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A man on the tower pulled a rope, and another had a shotgun aimed in their direction.
“Cillian, I don’t—” Eva started.
“Bitch!”
All of a sudden, her body was slammed into Cillian and they were rolling. When they came to a stop, her one hand was on the icy terrain, and the other was pinned under Cillian’s body.
When she got her bearings, she saw a man straddling Cillian with a knife inches from his neck. His arm was the only thing keeping the blade from sinking into his flesh.
Fear and rage consumed her as she forced her hand out from under his weight. The rocks below sliced at the delicate skin, but it didn’t matter. Shots fired all around them, the other two men gaining ground on them—they didn’t have much time.
Once free, she leaped onto the back of the feral man and yelled, “Get off him.”
Using the crook of her arm, she squeezed with all the strength she had. The man gurgled as he let the knife fall and reached for her arm, trying to pry it from his throat.
Her muscles ached as she watched Cillian pick up his knife and bury it in the man’s gut. She released his neck, and Cillian freed the blade, then shoved the man’s body off his torso.
When her eyes met his, a smile played on his lips as he grabbed for her hand. He was okay—alive.
Then his smile dropped, his other hand reaching for her as pain erupted in the back of her head. Her knees buckled as she sank to the ground in a heap.
Eva reached for the scorching pain and winced as her fingers met warm, sticky liquid. She brought her hand back into her view—blood dripped from her fingertips onto the ground, staining the white snow a rich burgundy.
Somewhere nearby, one man screamed as another approached Cillian. He was fighting the Others. Using the knife, he slit one man’s throat. His moves were graceful even in the deep snow. Cillian Beck was a skilled fighter.
Movement in the distance caught her attention. The gate had opened and three men with weapons walked toward them. A shotgun fired in the distance. The deep booming echoed off the mountain as a man dropped to the ground dead to her right, startling her.
Her breaths were coming hard and fast as she watched Cillian stab the last man in the chest. Before the body even reached the ground, he was moving to her.
Her vision blurred as he skidded to a stop. She rolled to her side and tried to sit up, but nausea consumed her, forcing her back to the ground.
“Eva?” he said, tilting her face and examining her.
The world started spinning, and she reached for him and cupped his face. “I knew you were a warrior,” she said.
Then her body felt weightless and her vision speckled with black and white spots. She closed her eyes in hopes of clearing her sight. The pain was agonizing, and her head felt like it was going to burst.
She heard Cillian’s voice, but she couldn’t make out the words over the ringing in her ears. She felt hot and cold all at once, and a sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead. Hold it together, Eva.
But darkness took over. There was no pain in this black hole of nothingness, so she leaned into it and let herself fall further into the abyss.
She could hear their screams, smell the smoke as embers filled the air. Her heart raced in her chest—the sound pounding in her ears. They needed her. She had to get to them, yet she could barely move. It was as if she was stuck in quicksand. The more she struggled, the deeper she sank.
Frantically, they called her name. “Eva!”
Their voices echoed around her. Fear tightened her chest as she continued to sink deeper and deeper. Her head was about to go under—she screamed.
Eva jolted up with a start and clutched her chest as a dark blue blanket pooled around her waist. She was still wearing the clothes she had on when they left Everwood, minus her jacket and boots.
Her breaths came fast, and her heart was hammering in her chest. Looking around at her surroundings—she was in a cabin, but whose? The room smelled like fresh-cut pine, reminding her of Cillian. Was this his house?
A fire burned in a stacked stone fireplace on the far wall—a single chair sat beside it. In one corner, there was a kitchenette. A large bowl and pitcher sat atop the counter, along with a decanter filled with a dark liquid.
In the other corner sat two wood shelving units overflowing with books. A shotgun hung above the front door, and a chest of drawers sat under the window next to the bed—a lantern with a single burning candle sat on top of it. Was it nighttime or early morning? How long had she been out?
With slow motions, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed, her hand going protectively to her head, where she felt a cloth bandage. The burning pain had eased off, but her skull still throbbed. Who had tended to her injury?
Movement caught her eye as she inhaled hard and skirted across the bed. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for something she could use for a weapon.
