Broken Bonds (Lizzie Grace 3)

I carefully unlocked my psychometry skill and was almost overwhelmed at the rush of information. Why is this happening? Why can I not stop? Why am I running, just running, while they hunt? Sweat, heat, oh God, pain in my chest. The burn of silver, thick, languidly in my limbs, falling, falling… the scent of anticipation as the hunters draw close….

I hastily threw up a mental wall to block his emotions while still getting some sense of place, and glanced across the road. The paddock to our right rose sharply, and I couldn’t see if anyone or anything lay on the crest of the hill thanks to the fact the sun was just rising over the top of it. To the left, the ground swept gently down before rising again in the distance. Our wolf had gone right, not left.

“He’s up there somewhere.” I pointed to the hill.

“Right,” Ashworth said. “Get back into the truck. I saw a farm gate just down the road—we can get into the paddock from there.”

Ashworth spun his truck around, raced back down the hill, and then wrenched the wheel sideways. Tires squealed as the big vehicle skidded and then surged through the already open gate. The long, yellowed grass had been freshly mowed down; we weren’t the first vehicle to come crashing through this paddock.

The chain’s heartbeat was becoming more erratic; the wolf was in a world of pain and fading fast. “Drive to the left shoulder of the hill,” I said, “and hurry.”

Ashworth didn’t reply and the big truck didn’t go any faster. We were already at full speed.

Then the heartbeat in the chain came to a stuttering stop.

“Damn it, no!”

The truck became airborne as we all but launched over the top of the hill. Below us, at the base of a long slope, was another truck. Two men st

ood in the back; one was holding what I presumed was a rifle, though I couldn’t actually be sure from this distance.

Twenty or so yards in front of them was the prone, unmoving figure of our wolf.

The two men standing in the back swung around as we crashed back to the ground on the other side of the hill. One punched the top of the truck; the other raised the rifle.

In between one heartbeat and the next, three things happened.

Ashworth wrenched the wheel sideways, the windshield shattered into a myriad of pieces, and the big truck slewed sideways.

Then, in what almost seemed like slow motion, it toppled and began to roll down the hill.

Chapter Six

“Lizzie, wake up.”

The voice was filled with gruff urgency. I groaned, but couldn’t immediately do anything more. Nor could I force my eyes open—something appeared to be gluing them together.

Lizzie, wake up.

This time, the voice whispered through my brain, but it was no less urgent.

What happened?

I had no idea if I said that out loud, but it was Belle who answered, not Ashworth.

From the few bits I got before you were knocked out, the damn truck rolled. Now open your eyes and assess the damage.

I raised a hand and rubbed at the stickiness gluing my eyelids shut. It was blood, I realized. I quickly felt the rest of my face for injuries, and discovered a long but somewhat shallow cut on my chin—undoubtedly a result of the truck’s windscreen exploding. But aside from a sore neck, a bruised chest, and a myriad of other minor glass cuts, I seemed to have escaped relatively intact.

But my seat belt was pressed so tightly against my neck and chest that I could barely breathe, and I was the wrong way up in the truck—my head was hanging in midair, and the blood from the cut on my chin was trickling toward my hairline rather than down my neck.

The truck’s engine had been silenced and, considering the amount of damage it must have sustained in the rollover, there were very few creaks and groans.

What I could smell was gas….

While it was unlikely the tank had ruptured, if a gas line had split and was now leaking, there was a chance—a very small chance, granted—that the hot exhaust could start a fire. Not so much a vehicle fire but rather a grass one. We were in the middle of summer, in a field that was filled with long, dry grass; major bushfires had certainly been started by far less over the years.

Energy surged into my system, its source external. Belle, refueling me from afar. Now, she said, her mental tone sharp, stop fucking about and get the hell out of that truck.