by Tarah Benner
Soren threw his body over Lark’s and covered his head as debris continued to fall from the ceiling. The hallway was black with smoke and ash, and the heat was almost more than he could bear.
Fighting the overwhelming weakness that was spreading through his body, Soren forced himself to his feet and almost smacked into the fallen beam. It was wedged in the space between the walls, blocking their path forward.
His heart was hammering — fighting to send oxygen to his tired, starved brain. He couldn’t move the beam, but he had to get Lark out. She was lying helplessly on her side as the fire ate up all the oxygen.
There was only one way through.
Fighting the tidal wave of darkness that was threatening to overcome him, Soren grabbed Lark around the waist and pulled her toward him. He flattened himself against the floor and crawled under the fallen beam, choking on the billowing clouds of smoke.
Finally his legs cleared the beam, and he turned around to pull Lark through after him. Her body was extraordinarily heavy, but Soren tugged, and her shoulders and torso slid on through.
Once her legs cleared the beam, Soren gripped her around the waist and continued to drag her toward the door. He pulled her through the smoke and darkness, unable to see more than six inches in front of his face.
It was agonizingly slow inching along with Lark in tow. They weren’t going to reach the end of the hallway in time. They were too far away. Darkness was quickly closing in, choking out the light and sound.
But then Soren felt cool air on his face, and he let out a cry of relief. He crawled toward the door with Lark, wishing that she would wake up and see that they had made it.
Fresh, delicious oxygen was streaming into his lungs, and he gasped hungrily for air as he pulled them out of the house. He dragged Lark across the overgrown grass, and his head began to spin as the oxygen reached his brain.
Soren tried to say Lark’s name, but his voice was still hoarse and weak. He shook her shoulders, but her head just flopped from side to side.
A moment later, Soren sensed movement around him. The ground shook with the thud of heavy footfalls, and a pair of beefy hands seized him roughly by the arms.
“Holy shit! Crazy son of a bitch . . .” It was Axel.
Then Soren heard a girl’s hysterical voice, and suddenly he felt weightless. Every inch of his skin ached where the cool air touched his burns and blisters, but he was floating on something strong and solid.
Someone slammed him onto the ground, and Soren let out an audible groan. He opened his eyes one at a time and was stunned to see hundreds of stars twinkling above him. Oxygen was coursing through his body like a drug, sharpening his senses and bringing him slowly back to life.
“He’s aight!” came Axel’s thick, booming voice. “Crazy dickhead with a death wish.”
Something beside Soren shifted, and Axel’s ugly mug appeared.
“Asshole,” Soren croaked. His voice came out scratchy and weak, but he saw a smug grin break across Axel’s face.
Soren raised himself up into a seated position. Simjay and Conrad were staring at him as though he’d just risen from the dead. Katrina was fussing over Portia in the grass nearby, but Bernie and Thompson were kneeling over Lark.
“Lark,” he croaked, rolling onto his knees so that he could drag himself over to where she lay.
“Hang on,” said Axel.
But Soren didn’t listen. Bernie turned over her shoulder to look at him, and Soren was startled to see tears streaming down her cheeks. Thompson seemed to be administering CPR, but Lark’s body was as stiff as a corpse.
When Soren reached her, he was alarmed to see that Lark looked hopelessly pale. Her skin was white — almost translucent — and her lips were a sickly greenish blue. He could see the dark hollows carved beneath her eyes — black and shadowy against her pale white skin.
Someone had cut her bindings, but Soren could still see the angry red marks on her skin where she had fought desperately to free herself. Soren considered what Lark must have gone through in those last few minutes before his arrival, and an all-consuming rage tore through him.
Gideon had taken her. He’d tied her up, locked her away, and left her there to die.
But no matter how he spun it, a tiny voice inside Soren’s head kept reminding him that this was his fault. He’d told Axel to create a diversion. He’d broken up with Lark and pushed her away. He was the reason she and the girls had been up at the barn by themselves. If he hadn’t been such a coward —
But Soren was distracted by the violent display in front of him. Lark’s upper body shuddered with each of Thompson’s chest compressions, and the bird tattooed beneath her clavicle seemed to flap its wings in protest. Thompson’s hands sank deep into Lark’s chest, and Soren was sure that her ribs would break.
Thompson was sweating and puffing. She looked exhausted, and a moment later, Simjay edged in to take over. He continued to pound away at chest compressions, but he didn’t look hopeful.
A black hole of emptiness opened up inside of Soren as he watched Simjay pump Lark’s chest. She looked like a cadaver that someone had reanimated. It was disturbing — unnatural. Most of all, it wasn’t Lark.
In that moment, Soren realized that she was gone. Lark wasn’t breathing. Her heart wasn’t beating. The real Lark seemed to have fled her body, and Soren couldn’t watch the abuse any longer.
“Stop,” Soren choked.
Simjay glanced from Soren to Thompson but kept going. He was counting under his breath, but Soren could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. Silent tears were trailing down Bernie’s cheeks. She looked too horrified to speak.
“I said stop!” Soren growled.
Simjay stopped, his hands still resting on Lark’s sternum. He and Thompson pulled away, and they all stopped and stared at Lark’s body.
