Читать книгу The Witch Of Stonecliff - Dawn Brown - Страница 7

I

Red agony burned across his throat—his first coherent thought as he emerged from unconsciousness.

And someone was touching his hand.

Fear spiked inside him. Memories, fuzzy and terrifying, played out behind his closed eyes.

Fingers tangled in his hair.

Blade pressed to his neck.

Hot blood dribbling down his bare chest.

They’d come for him, to finish what they’d started, and he was too weak to fight.

He tried to shift back, to disentangle his fingers from the big hand holding on to him. The grip tightened. A groan crept up his torn throat, but no sound came and a fresh wave of heat burned across his neck.

The hand grasping his fingers squeezed. “It’s alright, son. You’re safe.”

His father’s rough voice penetrated the mind-numbing panic. He opened his eyes, meeting his father’s light blue gaze. Relief rolled over him and warm moisture sprang to his eyes.

He never thought he’d see his father again.

He blinked away the tears and shifted his gaze while he struggled for control. He was in a hospital room, the walls pale yellow, bits of furniture cheap and utilitarian. Through the window, the sky was dark. How much time had passed since he’d woken next to the bog? Hours? Days? Weeks?

He met his father’s worried gaze and opened his mouth to speak, but the sound lodged in his burning throat. He squeezed his eyes closed, willing the agony to ease.

“Jack?” Fear laced his dad’s voice. “I’ll have a nurse bring you something for the pain.”

Sweat soaked his skin and he forced his eyes open. He wanted to nod his thanks, but he was afraid even the slightest movement would worsen the fire engulfing his neck.

“Bloody hell,” his father muttered, pressing the call button next to his bed repeatedly. “It’ll be faster if I fetch someone.”

Slippery fear swelled inside him, and he tightened his grasp on his father’s hand. He didn’t want to be alone. Not now. Maybe not ever. What if they were waiting?

Nodding, his father slowly lowered himself back into the chair next to the bed. “I’m here, Jack. Not going anywhere.”

His father spoke in the same even tones he used for the animals that came to him injured, frightened and broken. At one time, it would have driven him mad to hear his father speak to him like one of his strays, but right then he hung on every word. Christ, was that who he was now? Injured? Frightened? Broken?

“The nurse will come in a moment.” His father dropped his gaze to their joined hands, thumb gently stroking the back of his. “The police were here earlier. Now that you’re awake, they’ll want to speak to you.”

Panic squeezed his chest and for the first time the damage blazing his throat seemed like a blessing. He tried to lift his free hand to gesture to his neck, but the IV in the crook of his arm and tangle of thin tubes connected to the machines beside him made his movements stiff and awkward.

His father lifted his gaze and frowned. “Lie still. I know you can’t speak, but maybe you could write something down while the details are still fresh, before you forget anything.”

A perverse part of him wanted to laugh. He closed his eyes instead. As if he could ever forget the things that had been done to him. Even now, the memories pressed against his skull—blood soaked and riddled with fear and pain.

“You’ve been through a lot, but you must tell them what you remember so they find whoever did this to you.” Dad’s calm voice took on a slight edge.

He opened his eyes. His father’s face was sallow, haggard. Guilt twisted low in his gut. He’d been a terrible son. Funny how clearly he saw that now.

Maybe because he was dead.

It may not have looked that way to anyone else, but the man who’d gone into those woods hadn’t come out.

When the police came, he would write down everything he could remember. He only hoped it would be enough for them to finally arrest The Witch of Stonecliff.