Black Bird of the Gallows(70)
I turn at the sound of a light moan. A girl around my age lies on the floor, folded into a ball, her back to me. Her hair is caked with blood and dirt. I hurry to her side and lay a hand on her shoulder. The girl whimpers and curls tighter. There are bruises up her bare arms. Her hands clutch at her torn T-shirt, printed with the words Reilly’s Variety across the chest. She must be a worker here.
“Shh,” I soothe. “I’m not here to hurt you. Can you sit up?”
The girl hesitantly rolls. Both her eyes are swollen—one is blackened—but she can open the other one a bit. “They’re still here,” she whispers. Her eye turns toward the back room.
A loud crash sounds from there, followed by rowdy, feverish laughter. At least two males, as far as I can tell. My heart races. Fresh fear sweeps adrenaline into my wiped-out system. “They did this to you?”
The girl just closes her eye. The rest of her face is streaked with dirt, puffed and purpled with bruises. A gash runs from her eyebrow into her hair. The men in the back room laugh again. It’s a high, demented sound. Not sane. I would bet good money that they have been stung.
I slide an arm under her and gently lift her to sitting. “Can you walk?”
Her brow knits. “If I could walk, do you think I would still be here?”
Her reply is so snappish, I pause. Then it’s so familiar, I almost drop her like a rock. Only one person has that voice. “Kiera Shaw?”
31-a murder of crows
“Oh hell. Angie Dovage?” She tries an eye roll, fails. “Of course, it would be you.”
My grip on her loosens. I didn’t know she worked here. I never stopped at this gas station because the gas was more expensive than anywhere else. Still, I can’t imagine the queen of Cadence High behind the counter, selling lottery tickets and potato chips. But this isn’t high school—this is survival. I give her a little shake. “Get up, Kiera.”
She sighs. “I don’t expect you to help me.”
My stomach coils with something cold and ugly. It’s not my job to help her. I’m wounded, too—and weak and hungry and dehydrated—and Kiera Shaw has made my life hell since I arrived in Cadence. No one would blame me for walking away. No one but me. I couldn’t abandon her and live with myself.
Glass shatters in the back room, and one of the men lets out a howl. Loud banging ensues. I cringe at the sound of fists hitting flesh and the screams of a man who is not going to win. My senses fly into high gear. One of them is going to come out of there shortly, maybe looking for another body to beat on.
Kiera drops her head and waves her hand. “Just go,” she rasps out. Her mouth stretches into a bloody smirk, exposing a dislodged eye tooth. “I’ll get what I deserve, right?”
“Shut up.” I hook my arms under her armpits and heave her back up against my chest. “No one deserves this.”
Using my last scraps of adrenaline, I drag her toward the door. I’m not gentle about it. Maybe she does deserve that. I back into the door, grateful beyond words the bell isn’t working.
Breath coming in labored puffs, I haul her to the side of the building and pin her against the wall. I’m not trying to be mean, but carrying a girl with five inches and twenty pounds on me isn’t something I can sustain. “You need to walk.”
Her face is surprised. That one eye is open as wide as she can make it. “I told you, I can’t. It’s broken.”
I wince at the sound of things smashing inside the convenience store. The man is out of the back room and probably looking for Kiera. We’re in a really bad spot here. Reilly’s Gas and Variety hugs a curve in the road, leaving only asphalt to our sides and a wedge of thick forest to the rear. Our only hope lies on the other side of the street. It’s a neighborhood. The houses are small and closer together.
We could hide in one of those small houses until the guy forgets and moves on. At least, we could find a way to defend ourselves. But we have to cross the wide-open space of gas pumps and parking lot before we even reach Route 12. And then we’d have to cross that two-lane road. A lot of ground to cover by two wounded girls.
A bottle of liquor explodes against the inside of the plate-glass window, startling muffled shrieks from Kiera and me.
He’s going to see us if we run. But he’s going to see us if we stay here.
I grab Kiera’s arm and pull it over my shoulder. “We’re going. You have to walk. It’s going to hurt.”
A pained gasp wheezes from her. “But—.”
“I don’t care.” I don’t. My entire body is a throbbing knot of pain. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’ve got a cracked rib from my ride in Lake Serenity’s water slide. I yank her forward as another bottle smashes on the window. “You will hurt more with him.”
Kiera starts walking, and I know it hurts her. Her face is gray, and she whimpers each time she puts weight on that broken ankle. But she does it.
We make it all the way to the pumps before the door smashes open, banging against its frame. I glance back to see a wide-bellied man in a bloodstained T-shirt shout at us. I can’t tell his age. All I see is rage and clenched red fists, trembling at his sides.
He sees us and starts running. Not fast, but faster than us.
I jerk Kiera forward, and we’re able to pick up the pace slightly. Not enough. I don’t see the curb through the water, and we both tumble into the street.