Chapter 37
Nic screamed.
He couldn’t get out quickly enough to stop it.
That wrought-iron table where they’d sat earlier today watching twelve-year-olds perform a very whimsical Maypole dance was caught in a gust of wind. It had struck Felicity before she knew what was happening. She’d crumpled on the steps.
Nic got to her at the same moment as Abbott appeared. He must have run all the way from the house in spite of the sirens. Together, they lifted Felicity as gently as possible, got her inside and down the stairs, away from the windows and into the old church basement hallway beneath the restaurant.
She was breathing. She was breathing. She was still breathing.
Abbott called 911, but it failed. He tried again. Another failure. The call failed over and over again. Neither of the men had service down here.
Nic took off his shirt and held it to the gash on the side of her head. Her hand was at an odd angle. When he checked it, a leather zippered pouch fell onto the floor. Abbott’s eyes went wide. “Where’s Sami? Where’s Ani? I got an alarm from her Dexcom. Something’s wrong. I need to find her.”
“She’s in the basement of the plant shop.” Nic grabbed hold of Abbott’s arm to stop him from running back up the stairs. “Courtney’s with her. Don’t go up there. Follow the hallway. They connect through the boiler room.”
“Are you—”
“Go check on them. Try to call from there,” Nic said, struggling to keep the hand holding pressure on Felicity’s injury from shaking.
Abbott nodded and went to find his wife.
Felicity was so pale.
Nic watched her breathe and held her hand, all while muttering soothing things she couldn’t hear.
Glass shattered above them.
Nic brushed hair out of Felicity’s face.
“I’m not losing you tonight. You hear that?”
She didn’t move.
He’d spent the last year getting to know a woman some part of him had already loved for over a decade.
And now she was limp in his arms.
He combed his fingers through her hair. He traced the tattooed lines across her perfect freckled arms. There were words hidden near her left shoulder. He had never noticed the script curling subtly along one of the vines.
“‘Ad astra per aspera,’” he read in a broken, reverent whisper.
She was too quiet. Felicity was never quiet.
“This is just the difficulties, wicked angel.”
No answer.
“Stay with me, darlin,’ and I’m going to give you the stars.”