Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

I step closer, but stop again as he growls and starts to pull himself out—bowed head followed by hunched, shaking shoulders. God, he must be freezing. As he drags his torso out, I creep closer. He’s got his head down and his arms in a crawl pose. His long legs are kicking, trying for a foothold, but somehow, as I move closer still, he finds the breath to hiss, “Stop.”

He’s pant-gasping as he kicks his way fully out, one blade-bottomed boot shoving against the ice’s jagged rim…and then the other as I watch in horror and awe. And then he’s there in front of me—a huge, shuddering form, motionless and face-down. Only for a moment. As I start to kneel beside him, he gets up onto his knees…and then, somehow, his feet.

He’s moving stiffly, shaking, sort of groaning. Or maybe that’s just his breathing, as cold as he is. I reach for him, and he growls, flinching away. He glides a little, even as he’s shivering uncontrollably—as if he wants badly to get away from me. He skates to the snowy shore, but once he’s on it, he puts his palms on his thighs and leans over, panting like there’s really something wrong.

His violent shaking seems to kick up a notch. Even his ragged groans sound like they’re shaking. I lengthen my strides, worried he’ll walk off before I get a chance to truly check on him. But he doesn’t move as I close the last twenty feet between us. Then I’m by him, dumbly nervous, so my voice trembles as I ask, “Hey…are you okay?”

He lifts his head, his blue eyes finding mine, and I gape at his pale face and blueish purple lips. He’s looks so, so cold. My heart does this weird squeeze as I look at his face.

“Luca…”12EliseI’m irrationally stung he doesn’t speak to me before he starts to stagger through the trees. Then my head is spinning as I scurry along beside him. He lets out a panted groan with every step. His breath wreaths his head in white fog, so I can’t see well, but I know he must be hurt because his face—when I get a glimpse—is twisted in pain.

I start to urge him toward my cabin, but realize he’s moving toward the other one. The one next door. Our eyes catch as he nears the back porch. I’m wondering if he has hypothermia, because he looked so weird and out of it, when he drops to his knees in front of the back porch steps.

He groans, holding his head. Then he’s staggering back up, swaying as he fumbles with the screen door till I get it for him. He crosses the small, screened porch in three wobbly, bladed strides, reaching for the next doorknob with a hand that’s marble white.

“Let me get it…”

I do, and he shoulders his way through the door into a tiny, rustic kitchen-living space. I watch with a sense of helpless panic as he grips the couch’s spine from behind. Then he sinks down again. This time, he lies on his back with his eyes closed, his long legs, still clad in bladed boots, sprawled out. His whole body is shaking.

“Luca…tell me what’s wrong.”

His blue eyes are heavy-lidded. His face is badly washed out, and his lips look even bluer than they did outside. He draws his arms around himself, closing his eyes, and I kick into gear, praying this cabin is laid out like mine is, pre-stocked with most of the same things.

Thankfully, it is. I find a pile of blankets in the stale-smelling linen closet just outside the bathroom. With those clutched to my chest, I dash back to the kitchen sink to turn hot water and grab scissors from the “stuff” drawer before I drop down to my knees by him.

He’s still quaking, one hand clutching his coat near the collar. He looks ghastly pale, his eyes closed until I touch his biceps. “Luca?”

His eyelids lift as his lips twist.

“Should I call someone? Like a paramedic?”

He blinks like he’s waking up, clenching his jaw. Through chattering teeth, he manages, “N-no.”

“I might have to if you pass out.”

His eyes shut. “Won’t,” he rasps.

There’s a black beanie still on his head. I touch it, find it dry, and move to his coat, leaning over his torso to slide my hand under the collar. Waterproof shell, but everything underneath is drenched and freezing.

“I’ll get this wet stuff off you.” His eyes crack open as I start working his coat off. He tries to help me, but he’s shaking too hard to have any coordination.

“It’s okay.” I tug on the coat sleeve and, with some difficulty, he draws one arm out. We repeat on the other side, his gaze meeting mine briefly before his eyes close again. He grits his teeth, wincing as I unzip the fleece under his jacket. The thing is sopping wet but not frozen, so it’s heavy.