Crimson Born - Amy Patrick Page 0,1

it.”

Headlights from an approaching car illuminated the annoyance on Josiah’s face. The car was traveling at a lower rate of speed than the others we’d passed—although, compared to our traditional covered buggy, anything would seem fast.

When it got close enough to identify, I nearly gasped aloud. It was a red Dodge Charger.

The same red Dodge Charger that had been at the Miller’s bonfire.

The same one I’d leaned against for hours, talking to its owner before Josiah had interrupted and insisted it was time to leave.

A tingly buzz filled me at the memory, a mixture of embarrassment and lingering excitement. Tonight had been one of the strangest and most wonderful of my entire life.

That heady feeling was shattered seconds later when the red sports car veered into our lane.

Though our horse-drawn buggy had reflective tape on the front and a flashing light on the rear, I worried the driver couldn’t see the black vehicle. There were hundreds of car-vs-buggy accidents in our state every year, and this stretch of highway was exceptionally dark.

Maybe Reece was dozing. Or perhaps looking down at his phone. I knew he wasn’t drunk.

Josiah jerked at the reins, urging the horses to the side of the road.

“Dunner uns Gewidder,” he muttered to himself in our native tongue of Pennsylvania Dutch.

The phrase meant “confound it.” It was the closest most of us ever got to swearing—unless we were speaking English at a party like the one we’d attended tonight.

The sports car righted itself, and both of us breathed a sigh of relief. Then just as it was about to pass us, the modern vehicle crossed the center line again.

And swerved directly into the left side of the buggy.

What happened next was like a nightmare.

I felt myself flying, catapulted from the open carriage through the air. There was so much noise—the screeching of car tires, Hannah’s screams, a loud shout from one of the boys—I couldn’t tell if it was Josiah or Aaron.

And then there was silence except for the ringing in my ears. I was lying face down on the unyielding surface of the highway. The asphalt was warm against my cheek from the stored heat of the day.

Or maybe it was the warmth of my blood, which was forming a pool in front of my face.

Trying to lift my head and check on the condition of my friends, I found I couldn’t.

In fact, I couldn’t move anything—or feel anything—below my neck.

All I could do was lie there, fighting to breathe and watching the steady spread of that macabre red pool and the reflection of the moon overhead on its surface.

Abruptly my view changed, and I was looking at a face—a stranger.

It was a woman, an extraordinarily beautiful one with long, dark hair. She’d turned me over and was kneeling beside me, supporting the top half of my limp, numb body in her arms.

“This one’s still alive,” she said to someone behind her. “Check the others.”

At first, I assumed she was a paramedic or a police officer. But then she wasn’t wearing a uniform. She was dressed in dark clothing, but her lips and skin and eyes were rich with vibrant color.

“What... happened?” I struggled to ask.

“You were hit by a car. Pretty sure the driver was intoxicated—I saw him weaving all over the road. Are you in pain?”

The red car. Reece’s car.

My head lolled to the side, and I spotted the overturned vehicle. It was beginning to catch fire. The odors of motor oil and burning rubber filled the air.

The driver—Reece, it had to be Reece—was still behind the wheel. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was alive because he was making frantic movements. One of his hands protruded from the smashed driver’s side window and slapped the pavement repeatedly as he called for help.

The woman grasped my jaw and turned my face toward hers again.

“Don’t worry child,” she purred. “The pain will be over soon. For you and all your friends. As for that one... he’ll pay with his life.”

She tossed her head toward the man trapped inside the burning car and issued an order. “Let him stay where he is.”

From somewhere behind her a feminine voice said, “I think we should thank him for providing us with an unexpected feast. I’m starved.”

There was a smattering of laughter, and a male voice said, “I love Amish food.”

“Shut up, Kannon,” the beautiful woman snapped. “Have some respect for the dying. They’re little more than children.”

She lowered her head and brought it close to my