He opened his eyes again and studied the sliver of light. Something moved, casting a shadow. He was pinned under something, probably part of the car. His legs were free.
“And Cage Fucking Reynolds. You weren’t supposed to be driving, you backstabbing bastard. But you got yours anyway, didn’t you? You deserve a little payback, so here’s for suckering me in, earning my trust, and then turning on me.”
Cage heard the gun before the pain registered, and it took every ounce of strength he could muster to grit his teeth and not move. The only chance he had of surviving, to save himself and save Aidan if it wasn’t too late, was to outlast this madman who’d just shot a fucking hole through his exposed leg.
“And here’s for that big, shit-eating grin on your face when you told me all about my death sentence.”
Cage had screwed his eyes shut, tensed his jaw, knowing it was coming, but the second blast hit bone and he wanted to die. But he didn’t make a sound. Didn’t twitch.
Not until he heard the sound of a match striking and the smell of sulfur and gasoline, an engine rev, tires squealing on pavement, and silence.
A curl of smoke reached him beneath whatever lay on top of him. If he didn’t move, he was going to die out here.
Cage gathered every ounce of strength he could into his shoulders and pushed his arms straight up. Metal, and it moved. With a great heave, it shifted, and cool air hit him like a caress. The smoke was thicker now; he had to find Aidan.
He struggled to sit up, shoving the crumpled hood of the car away from him and looking for the fire. It had fizzled but still smoked. He had time—but even if the fire didn’t get them, it would only be a matter of time before a motorist saw them and stopped.
He had to find Aidan.
In the shock of it all, Cage had forgotten about his legs until he tried to stand and fell with all the grace of an orangutan. Both legs felt as if they were on fire below the knee. When he sat up again, he saw blood-covered denim on the front of both legs, six inches or so above his ankles. At least Matthias had given him matching gunshot wounds, the old bastard.
He could crawl, though. Crawling was good.
Rolling to his knees, he hung his head and waited for a wave of dizziness to pass. Blood. He scented blood, and a lot of it. Thank God for safety glass that broke into nuggets instead of shards. It still dug into his hands and knees as he inched toward the strongest blood scent, but at least it didn’t shred him to ribbons.
Finally, he spotted a boot, a leg.
Holy fuck, Aidan had to be dead. Nobody could survive such a head wound. Even a vampire had limitations. His face was covered in blood; a bullet wound to his right temple was the worst of it, maybe crushing the bone around the eye.
Cage rolled to his side as another wave of dizziness hit him, sending the world into a sickening spin, He wanted nothing more than to sleep. To take out the package he’d wrapped memories of his little bird inside of, to remember it, enjoy it. Dream about it.
Stupid vampire, she’d say if she saw him now. Aidan’s your friend. Suck it up and help him if you can.
Somehow he pushed himself up on hands and knees again and crawled to Aidan.
“Aidan, can you hear me?” Of course, he can’t hear you, bloody fool. He’s dead.
Robin wouldn’t let it drop. Be sure, vampire. And even if he’s gone, don’t leave him out here for the sun to find him, or humans. Take him home to Krys. Take him home to Penton.
“You’re right, little bird.” He raised his right hand, waited a second to see if he could stay on his knees without both hands to support him, and he could. He reached out with tentative fingers that left a white trail through the blood covering Aidan’s neck and closed his eyes, praying to whatever God might hear him that there would be a pulse.
There. See, vampire? The fluttering thump against his fingertips was faint, but Aidan was alive.
Cage thought he could drag them both into the stand of trees that filled the median near where the car had overturned—at least if he rested every few inches. After a couple of feet, he had to stop and rest. The ache in his legs set the tone for the rest of his body. Of course, the old bastard had used silver bullets. They’d need to be dug out. Later.
Groaning, he threw an arm around Aidan’s chest, hooked it under his arms and tugged. After a while, time meant nothing, and Cage’s mind was empty but for the need to slide one knee forward, then the other, pull Aidan with him, then repeat.
Finally, the rough pavement under the bloody heels of his palms hit cool grass. Wet grass. He wished he could roll in its soothing chill. At least he could rest his cheek against it for a moment. They were off the road.
Just for a moment, he could sleep.