—the shirt that she’d folded lovingly less than an hour ago—was almost more than Meri could bear. She shut her eyes and forced herself to take a few deep breaths, willing her emotions—and her desire—under control. She still had questions for Jack…and had to somehow make him understand her feelings for him.
When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her again. Oh heavens, she could see the hesitation there in his deep blue eyes, and she wanted to comfort him the way she’d comforted his daughter. The pain in her jaw became irrelevant compared to healing his pain. As she crossed to him, he stepped back, bumping into the counter. But she kept coming, and when they were an arm’s length apart, she halted.
The look on his face told her that he was torn between the desire to confront her and the desire to run. Just like a wild animal. She didn’t let him choose, and reached out to take his hand in hers. Jack jumped a bit at the contact, but then gripped her hand tightly. His expression didn’t change, and she needed to find a way to make him accept her love.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was scratchy, like it hadn’t been used. She hadn’t heard him speak since that morning.
“For what?”
“For not telling you…everything.”
She squeezed his hand. “You told me that you weren’t really a doctor. You told me that you weren’t really Zelle’s father.”
“I should’ve told you about Witcher. About prison. I’m sorry.”
She offered a small smile, but it was wrong. His expression crumbled, and he looked away. Her heart broke for his pain, and she tugged him a little closer to the table. “Will you tell me? All of it, now?”
He pulled out a chair and sat down, hissing in what must’ve been pain from the blows Witcher had landed. She sunk down as well, close enough to touch him, but feeling like a chasm had opened between them. “I worked for Witcher when I was a kid. All of us on my street did. He needed muscle, and…” Jack shrugged, looking down at his hands. Hands that she knew were gentle; hands that had just helped kill a man. “And I liked being necessary.”
“Did you ever kill anyone?”
A jerked half-shrug. “A few times. I didn’t like actually hurting people, but it was part of the job. A few times, the beatings got out of control. Once, when I was seventeen…” He took a deep breath, still studying his fingers. “See, most of Witcher’s enemies weren’t nice people. They weren’t so bad to hurt, because they were hurting other people. But this guy, he was just a shopkeeper who’d mouthed off to Witcher, or something. I didn’t feel right about it, but a bunch of us went.”
When he didn’t continue, she placed her hand on the table near his arm. “What happened?”
The blue eyes that met hers then were bleak, hopeless. “We killed him. I helped. And after…” He swallowed, and looked away. “After I found out that he wasn’t anybody, just a hardworking husband and father. I knew that wasn’t right. I knew none of it was right.” He took a deep breath. “So I told some people what I knew, and got caught up in the arrests too.”
He’d confessed to his part in the killing, just to incriminate the others? That was possibly the least-selfish thing she’d ever heard.
“I testified against all of them, and asked to be sent someplace else. The coppers were good on their word. I only got nine years, but I think the others are still rotting in Auburn.”
“You went to prison for a crime you confessed to? You helped catch the real murderers?”
“I was the real murderer, Meri.” Finally, a flash of emotion—even if it was anger—in his expression. “I hit him too. I was just as guilty as they were, and I knew it. It was a good thing I went to prison. Good thing I got off the streets, away from Witcher.” He looked back down. “Good for everybody. Good for me, good for the regular people of the city who were just trying to live their lives.”
She couldn’t stand the desolation on his face. Impulsively, Meri placed her hand on his forearm, felt the primal, coiled strength. “The man I know—” she hesitated, but then said what she really meant, “The man I love wouldn’t hurt another human if he could help it.”
Jack slowly looked up, met her eyes. She saw the faint hope in them, and smiled slightly, nodding, approving. She loved him, and she wasn’t sorry that he knew. “Jack, you’re not that boy anymore. You’re not the boy who was under Witcher’s control.” She swallowed, thinking how he’d finally gotten free of his old boss. “You’re a good man, now.”
He twisted and suddenly, instead of her hand being on his arm, he held it tightly. Desperately. “I tried to be. For Zelle.”
“Tell me, Jack.” She placed her other hand on top of their joined hands, willing him not to look away. “Tell me what happened in prison.”
“I met…a man. A good man.” Jack glanced down at their hands. “His name was Osbourne, and he’d been a doctor before… Well, before he ended up in Sing Sing with the rest of us scum. He saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself, and wanted me to be better.” Jack took a deep breath, stretching the fabric of his shirt. “He taught me to read, and I read everything I could get my hands on. I learned everything from books. And he taught me how to heal. Broken bones, rotten teeth,
hunger, and dehydration. Whippings.” A shudder, perhaps at a memory.
“Is that what happened to your back?”
“They used to be harsh with the punishments. It was part of the reform process, and we all had to watch. Once, one of our patients died. It wasn’t our fault; he just gave up. But Osbourne took the blame, since the man had been seen with him a few hours beforehand. He’d been trying to save him, but they said that Osbourne had killed him. They whipped him, and when I tried to stop it, me too.”
He might’ve been looking at their hands, but Meri knew he wasn’t seeing them. The hollowness of his voice told her that much. She knew he needed to tell it all, for his sake, and for their future. “And then?” she prompted.
“Osbourne died. He wouldn’t have, if I’d been well enough to care for him, but he did, and I spent another two years in that hellhole without him, reading and healing the best that I could. I had to…” A deep breath. “Had to…” His voice cracked then, and a tear splashed on the table in front of him.
Meri gripped his hand desperately, trying to share her strength and keep her own tears from falling. “You had to redeem yourself. Redeem him.”
A full minute of silence. Her hand was beginning to ache from his grip, but she wasn’t about to let him go. Not when she could feel how much he needed her.
“When they let me out, I had nothing. No place to be. I wanted to leave, to come west, but I didn’t have any money.” His voiced lowered. “I started back down my old streets, old habits, and I got word that Witcher was looking for me. Had some work for me.” His free hand passed over his eyes, and Meri knew that the worst wasn’t over. “I got instructions. I went to Lefty’s place and saw…saw…” He sounded like he was choking on something. “I saw her. Saw Zelle, and knew I couldn’t go back to that life.”
“You killed Lefty, then. To save her.”
“I spent nine years in prison for killing a man, and the first thing I did when I got out was kill another.”