“WHERE’S YOUR phone? I want you to call emergency while I check things out. Landline’s in the living room. We might not find it in the dark.” Connor grasped Forest’s hips to slide him off. In the black, the world seemed to flow and tilt around him, but Con’s hands were firm and steadying. “Can you get to it? Mine’s dead. I’ve got it charging in the bedroom.”
“In the kitchen. It’s on the charger too.” He tried to peer through the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. “Maybe the streetlight‘s still on. The hedges are too high, dude. I can’t see shit. Is it just the house?”
“Looks like it. Could be the fuses, but I’m not going to chance it.” Con stood, a darker shape against the already dark shapes around them. “Grab a hold of my waistband. I want to make sure you’re safe. Flashlight’s in the garage somewhere. Shit. I forgot it out there.”
Outside, in the distance, lights shone down the hill, and there was a bit of a glow coming from someplace beyond the high boxwoods lining the backyard, more than likely coming from a streetlight in front. Built on a cul-de-sac, the Victorian sat on one of the city’s many serpentine tiers, its back facing an open view of the harbor and the streets below.
The rain made it difficult for ambient light to seep past the house’s partially drawn heavy curtains, and Forest felt his way to the kitchen, keeping his fingers hooked into Con’s pants. He was tired. Hell, Con was probably worn down to the bone, and he would love for it to be as simple as something inside of the garage. His hopes were dashed when the sound of breaking glass came from behind them. Connor’s back went rigid under the light brush of Forest’s knuckles, and Con grabbed for the doorframe.
Con moved quickly, a silent rush of muscle, and forcibly dragged Forest along behind him. They hit the swinging doors to the kitchen fast, and Forest bit down a yelp when the shutter-style doors nearly struck his back. With its windows facing the side yard and its high fence, the kitchen was nearly pitch, but Forest had a good idea of where his phone was.
The house moaned, creaking as the wind outside kicked up. The family room lights flickered a few times, then went dark, and over the kitchen’s saloon-style doors, Forest caught sight of a tree branch scraping at one of the slender windows facing the backyard.
“It’s okay, Con. It’s a tree.” Forest found his phone and turned it on, illuminating a small area of the kitchen. “Not much charge but plugged in….”
A blast shattered the window over the sink, peppering the kitchen with shot. Something stung Forest’s face, and a burn cut through his right shoulder. It was a deafening wave of terror and sound, fire flashing up from the side yard. He caught a glimpse of a silhouette before Connor dragged him down to the floor. Rolling him over, Con tucked Forest under the thick-legged oak table set against a wall.
Another boom came upon them, tearing through the kitchen. Wood flew from shattered cabinets, and some of the shot must have hit a stack of dishes because it began to rain porcelain and glass. The shooter wasn’t alone. Moments later, there was a shout—a man calling out to someone else to get into the house and take care of things.
Forest’s stomach knotted up tight around itself. He was probably one of those things.
He’d held onto his phone, but it’d been ripped from the charger when they’d gone down. Even though Forest could make out Con’s mouth moving in the phone’s pale light, he couldn’t hear a damned thing. The ringing in his ears ululated, then died away, leaving his head with a deep throb. Up against the wall, there was nowhere for him to go, and a part of him—a long-buried frightened little boy part—panicked at being trapped between a warm body and a hard place.
Taking a deep breath helped. The fear receded, slinking off into the crevices it’d come from. The dark held something more than shadows. There was a malevolent stillness to it now. Even through the buzzing echoes in his ears, Forest felt the weight of something—something dark—pressing in on him.
“You okay?” Con asked gruffly. His hands were running over Forest’s limbs and chest.
“My shoulder hurts. The right one.” Forest kept his voice low and then bit his lip to keep from whimpering when Con’s fingers explored his shoulder. “Not bad. Not until you touch it.”
“Sorry, love. Okay, you call 911,” Connor whispered. “I’m going for my gun.”
“Dude—” Forest swallowed his protest. Connor was a cop. An injured one, but a cop just the same. “Be careful.”
“Sure thing, babe,” Connor promised solemnly, and then he was gone. “You too.”
The bite of wind coming through the blasted window cut through Forest, and he curled up as tight as he could, crouching under the heavy table. Fingers shaking, he dialed emergency and waited for someone to answer.