Page 86 of Bargaining with the Devil

He could make out, faintly, the window through which he’d come. Better than the obstructed door. He gathered her up, a dead weight in his arms, and staggered towards the dim lure of daylight.

“Quinn.” A human form met him at the window: Pereira, reaching inside.

“Take—” Coughing, he hefted Lucy up into Pereira’s arms. He stumbled, trying several times to boost himself, smoke robbing him of the oxygen his muscles needed to function.

But then Pereira had him by the wrists, pulling.

Lucy was laid out on the ground a safe distance from the cottage. He staggered to her, dropping to his knees beside her.

He didn’t like the bluish cast to her skin. Didn’t like how she was sucking in air, breath rattling. She’d been breathing that smoke for at least ten minutes before he’d gotten her out of there, probably more.

She had blood soaking her dress, spattered on her neck and cheeks. From him? His arm was bleeding where the waistcoat hadn’t quite protected it. There was a good-sized slice showing through a rent in his sleeve, although ’twasn’t registering as more than a sting.

’Tis too much. ’Twas far too much blood on her to be from his arm.

Too much. Frantically he started pushing at the fabric of her gown, seeking the source.

Her eyes half-opened, lashes fluttering, and started closing again. He shook her. “Stay with me, Lucy, a rúnsearc.” He was losing her. “Don’t be slipping off into sleep.”

Her eyes opened again. “Quinn.” A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye across one ash-smudged cheek. She coughed, gagging.

He sat her up, cradling her, trying to get her breathing easier while he sought the injury that had her covered in blood.

Where is it? “’Tis Lymington’s work,” he said to Pereira. “He’s still out there somewhere. I can’t find it. I can’t find the fuckin’ wound.”

Lucy made a noise, something he didn’t catch.

“Don’t try talking, a ghrá. Save your breath.”

She ignored him, because of course she did. “Dead,” she managed.

Who? “Lymington?”

“Dead. His . . . blood.” She sucked in a few wheezing breaths. “No pressure when—” She coughed. “When the knife—is sharp.”

Ah, fuck. ’Twas Lymington’s body blocking the door, there on the other side of the table.

“Your knife—knife was below. I—” She broke off, wheezing.

“Hush, a rúnsearc. ’Twill be time later to tell me how it happened. Save your breath,” he repeated.

“Neighbors.” Pereira’s voice pulled him away. “Blackmore too.”

He glanced in the direction of Pereira’s gaze. “They’re fine if he’s left them.” Blackmore wouldn’t have left his wife and child unless everything at the cottage was secure, which meant Pereira’s wife and her son were fine as well.

“Sí. I’ll go to them all the same unless you need me here?” Pereira crouched down, looking Lucy over.

She had a burn on one arm, Lucy did. He was singed in a few spots too from the burning thatch falling on them. “Nay, ’tis under control for the time with Lymington dead. Go to Eva and Edmund.”

Hell itself wouldn’t keep him from a woman of his own, although it had tried just now.

He was getting some suspicious looks from the neighbors, bloodied and holding Lucy in his arms like he had a right to it. Damn them all if they thought to challenge him.

He pulled her closer, held her tighter. Try me, any of you. He’d fight the whole fucking world on her behalf, right this minute, because he hadn’t had the chance to take on Lymington for her.

“Lucy!” Mrs. Blackmore’s voice, distraught. She pushed her way past the men, running.

He reined in his violent impulse, but he didn’t release Lucy.