She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.
Just then, Denali padded over with his ears tucked and his hackles raised. He circled them slowly, inching a little closer to Lark with every step.
He seemed to sense that something was off, but he stuck out his neck and sniffed Lark’s hand. Soren had the immediate urge to shoo the dog away, but something about Denali’s behavior made him feel better.
The dog nudged Lark’s arm with his nose, and when she didn’t respond, he gave it a lick. Soren felt his heart break. Denali looked up at him and let out a whine, and when Lark didn’t get up, he lay down beside her and nuzzled her arm.
Fighting the tears that were burning in his throat, Soren moved behind Lark and held her face between his hands. It was easier looking at her upside down because it allowed him to imagine that she was sleeping.
Her skin was still warm from the fire and just as soft as he remembered. He could see the evidence of Lark’s many violent encounters — scars, abrasions, and the shadow of a bruise.
But for all of Lark’s imperfections, Soren still thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. There was a fierceness to her that had always cut right to his soul.
As he cradled her head between his hands, Soren felt a deep sense of shame. He hated the things he’d said to her the last time they’d really talked, and it killed him that he had let their fight fester without telling her how he really felt.
The longer he stared down at her, the harder it became to pretend that she was still alive. A lone tear squeezed its way out of his eyes and dripped onto her cheek, and Soren felt something inside him break.
Lark wasn’t asleep. Lark was gone. He’d done everything he could to save her, but he’d been too late.
A heavy sob forced its way out of Soren’s throat, and a deep agony spread from his chest to his extremities. His body shook with the effort of holding in his grief, and a second later, it burst out of him in a howl that scorched his raw, swollen throat.
His yell echoed through the night like the cry of a wounded animal, and he didn’t even care that everyone was watching. He collapsed on all fours over Lark’s still chest, letting go of
the pain that was tearing through his body.
He lay there shaking for several minutes before pulling himself up in a tremor of sobs. He ran a finger down the side of Lark’s face, staring down at her perfect features.
But then a tiny muscle behind Lark’s eye twitched, and he saw something in her expression quiver. Her mouth fell open just a tiny bit, and her chest heaved as she sucked in a burst of air.
Soren’s mouth fell open, and the group held its collective breath. Then Lark’s eyelids fluttered again, and Soren tightened his grip on her skull.
“Lark!” he gasped, giving her a gentle shake on the arm.
Lark inhaled suddenly, and this time her chest rose on its own.
“Come on, come on . . .” Soren breathed.
Lark’s eyebrows lifted, and her eyes fluttered open. Their amber color seemed twice as vivid, and elation flooded through Soren as she took in the group with bleary eyes.
“Lark?” he gasped.
She blinked and gave a painful swallow before locking eyes with him.
“Soren?” she breathed. Her voice was weak and barely audible, but Soren knew he hadn’t imagined it.
“I’m here,” he groaned, folding his body over hers and nearly crushing her in his embrace. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s over. You’re safe.”
Lark coughed and tried to sit up, but Soren put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Easy,” he breathed, resisting the urge to scoop her into his arms.
“Bernie?” Lark choked. “Portia?”
“We’re right here,” Bernie cried, her voice muddied by tears as she bent over Lark’s torso. Her wild blond waves seemed to swallow Lark as she collapsed over her friend’s prone body. She was crying and laughing and hiccuping all at the same time, and Soren began to worry that she would suffocate Lark.
But just as Bernie began to melt into a puddle of happy tears, Simjay cupped her arm gently and pried her away from Lark.
Bernie turned toward him in a daze, and to Soren’s amazement, she leaned in and planted a kiss on Simjay’s mouth. Simjay let out a note of surprise, and his eyebrows shot into his hairline.
They stood in unison, Simjay scooping Bernie into his long skinny arms. Bernie deepened the kiss, and Soren could practically see the electricity that shot between them.
Simjay swung Bernie around in a surge of joy and proceeded to maul her like a wild animal. Soren had to look away after that, but he could hear Bernie’s enthusiastic squeals and Simjay’s deep primal groan.
“Get a room,” Axel muttered, looking away in disgust.
Soren tried to laugh, but it immediately became a grimace. His lips were burned, his lungs were scorched, and he felt as though he’d been beaten with a bat.
“They ain’t dead yet,” Axel grumbled.
With a jolt of alarm, Soren realized that Axel was talking about Gideon and his cult.
He looked around. The compound was completely deserted. Four of the little shacks had burned to the ground, and the farmhouse was giving off an extraordinary amount of heat.
“He’s right,” said Thompson. “They’ll be back.”
“We should get going,” said Katrina, taking one of Portia’s arms and helping her to her feet.
“You didn’t kill him?” Soren croaked, turning to Axel with a fresh dose of panic.
“Tried,” said Axel. “Those fuckin’ psychos slithered away, but we’ll git ’em next time.”
Next time. That thought did nothing to put Soren’s mind at ease. Gideon might have fled for the night, but he wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t gone. He and his cult would be out for blood, and there’d be little question as to who’d attacked their compound.
Soren had set out to end the cult for good, and he had failed miserably. That sick bastard was still walking around free, but Soren wouldn’t rest until he was gone.
