Broken Dove (Fantasyland #4)(3)

I fell to one hand at my side, the other one instinctively going up to my cheekbone as agony radiated through my cheek and eye, causing black spots to form in my vision.

Shit, I’d forgotten.

If you told me I’d ever forget how this felt, I wouldn’t believe you.

But three years without it, I’d forgotten how f**king much it hurt.

New thing, though, even though the spots were still flickering behind my eyes, the rest of my vision was turning an eerie, emerald green.

Weird and probably not good.

“You shot Manny. Jesus, Ilsa, you stupid cunt,” Pol barked from close and as usual, he didn’t hesitate.

I felt his foot connect with my ribs so hard, it lifted me straight up and turned me so my back slammed against the wall.

I came down hard on my side just in time to hear a terrifying masculine roar.

Not a shout.

Not a bellow.

An animalistic (but still human) roar of unadulterated rage.

At first, I thought it was coming from Pol and I stiffened in order to brace for the next blow. But when it didn’t come, as I lifted my eyes, that eerie green light was so bright it was illuminating the room so I could now see everything clearly.

Still, I blinked and shoved up to my forearm, the pain in my face and ribs completely forgotten because I was pretty certain as clear as things were in that strange light, I wasn’t seeing correctly.

This was because I was seeing the impossible.

And the impossible was that there were two Pols.

One was the Pol I was used to. Tall. Powerfully built. Fit. Hair well-groomed. Tailored slacks and shirt making him look classy and hot (if you didn’t know what an ass**le he was, that was).

The other was a different Pol.

Still tall and powerfully built, he was, however, more fit. Clearly more fit. Like, by a lot. He made the other Pol look like Pol Lite. This new Pol was a Pol Powerhouse.

His dark hair was also not well-groomed but in need of a cut and it looked like he just got out of bed. And he wasn’t wearing classy, tailored clothes. He wasn’t even wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

I blinked again.

Good God, he was wearing what looked like breeches, tall boots that went up to his knees, a lace-up-the-collar shirt, and a freaking cape of all things.

Yes. A cape!

Apparently, being pistol whipped made you hallucinate. But there it was. The vision before me was Pol in a dude-from-a-romance-novel-cover outfit hammering the normal Pol with his fists, the mighty, nauseating thud of flesh against flesh thumping through the room.

Holy cow.

The Pol I knew was down on a knee. But he suddenly twisted away from the romance-novel-cover Pol and began to lift his hand that was still carrying my gun.

That was when I heard an attractive, cultured, insanely bored-sounding female say, “Apollo, chéri, the other you holds a deadly weapon.”

I was about to take my eyes away from the two Pols to look where the woman’s voice was coming from but didn’t when I heard what I could swear was the hiss of steel.

Yep. I was right. It was the hiss of steel. I knew this because the romance-novel-cover Pol was now wielding a sword.

A freaking sword!

What the hell!

Then I pressed myself back into the wall when, with a practiced, economical, cool-as-shit (if it wasn’t scary-as-all-get-out and seriously gross besides) slice going around almost in a full circle, the romance-novel-cover Pol cut off the regular Pol’s hand.

Yes.

Cut off his hand!

I made a noise in my throat as I swallowed hard against the vomit that surged up and Pol emitted a violent rumble of fury and pain, clutching his still-there hand to his now stumped wrist.

Okay. I wasn’t hallucinating.

I was unconscious and having a very sick disgusting dream.

Still, even knowing this, I didn’t wake up which I really wished I would.

But no. The dream continued and the romance-novel-cover Pol with his big sword came around for another pass. I closed my eyes and shrunk back further, pressing into the wall behind me like I wanted it to absorb me because it looked like he intended to cut Pol’s head off.

I heard a thud of a body hitting floor (though not a second thud which would indicate a head hitting the floor) and I again swallowed bile and terror as police sirens sounded in the distance.

I didn’t know if this was good or bad. I could explain my need for a gun and I’d do my time if a jury of my peers thought I deserved it.

I couldn’t explain a beheading.

“We must leave tout de suite.” The woman said and she didn’t sound bored anymore. She didn’t sound freaked like I was (in a big f**king way). But there was a hint of urgency to her voice.

I opened my eyes just in time to be lifted up in romance-novel-cover Pol’s arms.

Uh-oh.

This wasn’t what unconscious felt like. I’d been that way often in my life and not just due to sleeping. I knew what it felt like. And this was not it.

His arms around my middle back and behind my knees caged me iron tight to his broad chest as he peered down at me, straightened and turned, walking to the middle of the room and stopping.

I would have protested. I should have protested.

I didn’t protest.

This was because I was looking in Pol’s eyes.

But this was not Pol.

I’d seen a myriad of looks in Pol’s eyes. Love. Hate. Fury. Annoyance. Passion. Humor. I could go on (and on).