by Nic Saint
Lowering her ear to the woman’s lips, she held her breath, and when the words registered, she frowned in confusion.
“Mama. Vozmi menya k mame.”
Not comprehending, Joanna whispered back, “I’ll get you to a doctor.”
Though the moment she’d spoken the words, she understood her promise was an empty one. She would never be able to move her. Not with a wound as lethal as the one the man had inflicted. Her eyes were drawn to the arrow as it protruded from the woman’s chest. She didn’t know much about medicine, but from the blood spreading like a bloom, she knew it was bad.
For a moment, she wavered, then made up her mind. She would hide her body in the brush, then run to town for help.
The moment she touched her hands to the woman, her eyes snapped open and she winced in pain. “Don’t leave me,” she moaned.
“I won’t leave you,” assured Joanna, then slipped her arm beneath the woman’s back and gave her a gentle tug. When no response came, she realized she’d passed out, her body limp and her eyes now closed. Swallowing away a lump of fear, she started dragging the victim behind the brambles that had provided her a hiding place from the man.
Either the woman was heavier than she looked or her strength was failing her, for she had only progressed a few yards when the sound of a bugle startled her. This time it seemed much closer, and she knew she didn’t have much time before the hunters would be upon her.
Using all the strength she had, she dragged the poor woman away where she hoped she would be safe, then quickly covered her with fallen leaves and clumps of grass, concealing her from the passing observer as well as she could.
Pricking up her ears, she waited for a moment, trying to steady her racing heart, then moved away from the undergrowth and snuck to the edge of the forest, looking out across the meadows for a sign of danger.
When nothing stirred, she sprang up and made her dart to safety, crouching low and making haste, putting as much distance between herself and the man as possible. She needed to get to town, and fast, before the woman succumbed to her wounds.
And she’d just reached the open fields, when a voice rang out behind her.
“Come back here, you!”
Making a wild dash, she ignored the command and ran as fast as her legs could carry her across the soggy land. Just then, an arrow whizzed past her ear, and she cried out in terror and fear.
“Stop right there!” the voice came. “Or the next one will hit its mark!”
Trembling like a leaf, she abruptly halted in her tracks, her wild streak at an end.
“Turn around!”
Slowly, she heeded the order and started turning to the source of danger. When her eyes met the tall man’s, she knew this was the end. And even though just before she’d been contemplating ending it all, she now found she wasn’t ready. She wanted to live—not die like a beast in this field.
“Just—let me go!” she cried out, her voice quaking. “You don’t have to kill me.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. With steady steps, he approached her, his bow now slung over his broad shoulder, the arrows poised in their holder, dangling from his waist. Up close, he was even more impressive than she’d thought. His eyes were a striking fawn with not a hint of mirth. His face was hard and angular, his brows hooked over his eyes and his nose a sharp slash.
There was power in those eyes and those irregular features, and even though he wasn’t handsome in a traditional sense, she felt a twinge of regret she couldn’t have made his acquaintance under normal circumstances, instead having to view his face as the last she’d ever gaze upon.
When he was upon her, she closed her eyes, knowing that the end was near. This brute would slay her like he’d slain the woman in the forest. Blood would soon bloom on her chest as well, and she brought her hands to her heart in a final gesture of defiance. Protecting her chest from the invading iron.
When fingers clasped around her wrist and yanked her hand away, her eyes flashed open, and she found herself face to face with him now, and her impression that he was a force of nature increased. Hair the color of coal fell across his tan brow, and when she raised her eyes to his, she was surprised to find there, not murderous intent, but… curiosity.
His full lips worked as he subjected her to an intent study, then he grunted, “Don’t you know it isn’t safe here, woman? That you could get shot?” His inflection was foreign—Russian if she would venture a guess.
Her lips opened, then closed in confusion. “What—what do you mean? Are—aren’t you going to kill me?”
His scowl deepened, and the grip on her arm tightened. “Kill you? Why on earth would I want to kill you?”
Helplessly, she tugged to free herself, but it was as if her hand was caught in a vise. “You shot that woman. I—I saw you.” Abruptly she closed her mouth. It was the worst thing she could have said, she knew. Never tell a murderer you’ve seen him commit the terrible crime. He will want to get rid of the witness. “I mean, I didn’t actually see you…” she tried, her voice trailing off.
He gave her a curt nod. “So it was you who moved Yana. I thought so. Do you know anything about medicine? Perhaps you could take a look?”
The abrupt change this conversation was taking surprised and confused her. “So you didn’t try to… kill her?”
