Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,49

the conduit right through the heart with the hell dagger.

Lance, she realized, and then passed out.

~*~

She couldn’t have been out long. She came to to a rocking motion, steady and soothing. Blinked her eyes open to find that she was being carried, and that though she could feel the cool mist of the rain pounding all around them, someone was holding an umbrella over her.

They were out of the mine, and walking through the gloaming – or, well, the others were walking. Lance was carrying her bridal-style in his arms, her head tucked up carefully on his shoulder, and Gallo walked alongside, holding the umbrella. Gavin walked ahead of them, his rifle unslung, flashlight beam bouncing across the road in front of them.

And lining the road: people. Citizens.

Angry citizens. The din all around them wasn’t only the rain, but mutters and shouts and curses.

Rose craned her neck – gasping a little when a bolt of pain raced down it – so she could look up at Lance. She could see the underside of his jaw, the tension in its strong lines. He’d felt her stir, heard her small, pained sound, and glanced down at her. The anger in his gaze startled her.

“What’s happening?” she asked, shocked again by the awful rasping of her voice. It hurt when she swallowed.

“Well.” He took a short, sharp breath that expanded his chest against her side. “We killed their cult leader, or god, or whatever the fuck he was, so now we’ve got a mob forming up on our hands, and a long fucking hike back to the mansion.”

He rarely swore like this. She could feel the tension in his body – and the strength, in the way he held her.

“You can let me down,” she said.

“Not a fucking chance.”

“Lance–”

She heard a motor, a wet slap of tires sliding to a halt through mud.

“He sent the Jeep down,” Gavin said.

“Thank God,” Gallo muttered.

The man who’d driven them up from the first was behind the wheel, with his dirty clothes, and little cap. “Hurry,” he urged, as they bundled in.

Lance held her the whole short, rough trip. She was in his lap, and wanted to get down – but didn’t fight it. She couldn’t have broken his hold anyway, not in this state, and she knew that she deserved every ounce of his anger. She’d acted rashly; she’d thrown off the whole op. And who might have been killed if Lance hadn’t been able to help her overpower Raphael?

Bixby came out with a lantern to meet them when they arrived, looking even paler and more frightened than he had before.

“The conduit’s dead,” Tris told him, “but your townspeople are very pissed off.”

Bixby glanced toward the lights of the town – brighter than before; more lamps on, more lanterns. Rose wondered if there would actually be torches wielded. “I can see that. Damn. But.” He made a brave face as he lifted his lantern higher. “Come inside.”

“Where can I take her to lie down?” Lance asked, still fucking carrying her.

“I can walk.” She pushed at his shoulder, and tried to swing her legs down out of his grasp.

His grip only tightened. “She was attacked,” he told Bixby, his expression harsher than she’d ever seen it. “A bed? A couch?”

“Of course. Mrs. Avery will show you.”

They stayed on the first floor, but wound up in a small back sitting room with tall, arched windows where the rain pattered steadily. There was a low couch, not too ruined from the damp yet, and Lance laid her down on it like she was a swooning princess.

She sat up the moment he stepped back, and got a stern finger shoved in her face.

“Do not get up.”

She offered him her most mulish look, still quailing inside at the sight of his fury. “I’m not an invalid. I only blacked out for a second.”

“He almost snapped your neck!” he roared.

The shout echoed off the walls, the floor; boomed back from the high, moldy ceilings.

Mrs. Avery muttered a quiet curse and slipped out, closing the door on them.

Lance bared his teeth in a silent snarl, and then started pacing. Pushing his hands roughly through his hair, tugging at it where it was longer on top.

Rose took a breath.

“No, shut up,” he snapped, and continued to pace. “You don’t – You can’t–” He halted, and stood a moment, hands linked together over the top of his head, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Not from exertion, but from emotion. From anger.