He glanced over his shoulder. “Chamomile is the first ingredient.”
The string of curses that followed him down the hall made him smile.
TWO
With a harsh gasp, Claire woke.
After an endless, aching moment, she took in her first breath. The second hurt just as much, but it helped clear her head. With the third she knew she was alive—painfully alive.
Azazel made good on his promise. Her heart ached at the thought of what he would suffer for helping her escape their brother.
After another breath she forced her thoughts away from what she couldn’t change, and focused on her surroundings.
Cold dirt pressed into her skin—every inch of skin from cheek to toe. She pried her eyes open, and met the length of her bare arm. No voices, laughter, or street traffic—which meant, thankfully, she wasn’t laying in a public place.
Slowly, she moved her arm. It dragged across the dirt, like it had a weight attached to it. The movement woke up the muscles in her back—muscles that had been sliced by Natasha’s knife. Residual pain radiated across those newly mended muscles and she stilled, taking in a shallow breath until it eased, then finally died.
Inch by inch she pulled her arms in until she was able to shift her weight to her forearms. That introduced a whole new problem. Gravity. Her body had been trapped for so long, fighting Natasha as they fell, it had forgotten gravity. Claire took in a breath that made her freshly healed knife wounds flare to life, and pushed against the ground.
Her arms shook, her muscles burned, but she managed to lift herself. She dragged each hand along the ground, back toward her knees, until she felt her butt touch her heels. Sweating, panting, and already dizzy with exhaustion, she gripped one knee, used her other arm to push herself up.
Cold wind slapped at her. She hugged herself, the sweat on her skin turning icy. She knew if she didn’t move, didn’t keep moving, she would go into shock. Lifting her head, she saw—nothing. Nothing but miles of dirt and grass. Her heart pounded as she realized she was in the middle of nowhere, naked, helpless, empty—
A sharp snap stopped her heart—until she recognized the sound. Turning her head, she sagged in relief when she spotted the small, neat house. Laundry waved at her, the same snap echoing as sheets and clothing billowed and flattened in the rising wind. Claire had a goal, and possible help.
Ignoring the multiple aches, she braced her hands on the ground, got her feet under her. The simple movements left her breathless. Taking a moment, letting her head clear, she sucked in another breath and pushed herself up. Her knees gave out and she tumbled to the ground.
She didn’t even have the strength to curse. Bruised, dirt clinging to her sweaty skin, she tried again. Her arms collapsed under her before she could make an effort to stand.
She clutched the ground with shaking fingers, forced back the sting of tears. The means to help herself were too close for her to give up. Gathering her strength, talking herself through the pain, the exhaustion, the desire to just lie down and sleep, she sucked in her breath and heaved.
Her legs held. She swayed like a drunk, so dizzy she could barely see the ground in front of her, but she stayed upright. The first step forward was a victory. The second had already sore muscles burning. But she kept moving, stumbling forward, her goal coming in to focus.
One trembling hand reached out, and she grabbed the post holding up one side of the laundry line. She clung to it, fought to even her breath, lightheaded from her battle with gravity. When she could move without her knees buckling under her, she gripped the clothesline and shuffled forward.
The bright red plaid shirt was flannel, dry, and warm from hanging in the sun. Claire used one sleeve to wipe away all the dirt and blood she could reach, then slid her arm in while still hanging on to the line. The heavy, soft fabric felt like heaven on her cold skin. Switching hands, she pulled the shirt on, let it hang open while she hunted for some sort of underwear.
Bright boxers flapped at her, next to a pair of denim overalls that she knew would engulf her. Pulling them both off the line, she worked her way back to the pole, leaning against it to button the shirt. One leg of the overalls helped wipe away the dirt still clinging to her skin. By the time she pulled on the boxers, she had to sit down.
Clutching the pole, she closed her eyes, sweat slicking her face, sliding down her back. The wind dried it, chilled her. A warning to keep moving.
Using the pole as a support, she got herself into the overalls and dragged the strap over one shoulder, snapping the button into the metal loop. Carefully, flinching as her fingers caught in the tangled length, she eased her hair out from under the shirt, and let it hang down her back. Later—she would deal with it later.