He gave her wrist a tug and started walking back in the direction of the forest, forcing her along. When finally she fell into step beside him, he let go of her arm. Casting her a sideways look, he said in his deep, rumbling voice, “Tell me, why would I want to kill my friend?”
“She’s… your friend?”
He inclined his head. “I told her not to come. She should have listened. Hunting is not for the uninitiated. And when she left our company and ventured out on her own…”
The truth suddenly came home to her. “It was an accident.”
“Spartak. He thought he saw a pheasant. The moment he released the arrow, he realized his mistake, but it was too late.”
They’d arrived at the spot where she’d left the man’s friend. A second man stood hovering over her, his face ashen. This, Joanna assumed, was Spartak.
Spartak’s eyes instantly flicked to her. “Doc? Thank God you’re here—“
“She’s not the doctor, Spartak.”
“Christ!” cried Spartak. He turned desperate eyes on the tall man. “We need to do something, Vitaly. She doesn’t have much longer.”
Vitaly stared down at the body of the woman, his face working. “We can’t move her. It’s too dangerous. All we can do is wait. And pray.”
Joanna, feeling ill at ease in the company of these strangers, thought she detected a glimmer of anger in Vitaly’s voice. And when he suddenly turned on his friend, her suspicion was confirmed.
He grabbed Spartak’s collar and bunched his fist, practically lifting the other man clear from the ground. “Why did you have to let her wander off, huh? None of this would have happened if you had kept your eye on her.”
Spartak’s face lost what color it had left. He looked as if he was about to be violently sick, and when he merely muttered something incomprehensible, Vitaly released him with an impatient grunt.
A whimper had them all look down at the stricken woman. Yana had regained consciousness, and when her eyes focused, a slight smile played about her lips. “I should have listened to you, Vitaly,” she whispered. “I should have stayed home today.”
Vitaly went down on one knee in the mulch and gently stroked her cheek. “It’s all right, Yana. Everything is all right.”
Joanna was surprised by the note of tenderness in both gesture and words. If she’d been terrified before, she now felt nothing but sorrow over the fate that had befallen these people.
“Next time—“ Vitaly started to say.
Yana shook her head sadly. “There won’t be a next time. I’m going to die today.”
“Don’t you say that,” rumbled Vitaly, his voice dropping an octave. “You’re going to be just fi
ne, Yana. Trust me.”
She kept shaking her head, her eyes now fluttering closed. “No, Vitaly,” she murmured. “This time… I won’t.”
CHAPTER THREE
A strong sense of helplessness seeped into Vitaly’s consciousness as he gazed down at the immobile daughter of his employer. He’d clasped her lifeless hand in his own, and if he could have, would have breathed life back into her limp body by the sheer power of his will. But he knew that this was one of those moments that willpower alone wouldn’t cut it.
Yana, he knew, had been mortally wounded, and nothing short of a miracle could save her now.
A soft voice spoke beside him, and instinctively he knew better than to cut it off.
“Perhaps I know a way,” the striking female stranger murmured, then crouched down and took Yana’s hand in hers, curling strong fingers over delicate ones. Staring down at the arrow that rose from Yana’s bosom, the woman started murmuring words whose significance escaped him. They sounded Gaelic to his unpracticed ears, but that’s as far as his guess went.
He didn’t ask questions, didn’t stir, even held his breath for a moment to prevent the deep sob that was rising in his chest from breaking the surface of his bottomless sorrow. Was this woman the miracle he’d been praying for?
He eyed her from beneath long lashes, unable to move. Her eyes, he saw, were a deep green—like the sparkle of the brightest emerald. Her red, flaming hair reminded him of fire kindling, a mass of curls that spread out across her shoulders. Her face was strikingly beautiful with its delicate, even features, and as she closed her eyes, her brows knitting, she presented a study in grace and poise.
She was a witch—a wood nymph come to life to offer her help to mere mortals who’d ventured into her realm. Or perhaps she was an elemental, materialized to protect her land. Whatever or whoever she was, all hope now rested with her. Or perhaps it was too late already—Yana having passed on from this plane to the next. To be reunited with her mother.
He was not a religious man, but as he closed his eyes and stammered broken phrases to a God he hadn’t acknowledged in the thirty-two years he’d been walking this earth, he found a deep peace descending upon him, and then a sudden gust of wind stir the forest’s quiet. And when he looked up, he had the fleeting impression the world had grown lighter—less oppressive. Could it be?
And then he felt it. A tremor. The softest twitch of Yana’s fingers in his. The woman must have felt it too, for she gazed up into his eyes, and then a slight smile curved her lips, and he frowned, afraid to believe.
