The Flyer (38 page)

“Where does your head hurt?” she asked.

“All over.” His eyes fastened on hers, the blue shimmering mysteriously in the amber light. “You don’t have to be doctor right now.”

“I’m always a doctor. I took an oath.”

They fell into companionable silence for a moment before his arm draped over her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

His voice had never been quite so low. Quite so mournful. “For what?” she asked.

“For bringing you here. For being about the worst bloody pilot known to man.” He snarled, then set his head back against the wall. “Honestly, my intention wasn’t to kill you.”

Her heart pounded mercilessly. “What was your intention?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. The only … thing that matters is getting us home, and safe.”

“They’ll come for us soon, I’m sure. They’re waiting for dawn, that’s all.”

Paul shifted beneath her head. He must be in so much pain—more pain than anyone could possibly bear. No wonder he slipped in and out of consciousness.

“No one is coming.”

“Wh—what did you say?” He couldn’t be serious. Of course, they would come. Dale, and Tim, and Bully. Mr. McIntyre. They would all come looking for them as soon as the day broke. They couldn’t be more than ten or twelve hours from town by horse.

“They don’t know where we went or how long I intended for us to stay. Nobody knows we’re missing.”

“That’s … that’s not true. It can’t be true.”

“I’m afraid it is. We’ll have to hike out of here in the morning. We’re not too far from the gathering. If we travel west—” he paused, his entire body trembling. “If we travel west, we should be able to make the Fortescue River by nightfa …”

“Paul?”

“I’m here.”

“Where were you taking me?”

“To the falls, of course. This time, I was going to do it right.” He sighed, his breath ragged.

“What did you want to tell me?” she asked again. Would he fight for her now? Is that what he’d wanted? For her to stay with him instead of going back to America?

He didn’t answer.

“Paul?”

She felt his head loll to one side. Spinning to her knees, she shook his shoulders, ignoring the tiny spark of guilt that came from knowing how badly his arm pained him. “Paul!”

He’d fallen under again. She shouted his name once more and slapped his cheek. Nothing. Sitting back on her ankles, she lowered her head.

As if they could sense her lack of protection, her lack of skill at fending for herself, the dogs attacked. Snarling, one of them leapt over the fire. She’d never seen anything move quite so fast. A blur of yellow fur punctuated with the growl of a wild beast caused her to fall back, landing on her bottom with a sharp twinge. The dingo went for blood, immediately focusing his attack in the area of Paul’s throat, but missed.

Helen launched herself at the crazed animal, pulling at loose flesh and stiff fur until the dog turned its ferocious attention on her. She grabbed Paul’s knife, still in his loose, unaware grip. She sliced at the dog’s throat. It lowered onto its front paws, its shoulder blades like knives behind its back. Sliding backward, it bared its teeth and then, in a movement so quick Helen wasn’t sure she’d seen it, the razorlike teeth grabbed Paul’s leg. The dingo pulled, ripping the fabric of Paul’s britches and drawing blood that turned its teeth a terrifying shade of pink.

“No!”

Power flooded her arms, her legs. She catapulted herself onto the animal’s back.

Twisting under her weight, the dingo tore deeper into Paul’s mauled flesh. Sobbing and barely able to see, she stabbed wildly at the beast’s back. It yelped with an almost humanlike cry and released Paul’s leg.

She rolled off the dingo’s back, holding the knife in front of her as though the animal would know what threat it presented. With a growl, the dingo leapt over the fire and vanished into the night.

Helen didn’t know how long she sat, brandishing the knife, while she shook uncontrollably. She couldn’t think. She knew only fear. When she was certain the dingo wouldn’t return and none of its fellows would attempt to leap over the fire and begin a new attack, she scrambled to Paul’s side. His leg was badly damaged. She tore away the leg of his britches, using the tip of the knife to aid her when the fabric proved too strong. Another piece of her dress served as a bandage. When she’d wrapped it to her satisfaction, constantly looking over her shoulder into the night for the glowing eyes, she brushed the hair out of her face, fisting the strands in both hands.

She couldn’t remember any time she’d ever felt so alone, so frightened. But she wouldn’t give in to darkness intruding on her spirit. She would survive. She had to survive for Paul. She couldn’t lose him. She couldn’t live without him.

