City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(110)

I mentally call myself a whole lot of nasty names, but I don’t panic. I retrace my steps. Just get back on the path. The problem? I’d been so intent on luring Dalton out that I’d paid little attention to my surroundings, and I have no idea if I’m actually retracing my steps.

Still, I try to be smart about it. I use the tricks Dalton taught me for tracking—broken twigs, impressions in the soft earth, scuff marks in the rocky dirt. I find deer tracks and tufts of fur and that’s it, and I have no idea—

I spot Dalton. He’s twenty feet away, in the shade, and all I can see is the dark jacket and the colour of his hair. Then he pulls back a little, as if realizing I’m watching, and I see his profile—the set of his jaw, the shape of his nose.

I take a deep breath. Then I abandon my pride and call, “Eric?”

No answer.

I start toward him. “Okay, maybe you provoked me, but yes, taking off was stupid. I’ve gotten turned around, and I have no idea where I am.”

Silence.

I keep walking. “You can chew me out later. I deserve it. For now, let’s just get back to town. We’ve had a shitty day, and we’re both out of sorts and making stupid choices. So let’s just—”

I round the two trees … and he’s not there.

“Eric?”

I hear a twig crack one second too late. Hands grab me from behind, one around my waist, the other gripping my chin, as if ready to snap my neck. A body presses against my back and … the smell. God, the smell.

The hands wrench me around, shoving me back against a tree. The cold of a blade presses against my throat, and when I look up at my captor, I see…

Dalton. I see Dalton. His steel-grey eyes. His nose. His jawline. But the dark blond hair falls to his shoulders. A beard covers his cheeks and chin. Yet it still looks like Dalton, and with that I have my answer. I know what’s going on, what’s been going on since last night, when we were on my balcony, watching the northern lights as Dalton told me a story about a fox.

I’m sleeping. I fell asleep on that balcony, and everything that’s happened since—Mick’s death, the fire, Diana’s betrayal, Dalton’s kiss—it’s dream and nightmare woven into one, and this is proof of it.

But this man is not Dalton. I see that now, beyond the hair and beard. His eyes are set deeper. Shaped differently. His cheekbones aren’t as high or as prominent.

This man looks like him; this man is not him. That’s all that matters.

Yet it isn’t all that matters. There’s a knife to my throat and my hands are free and the gun is right there, under my open jacket, and I know, beyond doubt, that I could shoot this man before he slits my throat. But I don’t, because the man with the knife to my throat may not be Dalton, but he’s related to him.

That’s when I see his jacket. A dark military-style coat.

“Jacob,” I whisper.

“You know who I am? Good.” His voice is rough, the words slightly off, with an odd accent. “I know who you are. Eric’s girl.”

“I work with Eric. In Rockton. I’m not his—”

The knife presses in. I struggle to control my breathing.

“I saw you kissing him,” he says. “I’ve seen you before. Together. You’re Eric’s girl. I owe my brother. Now I can repay him.”

Brother? Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I can hear Dalton’s voice talking about Jacob. Telling me he’s harmless. Absolutely harmless, he emphasized.

Dalton wouldn’t lie about that. Nor would he leave his brother wandering out here in this condition.

I’m dreaming. I must be.

Jacob pulls back the knife, and I don’t process the move. Don’t wonder what he’s doing. My gut foresees the strike, and the moment he moves, my fist hits his gut and my other hand grabs my gun.

He falls back, and I kick him away, and I don’t shoot. My brain assesses the threat and I do not see the need to fire. There’s a moment of relief, as if I’ve passed some test I was certain I’d fail. It only lasts a moment, because my kick isn’t enough to knock him to the ground, and he’s coming back up, knife slashing for my arm as I swing the gun at him.

Footsteps thunder behind me, and I instinctively twist, expecting attack from the rear.

“Jacob, no!”

It’s Dalton, running for us. The distraction slows my strike, just for that heartbeat, and the knife slashes my arm. My gun still makes contact, but his attack has knocked mine into a glancing blow, and he only staggers back.

Jacob lunges at me, and I can’t fire—the angle is wrong. I kick instead and my foot connects. So does his knife, slashing my leg. We both go down. I bounce back, gun swinging up, but he’s already in flight, stabbing me in the chest. Then he flies back, the knife coming free as Dalton throws him aside.

“Stop,” Dalton says, gun raised, as Jacob tries to rise.

Jacob sees the gun. “You gonna shoot me, big brother?” He pulls his jacket open. “Go ahead. Can’t be any worse than what you’ve done. Have you told her about that? Your girl there?”

“She isn’t my—”

“She already tried that. I saw you kiss her. And now I know how to pay you back, brother.”

“Pay me back? What the hell is going on, Jacob?”