Chapter 17
KENNA
“ H ello?” she called, stepping inside. Just in case someone—or something—had taken up residence. Or worse, the man had disappeared, like some fucked-up horror movie.
But it was just her, the dog, and a slowly breathing man. She saw his chest rise and fall, framed by firelight.
“You’re an idiot,” she muttered—possibly to herself, but also to him, because who kidnaps someone else when they’ve been mortally wounded?
Then she knelt down and hovered her hands above his chest. More of his dark blood covered the shirt he was wearing—there was probably more out than in at this rate. She gritted her teeth, wishing desperately for gloves, and unbuttoned it.
Not that she made a practice of looking at bleeding people—but his blood was so dark by the firelight that it didn’t look right. Then again, he’d been bleeding for so long, maybe half of it was clots by now?
But not clotted enough to change things for him, she realized, as she grabbed the V-neck of his undershirt and tore it to get it off of him.
The wet fabric ripped, exposing his chest—broad, muscular, and slick with blood, slowly oozing out of a puncture wound the width of her pinkie finger’s tip, every time he breathed.
“Well, fuck,” she whispered, not entirely sure what to do next.
Apply pressure? She took off his jacket and bunched up a sleeve, placing it over and leaning in—but that wasn’t going to fix anything.
Then again, it wasn’t like she could muster up a blood transfusion out here, in the middle of nowhere.
Maybe the little dog shouldn’t have stopped her—he’d probably have been better off if she had managed to call nine-one-one.
But—maybe he had a phone?
It wasn’t in his jacket, but she patted down his pants and got her hands behind him for a pocket grope. Success!
She yanked out a shiny new top-of-the-line iPhone—only to find out that there wasn’t any signal.
The dog started whining repeatedly, and Kenna noticed the man’s slowing chest rise.
He was actually dying. Right now. Right in front of her.
For reals.
And—she realized belatedly—that whatever strange-as-fuck reason he’d had for kidnapping her—he’d been totally committed to it.
He could’ve kicked her out of the van and driven himself to a hospital.
Or at least to someplace that might’ve had a first aid kit.
And as thrilled as she was to possibly be on the far side of the second worst day of her life—that didn’t mean she wanted him to die for it.
“Hey,” she said, leaning into his chest, tapping his cheek with her hand. “Mister,” she said, then corrected herself. “Tarian— Tarian —you still with me?”
His eyes fluttered open, and the corners of his lips lifted into a smile. “Seris,” he breathed.
“Yeah,” she whispered back. If this was it—if he was really going—then maybe she could at least give him that. “I’m here, Tarian.”
“At last,” he said, and then relaxed. She felt his chest settle beneath her hand...and it didn’t rise again.
Kenna sat there, feeling . . .sad.
It was inexplicable. Surely they hadn’t been together long enough for hostage attachment to set in.
But he was still a person, albeit a crazy one, and he had died, and she knew enough about death already.
“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning forward, to set a hand on Tarian’s cheek, leaving a handprint of his blood behind.
At least things didn’t feel creepy—which was pretty astounding, seeing as she was off the map in a haunted-looking lobby with a dead person. She stood, hugged herself, and smudged what might’ve been the beginning of a tear off her cheek.
“Fuck,” she muttered, then looked at the dog. “Okay, this time you’re coming with me, yeah? ’Cause if you stay out here, you’ll get eaten by mountain lions.”
The dog’s head hung, and he followed her out of the lodge lobby with a wilted tail, all the way back to the van, which he dutifully got inside. She blew air through pursed lips, and went to put the keys into the ignition—before realizing they weren’t the right ones.
They— none of them —fit.
How the fuck had he been driving it?
Had he really pitched his own set into the woods, to stop her from escaping, when he realized death was near?
If so, he was even more of an asshole than she thought he was. She threw the keys into the other seat and pounded the steering wheel, while the dog barked beside her.
She yanked the door open again, and the light inside the car came on, which she used to go through the glove box, discovering a flashlight, a window scraper, and that the car’s registration was for someone from Idaho.
Tarian did not seem like he was from Idaho.
And—it didn’t say Tarian on the reg paper.
She lifted the paper, turning it toward the overhead light—when her own reflection caught her eye in the rearview mirror. She was streaked with green. There was a stripe of it beneath one eye, like she’d been interrupted before going to play football.
Then she realized she’d left green fingerprints all over the paper she was holding—and the only reason that could be, was because it was the color of the non-Idahoan-man-inside-the-lobby’s blood.
“What the fuck.” It was a statement, not a question. Then she looked over to the dog—and back to the lobby—and grabbed the flashlight.
She crept back inside. Her fears about the body moving? No longer unfounded.
But when she spotted Tarian by the flashlight’s beam, he still appeared deceased, and he was absolutely covered in green.
She walked forward slowly, kneeling down to inspect his chest—and was surprised to find that the skin she’d seen slicked with green blood earlier was now absolutely covered in old scars, a crazed assortment of slash marks and pits, like something had trapped him in its mouth and bitten him repeatedly.
It was so bad she couldn’t even make out the hole he’d been bleeding from anymore—and there was so much blood—just how long had he been bleeding?
“What are you?” she whispered to herself—and heard him take a breath.
She squeaked and crawled backwards at once, the flashlight’s beam spiraling out on the carpeting as she accidentally kicked it. She scrambled to reach it, and then pointed the light at him again.
He was still.
That—had to be some weird post-mortem reflex. Right?
Some doctor she was—but then she saw him breathe this time, and she shrieked.
“Seris?” he said, sitting up, his voice low and disoriented, his face caught in the trembling circle of her flashlight.
His expression was glazed, until he saw her—then it sharpened.
“Not Seris,” he said to himself before rocking back to lie on the floor again, this time staring at the ceiling.
Kenna watched him take several deep breaths, her disbelief rising with each one, until he finally asked, “What is your name?”
Finally, an acknowledgement that she was her own person. “Kenna,” she said quietly.
He briefly closed his eyes. “Kenna,” he repeated. “That sounds like a good name. And in any case—you currently don’t hate me.”
Her back was pressed against the couch behind her as she blinked at him. “I wouldn’t bet money on that, mister,” she said, and he laughed darkly.