War(41)

The third was that Priest was nowhere in sight.

I glanced at the clock, which read 12:04. I’d slept past noon, which explained the sun.

Given the situation, I’d been far too nervous, angry, and scared to eat, which explained the hunger.

Priest’s absence?

That was all my doing.

As I showered and dressed, I replayed the conversation from the night before in my head. It probably hadn’t been wise to be so honest with him. As I’d spoken, I’d seen the denial in his face, seen a rare, at least to me, loss of control, seen his fierce disagreement.

But I hadn’t wavered in my belief at all, not even when he tried his best to change it.

Couldn’t really, because, the more he’d tried to convince me he was “Priest,” the more I saw the person he pretended not to be.

The more I saw Nikolai.

Maybe he was right and I was cracked. Maybe I was completely, utterly wrong. I had no answers, only maybes. But everything in me said I could trust him, told me he was good. I truly believed it, believed it enough to stake my future on it.

Still, that belief didn’t exactly tell me what to expect when I saw him, though I had a good idea. I walked into the living area and saw him, dressed in a full suit and tie as usual. He was reading something, and didn’t move an inch when I entered, nor when I walked past him.

I made no effort to hide the fact I was watching him. If I didn’t know any better, I might think he hadn’t heard me or realized I was there. But I knew better.

I wouldn’t push the issue, though. There was no need. He’d made himself clear, as had I. Besides, there was a more pressing matter to attend to as the stabbing hunger pangs reminded me.

I washed my hands, evaluated the contents of the refrigerator, and decided that today was a chicken francese day. A dish that wouldn’t take too long and one that I had the ingredients for. I liked to cook, which was part of the reason I’d stuck with catering for so long. It wasn’t a passion, but it always took my mind off whatever trouble was weighing my mind, and I decided today would be no different. So I started to work in the thick silence, and as I moved, I felt him watching me, though he still hadn’t spoken.

Most times, knowing that he, or anyone else for that matter, was watching would have made me self-conscious, but his gaze on me was welcome, wanted, even. It gave me comfort, was a reminder I wasn’t alone.

It was also an emblem of Priest’s stubbornness. Not once while I cooked did he utter a single word. Nor did he speak when I set a plate in front of him and took the chair next to him.

I didn’t push the issue, though. Instead, I said my grace and then began to eat, content to watch the birds that flew around the backyard.

I was more than halfway done with my food before he took the first bite of his and almost broke the silence when I heard his appreciative grumble. It was pure vanity, but I enjoyed people enjoying my food.

Still, I stayed silent, determined that I had said what I needed to say, and if he took issue with it, that was his problem.

So I ate and watched the three birds in the yard and then shifted to the squirrel who scampered here and there.

I blinked rapidly and then focused on the blip of light that had caught my attention.

It was bright almost like a coin in the sun, but there was something off about it.

And then I saw it again, and the most sickening tremor of fear went through me, turning the food in my mouth into sawdust and threatening to send what I had already swallowed back up.

“Get down!” I screamed, an instinct I couldn’t name and didn’t have time to question driving me into action. Then, using all my might, I launched myself at his chair, sending it and the table toppling over to the floor, the loud clatter of plates breaking exploding the previous silence.

My shoulder screamed in pain at the impact, but I ignored it and began crawling toward him.

“What—”

His words were cut off by the window shattering, and as I looked up at it, he sprang into action, crawling toward me as I did him.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Oh my God. I recognized that sound. It wasn’t the same as the one at the church; these were quieter, muffled-sounding. But I recognized it nonetheless.

Bullets. Someone was shooting at us.

“Follow me, Milan. And stay low,” he whispered in my ear, his voice as urgent as I had ever heard it.

Then he began to crawl, his belly close to the floor as he made his way to the garage.

I did the same, though the fear that ran through my blood like sludge almost made it impossible for me to move. I stayed as close as I could, but I’d never move as fast as he did. Still, I tried, crawled low and as quickly as I could, even when my muscles began to burn.

I felt like a sitting duck, the brightness of the room only reminding me that there were so many windows, so many ways a bullet could find me. But I couldn’t focus on that thought, because if I did, I would be frozen, and then I would die.