Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
She wasn’t moving.
Oh, God, he’d hit someone. That was what the jolt had been.
Darius bolted across the two lanes he’d been traveling on. As he knelt down, he touched her shoulder. “Madam?”
No response. Then again, he’d felt the impact even inside the car, had heard the terrible sound.
“Madam, I’m going to roll you over.”
With gentle hands, he unfurled her tight contraction, and as she flopped half onto her back, he didn’t like the way her head was so loose on the top of her spine. The moan was good, though. It meant she was alive.
“We need to get you medical treatment.” He glanced back to his car, which turned out to be at the tree line of a park-like area. “And I have no transport to offer—”
“Help…” she whispered. “He’s going to hurt me…”
A cold rush hit Darius on the crown of his head, and he bared his fangs. “What did you say?”
When she just mumbled, he looked across the other two lanes. A short-stack, inter-connected collection of apartment buildings was set back from the street on a rise, with a stretch of grass separating them from the road. There were lights on inside almost all of the units, but no one was out on any of the balconies, and there were privacy blinds drawn across every window—
Another flash of movement.
In the breezeway of one of the building blocks, a figure ran out of the shadows—and then jumped back into the darkness as if they didn’t want to be seen. Given the shape, it was clearly a male, and Darius flared his nostrils, scenting the air.
“Please, don’t let him get me,” the woman said in a reedy voice. “He’s going to kill me.”
CHAPTER TWO
Patricia Wurster didn’t like her name. Had never liked it. Not the first part, especially if it was shortened to the dreaded Patty, and not the second part, especially when she’d been in elementary school and gotten called The Worst. The middle wasn’t all that bad, though—
“Anne… my name is Anne.”
As she spoke hoarsely, she was responding to a question directed to her, but she couldn’t figure out why she was introducing herself… or to who? Opening her eyes, she got no clues because everything was dark—and yet she wasn’t alone. Someone was holding her—
“Nice to meet you, Anne.”
The voice was deep, a man’s, and she instantly loved the sound of whoever it was. The syllables were so low and rolling, and that accent was certainly European, although she couldn’t quite place it to a specific country…
Where was she? As the thought occurred, she decided she was in a bed, but not her own. This mattress was too hard and too small. And while she tried to figure out why she was so cramped, she wished the man would ask her another question because she preferred him talking to the weird delirium she was in. Maybe he could go the what’s-your-sign route. Or want to know her height and weight, like she was at the doctor’s. How about a quick algebra equation—
Bump!
The bed under her hit something, and the jostling that came with the impact rattled every bone in her body. As pain set up shop in little campfires that burned in her legs, her arms, and one shoulder in particular, she wondered why a mattress would hit a speed bump—wait, what was that subtle whirring in the background?
“I’m in a car,” she mumbled.
“Yes,” replied that male voice. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Annnnnd that was when it all came back. In a series of flash card images, like her memory was dealing out the fact pattern of the evening on a tabletop, she remembered everything—
Anne went to sit up in a rush, but all kinds of things stopped her: those little flames flaring into bonfires, a cramped backseat… and a heavy but kind hand urging her to lie down again.
“We’re almost there—”
“I have to go—”
Her words were cut off as panic took over, and she went on a messy scramble, shoving at whatever came into range—
“Fuck!” came a high-pitched squeak.
As she shrank away, the driver of whatever car she was in cranked around the headrest. Talk about a taxi driver. He was at once balding and in need of a haircut, the frizzy stripe at ear level and the patch-island at the top totally out of control. And he was not happy. His face was fleshy and round as a basketball, and his expression was the kind that usually went along with a flare-up of gout.
“Everybody okay back there?” he asked in an annoyed Jersey accent. “I’m not drivin’ fast enough for ya?”
What was that guy from Taxi doing driving her anywhere—
“I’m not Danny frickin’ DeVito. Jesus.”
Guess she’d spoken that out loud.
The guy snapped his head forward. “Why the hell does everybody say that? I’m better-lookin’ than…”