But then suddenly Yana opened her eyes, and her chest, which had caved, started heaving once again, drawing air into her lungs. She winced, the movement stirring the arrow lodged in her bosom and sending shoots of pain through her injured body.
“Ouch,” she moaned.
“Yana!” cried Vitaly, his fingers gripping hers tighter.
“When is the doctor coming, Vitaly?” she lamented. “I’m in pain here, you know?”
As if summoned by a power greater than theirs, the sound of a siren in the distance answered her call, and the tightness that had lain like a stone on his heart was suddenly lifted. “You hear that?” he shouted. “Help’s on the way.”
She rolled her eyes, her attitude apparently having made a comeback along with the life that now flowed through her veins once more. “Finally. Took them long enough.”
His eyes flashed up at the woman’s, gratitude making him smile. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss…”
“Joanna,” she acknowledged with an imperceptible nod. “And there’s no need to thank me. I didn’t do anything, really. Merely helped you pray.”
“You saved her, Joanna,” he said emphatically.
“I think someone should probably—“ muttered Spartak, then started moving toward the road to signal the approaching ambulance.
Joanna, who was still holding Yana’s hand, released it with a sigh. The prayers she’d directed at the beings watching over us all had exhausted her, and she needed to steady herself by leaning against a tree.
Within moments, Vitaly had reached her side and was supporting her by placing a steadying hand on her arm. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
She waved a deprecating hand, then placed it on her brow. The cool touch did much to dispel the dizziness. “I’m fine. Just… tired, I guess.”
She touched her hands to the tree, feeling the coarseness of the bark under her fingers, the indentations wrought by years of weathering the seasons, leaving their mark in the spongy cork. It further helped clear her mind and rid her of the sense of weakness that had assaulted her.
“What did you do if I may be so bold?”
She gave him a wistful smile. “Nothing special. Just a prayer my grandmother taught me.”
“Your grandmother must have been a very special woman.”
She flicked up her eyes and instantly was caught in his intent gaze. “Yes,” she returned. “Yes, she was. Though I barely remember her now. She died when I was a little girl.”
She found his scrutiny unnerving, as if he was trying to gaze straight into her soul. Never before had anyone looked at her quite like he did. Gauging her—determining what she was made of.
The ambulance came barreling down the earthen road, and Spartak waved it to a stop. Instantly two nurses sprang out, and, following the man’s directions, hurried over to where Yana lay.
Joanna watched the scene dispassionately. Somehow she knew that the woman would be fine. She could not say how she knew, but it was as if a voice deep inside her whispered this truth. She would live and prosper.
“Vitaly,” she called out. He had joined the nurses as they started transferring Yana to a stretcher. He looked up, and she found that there was something about him that deeply appealed to her—something about the way he looked at her set off a yearning that echoed through her soul, and she knew she couldn’t let him leave without feeling his eyes on her one last time.
“Let me take you home,” he offered. “I have a car waiting nearby.”
“No, it’s fine. I live quite close. I just wanted to…” She wavered, not knowing what it was she wanted exactly. To get to know him a little better? To spend a few more minutes in his presence? It all seemed so pointless.
His eyes darted from her to the ambulance, where the nurses had now slammed the door shut and were about to move off, en route to the hospital. He gestured at the vehicle carrying his friend and shot her a quick smile. “I’m very sorry, Joanna. I need to go now.”
“No, of course,” she agreed. It was so silly—she was so silly.
He took her hands in his and pressed them warmly. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what you did, but you saved Yana’s life.”
She merely smiled and watched him walk off in a hurry, Spartak in his wake, and after a last quick wave, he was gone, the forest having swallowed him up just as miraculously as it had produced him earlier. As she stood motionless on the spot, she was struck with a sense of unreality, the whole episode never having happened.
Had she dreamed it all?
Had she imagined everything?
Then the lingering sense of pressure on her hands and the warmth of his touch told her that she hadn’t been dreaming. She really had met a most interesting man. And even though she would never see him again, she had the distinct feeling something had changed. Something had shifted in the balance of life, and things would never be quite the same again.
She was going to leave this place, she knew, never to return.
She still didn’t know where to go, but perhaps she would simply leave that one little detail to the hands of fate.
As they’d thrown her lot together with that of Vitaly and Yana, perhaps her grandmother’s uncanny gifts could help her decide where to go from here.
And with a new sense of purpose, she set one foot in front of the other, and decided that this was the only way to go: step by step, until she arrived at her destination, wherever it might be.
> The dread that had hung heavy on her heart lifted slightly, and as she set out on her journey home, she knew that tonight would be her last night in Lincoln.
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Copyright © 2015 by Nic Saint. All rights reserved.
Published by Puss in Print Publications.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.