Synching With the Devil's Son

Chapter 10

Lucien's P.O.V.

After I watch Trish, Ryan, Daniel and Scarlet race off into the woods, calling Bella's name, I set my beer down and put out my joint. Then I get up and jog behind them, but slightly off to their right. I have excellent night vision, better than the nocturnal hunters I can see and hear fluttering around me. Bella's in trouble, and somehow I feel like it's my fault. The guilt that surfaces over that revelation makes me uncomfortable, but I'll have to think about it later. Right now, my focus is on Bella. I see her about 100 yards in font of me making a mad dash for the bushes. When she tumbles in without heed of her own safety, I immediately understand she believes her attacker is at her heels. I see this behavior all the time when I torture people in Hell, using their nightmares of being hunted as the premise for their torment. Their fight or flight response is almost always flight, and they throw themselves into all sorts of situations without thinking first. I walk purposefully toward her, can see her cowering inside the hedge of shrubs. Not a bad hiding place, all things considered. If I didn't have such keen eyesight, I probably would have missed her. I stand in front of her for a moment, not sure if I should reach in and touch her or just talk to her. My decision is made for me when I see her tense to flee again, so I reach in and gently take hold of her bleeding arm, pulling her up and out of the bushes. The scream she emits is ear-piercing. It is the terrified howl of an animal who understands escape is impossible. I am impressed when she lands a couple of good right hooks, one to my face and one to my stomach. After her feet make contact with my shins, and my thigh, I try to soothe her, speaking her name gently, offering meaningless words of comfort. When she realizes who I am, she breaks down, crying ruthlessly in my arms. What this girl must have endured to behave like a wild, hunted animal, so unlike the woman at our campsite, the woman I planned on torturing all weekend. I hear Trish and Daniel shout, racing toward us. I tell them I've got her, she's inconsolable right now, but I will bring her back to camp when I'm able. They look at us, look at Bella with her face buried in my chest and my arms wrapped securely around her, and nod. Ryan says he will make sure the fire is still burning to help us find our way. I nod without telling him I need no such beacon, I can find my way anywhere on Earth, and in Hell, but he does not need to know that.

I return my focus on the woman who is now shaking violently in my arms, and tighten my grip on her. Her breath is coming in shakily, her fists are still wrapped around my shirt. Except where she cut herself deeply and blood continues to seep into her clothing and hair, the rest of her injuries are starting to crust over. I decide to clean her up, thinking she's not going to want her friends to see her this way, so when she finally steps away from me, I bend down to pick her up and carry her, bridal style, to the river. She doesn't protest, and whimpers slightly when I put her down on the soft grass next to the water. I take my shirt off and rip it into strips, dunking the pieces into the fast moving, icy water. When I shuffle back to her, her eyes are luminous and watch my every move. I find myself staring at her, moved beyond reason at the lost look in her eyes. I begin to cleanse her arms and legs of the dried blood, wincing when she winces, leaving the heavier gashes alone for the moment. I reach toward the pile of cotton strips and get a clean length of fabric, wet it in the icy water, and squat down in front of her. Slowly, I push the loose strands of hair off her face, tucking them behind her ears. There is a heavy gash just above her left eyebrow, so I wad my shirt strip up and hold it against the gash, taking her hand and placing it over the wound. "Put pressure on this for a moment," I tell her softly, walking back to the water to saturate more of my shirt. I wad up three more strips of fabric and place them over her deeper cuts. She's holding two and I'm holding two. We sit in silence for a while, she's looking down at the cuts on her arms, and I'm looking at her. When she finally raises her head, I can see tear tracks running unchecked down her cheeks.

"Thank you," she whispers hoarsely.