Lord of the Wolfyn - By Jessica Andersen Page 0,36

and start screaming for her to toss Reda’s gun and lie on the floor, her brain snapshotted the scene—assessed the lines of sight, possible cover and the positions of the three other people in the store. She instantly saw herself pretending to follow orders but instead launching herself into a nearby display, saw it fall into the gunman, saw Benz come over the counter and take the guy down. It was training, planning and instinct all wrapped into one. And it didn’t happen anywhere but in her mind.

In reality, she just stood there.

“Get down!” The perp jumped back a step and shifted his gun from Benz to her. She saw the panic in his eyes and knew she had to react, had to get the hell out of the line of fire, but she freaking couldn’t. Her brain wouldn’t work; her body wouldn’t move.

The guy’s eyes changed. And Reda saw her own death.

“No!” Benz lunged over the counter and went for the guy, just as she had pictured, but she hadn’t provided a distraction, hadn’t done anything.

The perp spun back and fired as Benz hit him. The .38’s sharp report jolted her from her paralysis as the men went down together, but she was too slow in fumbling her weapon from its holster. The gunman got up, scrambling out from underneath Benz and bolting for the back exit.

“Stop!” she yelled. “Freeze, police!” Which just wasted time.

Besides, he was already gone, the door swinging into place behind him.

She hesitated another gutless moment—chase or stay? One look back at Benz made the decision for her. Blood pooled dark ruby red on the hardwood floor. She grabbed her radio and called in an officer down, assistance and an ambulance needed, then crouched beside him, skidding in his blood and seeing the ragged tear in his neck.

She clapped a hand over the wound, putting on pressure like crazy, telling him to hang on, that help was on its way.

None of it mattered, though, because like the man who had killed him, Benz was long gone.

“And when the detectives started asking me about the perp, I couldn’t remember a damn thing,” she finished, oblivious now to the dark forest pressing in on either side of them, seeing only the liquor store, the blood, the expressions on the faces of the other cops afterward. “The other wits hadn’t seen his face and the video was useless. If I could have given them something…but, no. It was all gone, pfft, total fog, like my mind had locked up along with my body. I couldn’t even help that way. I was deadweight. Useless.” She glanced over at Dayn. “Just like I have been pretty much since I got here.”

He met her eyes, though his expression was lost in the darkness of the predawn that had started lightening the horizon to a deep, rich blue. “You’re expecting me to say it wasn’t your fault.”

Her stomach gave an ugly-feeling lurch. “You think it was.”

“I think it won’t matter worth a damn what I think. You’ve got to work it out for yourself and find a way to make peace. Or not.” But although his words put up barriers, the soft rasp of regret in his voice went right through them, and reminded her who she was talking to and what he’d been through. He hadn’t just lost a partner; he’d lost his family, his life, his heritage.

“Sorry,” she said, blush coming on hard and fast. “You were just asking to be nice, and I rambled on, and—”

He reached over and took her hand. “Reda, stop. That’s not what I meant.”

She swallowed, trying not to cling too hard to his hand. “Sorry. I’m not good at reading cues. My brothers say it’s because I spend too much time by myself.” Or they had before they moved away to start new jobs, new families, leaving her behind.

“I’m familiar with the concept.” He let go of her hand, but they were walking closer than before, their shoulders and arms brushing in rhythm as he said, “I’ve spent twenty years dying to get back to Elden, reconnect with my brothers and sister and kick the Blood Sorcerer’s ass, not necessarily in that order. But I’ve also spent most of that time blaming myself for not being in the castle when the attack came.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to,” she trailed off, getting it.

“Exactly. Right or wrong, what matters is that I feel responsible.” He paused. “There was a girl, Twilla. She was a guardsman’s