The Hollow Page 0,79
body hurtled through, the early spring day had died into a hot summer night.
Sweat ran down his skin like water, and fear twisted tearing claws in his belly.
She stood on the ledge of the turret above his head. Even in the dark he could see the blood on her hands, on the stone that had torn at them when she climbed.
Carly. Her name pounded in his head. Carly, don't. Don't move. I'm coming up to get you.
But it was Layla who looked down at him. Layla's tears spilling onto pale cheeks. It was Layla who said his name once, desperately. Layla who looked into his eyes and said, "Help me. Please help me."
And Layla who dived off the ledge to die on the street below.
Chapter Fourteen
HE WOKE IN A COLD SWEAT WITH LAYLA SAYING his name over and over. The urgency in her voice, the solid grip of her hands on his shoulders pulled him out of the dream and back to the now.
But the terror came with him, riding on the raw and wrenching grief. He locked himself around her, the shape of her, the scent, the rapid beat of her heart. Alive. He hadn't been too late, not for her. She was alive. She was here.
"Just hold on." A shudder ripped through him, an echo of that stupefying fear. "Just hold on."
"I am. I will. You had a nightmare." While she murmured to him, her hands soothed at the knotted muscles of his back. "You're awake now. It's all right."
Was it? he wondered. Would it ever be?
"You're so cold. Fox, you're so cold. Let me get the blanket. I'm right here, just let me get the blanket. You're shaking."
She pulled back, yanked up the blanket, then positioned herself so she could rub the warmth back into his arms. In the dim light, her eyes never left his face. "Better? Is that better? I'm going to get you some water."
"Yeah, okay. Yeah, thanks."
She scrambled out of bed, darted out of the room. And Fox put his head in his hands. He needed a minute to pull himself together, to push the rest away. The dream had him twisted up, mixing his memories, tying in his fears, his loss.
He'd been too late on that ugly summer night, too busy being the hero. He'd screwed it up, and Carly died. He should have kept her safe. He should've made sure of it, should have protected her, above all else. She'd been his, and he hadn't helped her.
Layla hurried back, knelt on the bed as she pressed the water into his hand. "Are you warm enough now? Do you want another blanket?"
"No. No, I'm good. Sorry about that."
"You were like ice, and you were calling out." Gently, she brushed the hair back from his face. "I couldn't wake you up, not at first. What was it, Fox? What did you dream?"
"I don't-" He started to tell her he didn't remember, but the lie stuck bitterly in the back of his throat. He'd lied to Carly, and Carly was dead. "I can't talk about it." That wasn't quite the truth either. "I don't want to talk about it now."
He felt her hesitation, her need to press. And ignored it. Saying nothing, she took the empty glass from him, set it on the nightstand. Then she drew him back, cradling his head on her breast. "It's all right now." Her murmur was as soft as the hand that stroked his hair. "It's all right. Sleep awhile longer."
And her comfort chased his demons away so he could.
IN THE MORNING, SHE EASED OUT OF BED LIKE A thief out of a second-story window. He looked exhausted, she thought, and still very pale. All she could hope was some of the sorrow she'd felt from him in the night had softened with sleep. She could find its source; he couldn't block her now. If she knew the root, she might help him dig it out, help heal whatever hurt his heart.
And while that was true enough, it was only part of what tempted her. The rest was selfish, even petty. He'd called out her name in the grip of the nightmare, called in terror and despair. But not only hers, Layla remembered. He'd called out another's.
Carly.
No, looking into his mind and heart while he slept, whether the motive was selfless or selfish, was a violation. The worst kind. A breach of trust and intimacy.
She'd let him sleep, and if she had to breach something, she'd breach