Page 11 of Blood of the Thistle

A deep, angry furrow creased his forehead. “Stay if ye wish. They’ll find ye soon enough.”

And with that, he turned and fled once more.

Anna rolled her eyes. Whatever.

She turned around herself, supposing she should at least pretend she knew where she was going, that her bed and her sleeping self were somewhere behind her, and began to stomp in that direction.

She remembered—just now—that she still held the instant picture in her hand. She paused and glanced down at it, frustrated further that the image was water damaged now, rain having splotched and stained the image until the gorgeous breakfast was no longer visible.

“Great,” she said, stuffing it inside her bag as she walked further.

She paused almost immediately, upon hearing something that made the fine hair rise along the back of her neck.

At first it came only as a faint vibration beneath the steady patter of rain, so distant she couldn’t decide whether she truly heard it or only imagined it. Then it came again, louder now, a deep, uneven pounding that seemed to belong less to the air than to the earth itself.

Anna frowned and stood perfectly still.

Thunder? She wondered. No, it lacked the rolling quality of a storm and came in distinct, rhythmic bursts that grew steadily nearer. It wasn’t cars, couldn’t be cars out here in this dense forest. There was only that relentless drumming, accompanied now by something metallic she couldn’t identify, sharp little clinks and rattles.

She turned in a slow circle, searching the trees, but saw nothing but rain-soaked green and brown.

The sound gathered frighteningly fast, swelling until it seemed the entire forest trembled beneath it. Birds burst from the trees somewhere ahead, disappearing into the gray sky, and for the first time since convincing herself this was all only a dream, Anna felt something far more unsettling than annoyance and confusion.

She felt afraid in a way that was far different from the vague, detached sort of fear dreams usually inspired, where some part of her always knew she’d wake before anything truly terrible happened. This fear was something deeper, more instinctive and visceral. Her pulse sped up and her throat tightened, every nerve in her body urging her to move, and she believed at that moment that Monte Cristo man had been right, that she didn’t want to meet whoever or whatever was coming toward her.

She turned again and ran fast in the direction Monte Cristo Man had taken, calling, “Wait!”

She stumbled before she’d taken ten steps, the wedge heel of her espadrilles sliding sideways on a patch of wet moss before catching against a root. She windmilled both arms to keep from falling and cursed her shoes. They’d carried her comfortably through England for three days, but clearly were not designed for sprinting through a forest.

Before she’d gone another twenty yards, the strange pounding she’d heard moments earlier grew noticeably louder, and whatever comfort she’d taken from convincing herself this was only a dream began slipping away.

“Wait!” she called, but the man was nowhere in sight. “Please, wait!” she cried, a bit more desperately.

As fright took a stronger hold, she ran on, considering her circumstance. Here she was, running through the middle of what she still desperately hoped was a dream, her skirt catching on every thorny bush in England, her expensive sandals sliding helplessly over roots and slick patches of mud, her face and arms covered in scratches, and the only person who might be able to help her had now vanished.

Then, just as she’d begun to think he truly was gone, same as she was from Museum Street, she pushed through a dense thicket of trees and brush and saw him again.

He stood near a fallen tree draped in moss, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths, watching her approach, his hand urgently beckoning her as if he’d been waiting for her, which, fantastically, offered a bit of relief.

“Make haste.”

There was something so different in his expression now that Anna obeyed without questioning him. The irritation she’d felt only moments before vanished beneath a fear she couldn’t fully explain, and she hurried toward him, slipping twice before reaching him.

He caught hold of her wrist when she reached the log and urged her to step over it, and then immediately pulled her sharply sideways. Anna gave a startled cry as the ground seemed to disappear beneath her feet, and together they slid down the steep bank of what she realized was a narrow ravine carved into the forest. Wet leaves, broken branches, and black, saturated earth gave way beneath them until they came to rest at the bottom, where the smell of damp soil and decaying vegetation rose so strongly she almost gagged.

She had scarcely managed to push herself upright when he pressed one broad hand against her shoulder and urged her back down.

“Cover yerself,” he whispered urgently, as he turned and plucked wet leaves from the inner slope and spread them over the tracks of their descent.

She didn’t even think to hesitate but obeyed, and began covering her feet and legs, pulling the forest foulness over her favorite floral skirt.

The man finished his task and turned swiftly toward her. “Lie down,” he commanded, his expression fierce.

Again, she complied without hesitation, even as she winced as she did so, putting her back and hair into filth beneath her.

The man scooped more leaves over her torso before he dropped down beside her, half on top of her.

“More,” he said, turning and swiping at leaves to cover his legs.