Bound by Prophecy

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-one

Confessions

It hadn't been my intention to actually get shot. I'd planned to distract the gunmen, to give Emily a chance to make it to safety, then to fall as soon as she'd cleared the outer branches of the copse of fir trees and let them think they had me. But Morgan's order must have been a little looser than I'd estimated, because as soon as we'd started to run, they opened fire.

Had I not been face down in dirt and leaves writhing in agony, I might have appreciated the fact that my plan had actually worked. Because I'd told Emily I was going to go down when the first warning shots fired, she didn't look back. She thought I had played my part, and she was upholding her end of the bargain. She was running for safety.

Another report sounded in her general direction and I coughed blood and leaf bits into the dirt as I struggled to lift my head.

"Down!" a voice yelled from behind me. "Stay down!"

A heavy boot smashed into my side once, twice. "Turn him," someone ordered, "keep your eyes on his hands."

Another boot kicked against my hip, rolling me to land on my back, though an arm was trapped beneath me. I could only feel the pressure now, the cool air rushing over my skin, the warm wetness of the leaves below me. With immense effort, I managed to twist my chin to see the direction she should have been. I held my breath, closed one eye, concentrated hard on bringing her into focus.

There was shouting, the rush of boots on underbrush. I closed both eyes. Took a deep breath.

"Don't move!" the voice beside me yelled again. There was some fumbling around my ankles. And then the vague notion I'd been shot in the side. And there was darkness. I had to focus. She had to make it. I had to see her make it.

I opened my eyes and found Emily. My chest tightened. The white Henley, her honeyed hair. The last flash of the bottom of her sneakers as she crashed through the thick green branches to refuge. Her nearest pursuer was too far, they'd never find her, they'd never have her. I felt my mouth pull back into a smile as I slipped into the darkness of oblivion.

I wasn't sure how long I'd slept, but it hadn't been long enough.

"Again," a harsh voice yelled as icy water was thrown into my face.

A tearing, awful pain shot through my side as my body reacted to the shock, but my mind hadn't caught up with what was happening. I couldn't see where I was, didn't know anything but that it was too bright, too loud, too real.

"Clean up his face, I don't want it to look like a butcher's shop here."

I attempted to lift my head, but it only bobbed before my chin fell back against my chest. A towel was pressed to my cheek, roughly brushing away what blood the water hadn't. It smelled of bleach and disinfectant, the too-clean scent of hospital linen. But this wasn't a clinic.

"Could be the poison, sir, "a different voice offered, this one closer than the first.

"Don't be a fool," the first voice said. "Give him one hour of sleep and he'll be healing every single wound you've handed him."

My brain made the connection then, put a face to the voice.

But before my eyes would open, he was closer, drawing out the words as he spoke in my ear. "He's an Archer. He has the power of the blood."

Morgan.

His hand fisted into my hair as he jerked my head up to face him. "Wake, brother. We've got plans for you."

I spat blindly in his direction.

"Open your eyes," he said in a tone so lethal it silenced the rest of the room.