Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“Crane!” I cry out, shocked to see a weapon in his hand.
“Salt doesn’t work much on him,” he says as he points the gun out at Brom as he approaches.
“But this is Brom, not the horseman now. You’ll kill him if you shoot him!”
“God forgive me, then,” Crane says solemnly.
Then he pulls the trigger.
I scream as the bullet fires in a blast of smoke. It grazes Daredevil’s black ears, hitting Brom in the shoulder.
He yelps and lets go of the reins, flying off the stallion’s back and tumbling onto the road in a heap. Daredevil gallops forward and then turns toward us, rearing on its hindlegs.
“Down!” I command, throwing my arms out at the horse while Crane runs forward to Brom. “Easy now!”
Daredevil snorts wildly but listens, coming to a standstill, breathing hard with foam on its flanks, the reins hanging by his side.
Now that I know he’s not going to try and kill us too, I run over to Brom on the ground.
“Brom!” I gasp, collapsing on my knees beside him, ignoring the rocks in my shins.
Brom is lying on his back, blood seeping through his white shirt at the shoulder, gasping in pain.
“Shhh,” Crane says, cradling Brom’s head in his hand with disarming tenderness.
Brom’s eyes pinch shut, and he cries out, back arching in agony.
“I didn’t want to do it,” Crane says to him. “But you left me no choice. I wasn’t about to let you hurt her again.”
At that, Brom’s eyes go to mine, and I see that it’s him, no trace of the horseman at the moment. He holds my gaze, bewildered and scared. Then another wave of pain rocks through him, and he grunts, his teeth gnashing together.
“Is he going to die?” I ask, pressing the hem of my nightgown on his wound, trying to keep pressure on it.
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Crane says. His gaze flicks up to mine. “Switch positions with me.”
I do as he asks, holding Brom’s head in my hands while Crane rips open his shirt, revealing the round ball of the bullet lodged in his shoulder, blood flowing out of it. Crane then reaches into his inner coat pocket and pulls out a ruler. “Put this in his mouth. Get him to bite down.”
He places the ruler in my hand, and I can’t help but give him an odd look. I’ve felt that same ruler striking my backside. I suppose he carries it with him at all times.
“What?” Crane asks, noticing my look.
I just shake my head and look down at Brom in my hands. “Open, please,” I tell him, my voice trembling. Brom obeys, and I slip the ruler between his teeth.
“That’s a good boy,” Crane praises him, reaching into the wound with his finger. “I’m sorry. This is going to hurt like hell.”
I look away from the gruesome sight, and Brom yelps, grunting and moaning, biting so hard on the ruler I hear it crack.
“You’re doing so well,” Crane croons to him. “You’re taking it so well. Just a little more. I’m almost done.”
I give Crane another look, but his focus is entirely on Brom. I suck in my breath, watching the devotion on Crane’s face, the way he’s gazing at Brom with such regard. There’s tenderness in his words, the way he’s handling Brom. It unwinds something inside my chest.
Finally, Crane pops the round bullet out with his finger, and it rolls to the ground. Brom cracks the ruler in half, the edges falling away from his mouth as he screams.
“Stay with me, sweet boy,” Crane says, reaching into his other pocket and pulling out a small vial of liquid and crushed leaves. He pours out the contents onto his fingers. “Stay with me. Almost done. You’re doing so good, Brom Bones.”
Then he presses the poultice into the wound, and Brom screams again, gasping in agony, his body jerking against the ground in violent spasms.
Crane keeps his fingers there, closing his eyes, and starts reciting something that sounds like Latin but isn’t. The words seem to float in the air around us, and Brom’s eyes roll back in his head.
Crane is healing him.
I watch in awe as a warm glow appears on Crane’s fingers and flows down to the wound like honey. Brom is still groaning, but his body has stopped writhing.
What a magnificent witch this man is. He may be my teacher, but I’m practically beaming with pride.
Finally, Crane pulls his hands away and sits back on his knees. He’s breathing hard and looks drained, all the color gone from his already pale face, but there’s a satisfied glint in his eyes, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
“You didn’t have to shoot me,” Brom manages to say through a cough, and I nearly cry in relief at the sound of his voice.