Page 52 of In the Dark of the Past

Lightning cracked overhead, close enough that the thunder hit almost simultaneously. The storm screamed around us. So did my heart.

Finn stood, swaying slightly, then grabbed the walkie from his bag and called it in to the station, giving his location and a quick rundown of events before rattling off some cop-speech numbers I didn’t understand.

He holstered his Glock and grabbed my wrist. “We need to go after them. Now.”

I didn’t hesitate. We ran. Not away, but after the two masked individuals.

Branches whipped at our clothes, and mud sucked at our boots. The rain blinded more than it illuminated, even with the lightning. The woods were gloomy, the shadows thickening all around us, and the flashlight beam bounced wildly as Finn ran ahead of me, favoring his injured arm but refusing to slow down.

“Finn!” I called once. “You’re really bleeding⁠—”

“Later!” he shouted back.

We chased the injured, fleeing men down a narrow deer path, then across a rocky incline. They were still fast, but panicked and hurt, their footfalls loud as they crashed through brush instead of cutting through it.

Another flash of lightning illuminated one silhouette as the other broke off in the opposite direction, a dark figure limp-sprinting through the rain, mask glowing faintly as he darted between two boulders.

Finn cursed under his breath and pushed harder after the one with the limp.

I followed, lungs burning, legs shaking.

The Watcher vanished over a rise.

When we crested it seconds later⁠—

Nothing.

Just darkness and rain and the faint echo of footfalls swallowed by the storm.

He was gone.

Finn stopped, his chest heaving, blood dripping steadily from his sleeve now despite the rain trying to wash it away. I stumbled up beside him, my breaths ragged.

“Shit,” he rasped.

“More like fuck,” I said, doubling over, hands on my thighs.

He barked out something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t been soaked in fear and adrenaline. Then he swayed a little.

“Sit,” I said instantly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not, you stubborn asshole. You’re bleeding like a decorative fountain.”

Thunder growled overhead in irritated agreement as we made it down to the gravel service road ten minutes later, soaked and shaking, Finn’s blood painted alarming streaks across not only his arm but also mine.

He leaned against a pine, jaw clenched, breathing hard.

I ripped off my hoodie—already soaked—and took off the long-sleeve tee I had underneath it, leaving me in just a camisole. I wrapped the tee around his arm, tying the sleeves together as tightly as I could to apply pressure. Rain kept trying to undo my work, but I tightened the knot anyway.

From what I could see, the cut was deep and ugly, but it wasn’t arterial. He’d live. Though he’d definitely scar.

His eyes were on me the whole time I worked, his expression unreadable in the storm-dark. When I finished tying the makeshift bandage, I realized my hands were shaking.

I tugged on my sodden hoodie again and then just stared at the ground. He reached out with his good hand and cupped my face, his thumb brushing rain from my cheek.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice rough.