Page 243 of These Tears

And downright shudder.

Refocusing on the kitchen, I make quick work of his dinner, then pull my coat back on, grab the smaller crossbow Elias insisted I learn to use – and my camera, of course – and hurry back to the lake.

I’m itching to catch the twilight colours.

It is after nine by the time the sun slips behind the western ridge now. Even then, the light is too stubborn to die, stretching the evening into a long blue surrender.

I think about framing the body of water. About the last light on the ice. About how Elias looks when darkness softens the harsh contours of him.

Beside a small trunk, I brace the crossbow against its bark and unzip my camera bag, reaching for the lens I want.

I enjoy the prickle of winter’s last tendrils at my neck. It’s still too cold to stay outside overnight—

Crack!

I turn—

Darkness slams over my head; rough fabric scrapes over my face, and my body remembers the airport in one sudden rush.

Panic detonates.

A scream forms, but a hand clamps over my mouth and kills it.

Arms lock around me from behind. I kick forward uselessly. Another pair of hands grabs my ankles, and I’m lifted clean off the ground.

Shock drives my heart up to my throat. My pulse roars so loudly I can barely hear anything around me. Words blur, smear. My ears ring like they’re about to split my brain in half.

Metal creaks. I’m shoved sideways onto a cold, rigid seat. The stink of rust and oil overtakes the air.

An old vehicle.

Hands drag my wrists together even as I fight, but they end up in front of me anyway, with a cord wound around them. As I start spouting curses, a strip of cloth is pressed across my mouth over the hood and knotted behind my head.

It’s not Elias. He wouldn’t do this – well, not this way. There’s no reason for him to.

And then the realisation sinks deep and dire.

‘Please…’ I lisp through the fabric. ‘Just… don’t take him.’

Silence.

Cromwell.

The grey car.

Those two men smiling when they frightened me.

Every warning Elias gave me without giving me enough.

I pray they leave him breathing.

The drive feels like five hours, but time splits and bows while anxiety holds. The bag scratches against my eyelashes every time my head jolts.

The vehicle rattles and groans as if it’s older than all of us put together. Every turn throws my weight sideways.

There are no threats or demands. Not even a single insult.

I’d rather have that than this silence.