The Gender Game 5 (The Gender Fall)(5)

“I get it,” he whispered back, his face softening. “We’ll get through this.”

I glanced back at Violet and was surprised to see the twin silver slits of her eyes were open, glistening with awareness, catching a sliver of light that came in from the stairs. She feebly tried to push herself up into a better sitting position, and the cast on her right hand scraped loudly on the floor, making me wince. She didn’t seem to notice, her breath coming in shudders and gasps as she struggled to move.

I squatted down, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Violet,” I whispered softly. “You have a fractured skull. You need to stay down.”

She ignored me, her left arm shaking with strain as she tried to shift her position on the floor but failed weakly. I sighed and reached out, taking her under the arms and moving her slightly, until she was braced in the corner. She grew paler, and I saw clearly that she was resisting the urge to vomit.

Her eyes glazed over, becoming unfocused and sliding left and right around the room. Then they fluttered closed, and a slight wheeze escaped her lungs. I hovered nearby, concerned she might still vomit in spite of her heroic attempt to hold it back, but she continued to fight it off. After a moment, her eyes snapped back open, awareness returning in them.

Her gaze drifted down to the gun I clutched in my hand, and then up to me. She swallowed, her mouth working as if she were trying to speak. I waited, and Violet sighed in apparent frustration. She glanced back to the gun, then up at me again, and this time I noticed the fingers of her left hand twitching as she looked at me, the expression on her face imploring underneath the marring of her injuries, visible even in the dimness.

I hesitated, questioning the wisdom of giving her a gun. She had a severe concussion, and she was slipping in and out of consciousness. Half in and half out of reality, in terrible pain… The last thing she needed was a weapon in her hand.

I decided to let her touch one just briefly, hoping it would provide her with a thread of comfort. I reached down to the waistband of my pants, freeing my second pistol. I set it on the ground next to her before gently lifting her left hand, taking great care to avoid the bandaged cuts on her fingers, and resting it on the butt of the gun. The relief in her eyes was palpable as she gave me a fraction of a nod.

Then her eyes closed. I waited for them to open again, but her world had gone dark once more. Probably better this way.

I replaced the second gun in my waistband, then straightened and turned toward Owen, who placed a finger over his lips. I held my breath, listening closely.

I couldn’t hear much through the boards, but after a moment, my ears caught the distinct whine of brakes being applied and the sound of a car engine shutting off, followed by doors slamming closed. My hand tightened on my gun.

We listened in silence as several reedy, thin voices carried through the walls. The owners of the vehicle were definitely female. Which meant they were definitely Matrian. Patrian women weren’t trained to drive.

Then the distinct sounds of heavy boots filed into the room on the other side of the wall, and I had second thoughts about taking the gun from Violet. The thought of her having to face the Matrians defenseless sent a current of fear through me, and I looked down to notice my hands shaking again.

Then the fiery rage was back, burning like a molten core in my gut. I resisted the urge to growl. Violet wouldn’t have to use any gun. If I had anything to say about it, they wouldn’t even get a good look at her. I’d be damned if anyone laid a hand on her.

I gripped my pistol harder and ground my teeth together. As the sounds of crashing and clattering resounded through the house, I stared at the wall panel like my life depended on it. I would fight if I had to.

Like hell they’d ever touch my girl again.





3





Violet





I had closed my eyes, but I hadn’t given up my tenuous hold on reality. My fingertips had been resting gently on the butt of a gun, but then it had been pulled away. The movement had left me swimming in anxiety, but I felt incapable of expressing it.

My stomach roiled suddenly, and I pressed my lips together, trying to quell the urge to vomit. It took a great deal of focus. Focus hurt—it made my head ache frightfully. An image floated across my mind, of a tomato growing inside a tin can. It grew and it grew, until the tin can became too small for it, and then grew some more, the red, fleshy fruit expanding, swelling… until it popped.

I giggled a tiny bit in the back of my throat. That was how it felt: my skull was the tin can, and the tomato was my… Oh. The realization sobered me. The image was not as funny as I had originally thought. I was confused by my own morbidity. Confused and…