17
Lark
Lark awoke the next morning with the feeling that her skin had suddenly grown too small for her body. It was dry and cracked in places and badly burned from the fire.
Before she’d gone to sleep, Bernie had come to the room with some kind of magic salve that Starlight had made. She’d slathered it all over Lark’s face and arms as she gushed on and on about Simjay’s kiss.
Normally, Lark would have gagged as Bernie described Simjay’s body, scent, and kissing style, but that night, Lark hadn’t minded. She’d spent those last few minutes in the pantry tormented by the thought that she might never see Bernie, Soren, or Simjay again, and hearing her friend’s familiar voice had been like a balm to her wounds.
That morning, though, the memory of Bernie’s dreamy smile and her not-so-PG descriptions of what she wanted to do with Simjay made Lark feel a little sick to her stomach. The magic salve had helped, but she still felt as though she were made of crumpled tissue paper that could tear in half with one wrong move.
Suddenly, Lark felt something rough and wet slide across her face. It started gently around her temples and then squelched down her left cheek.
“Ughhh,” Lark groaned, feeling for Denali’s hairy chest and gently pushing him away.
“He’s happy you’re safe,” rumbled a voice to Lark’s left.
Lark gave a start and opened her eyes. Soren was lying beside her on the bed. He was resting with his head propped up on one elbow, and for a moment, Lark wondered if she was dreaming.
“Are you all right?” he asked in a husky voice. He bent closer to examine her, and Lark nearly gasped when she saw that a good three or four inches of his face was covered in burns.
“Am I all right?” Lark croaked, sitting up with a wince. She felt as though she’d been in a nasty car wreck, but then she remembered her struggle with Gideon. “What about you?”
“I’m all right,” said Soren, forcing a grin for Lark’s benefit.
“No, you’re not.”
Soren shrugged, but it looked as though it hurt. “Trust me . . . After what I went through last night . . .” He shook his head. “This is nothing.”
“You saved me,” Lark whispered, rolling over and positioning her body on top of his. His chest was burned and covered in bandages, so she was careful to avoid direct contact.
“Of course I did,” he murmured.
Lark sniffed. She could feel tears stinging in her eyes, but she didn’t want to cry. She’d cried plenty the night before — half out of sheer relief and half from horror when she’d seen the shape that Soren was in. She knew he had to be in an extreme amount of pain, but he’d endured it all to save her life.
“You could have been killed,” she whispered.
“No, you could have been killed,” said Soren. “You almost were.”
“But I wasn’t,” Lark choked. “Because of you.”
For a second, they just stared at each other. Soren’s deep-brown eyes were boring into hers, and Lark felt a warmth in her chest that seemed to spread all the way down to her pelvis.
Neither of them needed to say anything else. They both understood just how close Lark had come to a painful, gruesome death. And, if Soren’s injuries were as bad as they seemed, he had nearly been killed trying to save her.
Lark only had flashes of memory from the long minutes she’d spent locked in that pantry. She remembered it in a jumbled, horrified blur: the explosion, listening to the Millers flee the house, the roar of the fire as the house burned down around her. She’d struggled desperately to free herself, but she’d thought she was going to die in that pantry.
Lark must have shuddered aloud, because a second later, Soren tightened his grip around her and pulled her flush against his chest. He held her gently, but his arms formed a protective cage that made Lark feel as though he might not let go.
“I can’t believe you ran in there after me,” Lark whispered, breathing in his familiar, reassuring scent. It was slightly deadened by the stench of smoke, but it was still there.
“How could I not?” asked Soren, the vibrations from his voice rumbling against the side of her head.
<
br /> “I didn’t think . . .”
“I am so sorry, Lark,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” said Lark, pulling back and meeting his gaze, her vision blurred by tears. She didn’t want to talk about their horrible, messy breakup — not when the emotions from the night before were still so fresh.
“No, listen,” said Soren. “I never should have left things like that between us. It was stupid and immature. I fucked up so bad, and when I found you in that pantry, I thought —”
“Stop,” said Lark.
“No, I want to say this,” he said, sitting up and dumping her back onto the mattress. He ran a hand over the part of his face that wasn’t burned and combed back his hair with a pained expression. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about this, and I realize . . . I was just out of my mind about Micah. Then I thought about you, and I . . . I think I was just scared of losing you the way I lost him.”
“Stop,” said Lark. “I don’t want you to take back what you said just because I almost died.”
“I’m not,” he said. “You were right before. I do want to be the white knight. It sounds stupid, but some part of me feels like I need to protect you.” He shook his head. “It’s like . . . I feel like if I’d just been there, I could have kept Micah alive.”
“But you couldn’t have.”
“I know that now,” he said. “I was just scared that I was gonna lose you, and I thought that if I . . .” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I should never have pulled away like I did.”
“Hey,” said Lark, taking both of his hands in hers and giving them a squeeze. “You aren’t going to lose me.”
“I still could,” said Soren. “But almost losing you last night made me realize that it shouldn’t matter how long we have. None of us knows how long we have anyway. I should just enjoy it while it lasts — whether that’s a day, a month, or fifty years.”