They would both survive. How they would survive was the question.

He was in no condition to hike anywhere. He couldn’t remain conscious for any length of time, a symptom that worried her more than she liked. With the new injury to his leg, he wouldn’t be able to walk very far, anyway. She picked up the knife and the torch and prepared to guard him for the remainder of the night. When daylight arrived, she would do what she had to do, whether she had the strength or not.

The hours wore on in a slow march toward dawn. The dogs—no, dingos—attacked, faltered, and regrouped too many times for her to track. As the fire grew dimmer, the animals became bolder. She took up the torch again, swinging wildly wherever she made out a face or a pair of eyes.

Her arms were like lead. The muscles ached, threatening to abandon her.

Finally, the horizon turned pink. Welcomed light, more beautiful than any she had ever seen, drifted over the desert floor, turning the earth varying shades of rust and blood. One by one, the dingos abandoned what they had presumed would be an easy meal, moving off in search of other prey.

Exhausted, she fell back against the wall, closing her eyes for a brief second. Paul moaned, mumbling incoherently. She pinched the back of his hand and the flesh peaked. She repeated the test on her own flesh. They were becoming dehydrated.

Her stomach rumbled as though jealous.

Already, the temperature had risen several degrees.

Unwilling to rest for even a few moments when Paul’s life—both of their lives—hung in the balance, she scanned the area around the cave. There were no dogs.

On knees that quivered from exhaustion, fear, and thirst, she stumbled into the desert. She found a rock, the size of a loaf of bread, and lifted it. It might as well have weighed a thousand pounds. She dropped it, falling in a worthless heap.

She steadied her breath, then tried again. This time, she brought the rock back to the cave. She found another rock, a little farther than the first, and brought it back. The sun rose, higher and hotter, into a brilliant blue sky. Her dress, still damp from the storm, steamed against her skin, making her itch. She ignored the intense discomfort. Paul was far worse.

By the time she’d erected a wall to protect Paul, the sun had passed its zenith. If she were going to do it, she had to leave now.

Paul said he’d been taking her to the falls.

Based on the direction they’d been traveling, she gauged where the falls would be. From there, she estimated the location of the gathering. How far it lay over the rocky landscape, she could only guess.

Fifty miles? A hundred?

Where were the dingos?

There were snakes in the desert. Lizards the size of a motorcar.

She shuddered.

The chances that Paul would survive for days, alone and injured, were slim. But what were the chances of her keeping him alive? With no supplies, no food. No medicine.

She had to try to find help, no matter how slim the likelihood.

The options were clear. She would either find help, or both of them would die.

19

P
aul woke in a shadow of a dream. His head ached, throbbing against the hardest pillow he’d ever come into contact with. His side hurt, as well. He’d fought Bessie and lost.

No, that wasn’t right. He’d won that bout and pocketed five quid for his trouble.

His features pulled into a frown as he forced his eyes open. A rocky ceiling striated with blue, red, and coppery orange formed behind a smoky haze. Someone had built a fire.

Why?

With effort, he pushed himself to a sitting position. His arm wouldn’t move, but it throbbed and ached suddenly. His head pounded. One leg burned like hell. He felt like he was in a grave, with only a sliver of sunlight beaming though a hastily built rock wall. He kicked the midsection of the wall, and a cascade of moderately sized stones fell in a heap. One of them connected with his shin, and he cursed.

The scene on the other side brought the previous day rushing into his conscious mind. He’d been forced to land. The plane had burned.

Helen.

He kicked the remaining rocks out of the opening and slithered through. Where was Helen? His arm—broken, he decided—had been set and bound. Helen had to have done that, so she’d survived the crash. He struggled to remember, working in the dark until shadows and firelight brought the memory of a scream.

The dingos.

He
had
been awake last night. Helen had fought a pack of dingos to save his bloody, worthless life.

And they’d talked about hiking out of the desert today. Because he’d been a fool and hadn’t told anyone where they were going.

Bloody hell.

Limping down the slope, he shouted Helen’s name. There was no answer, not even an echo. Finally, he reached the wreckage of his plane, the soot-covered metal frame of the fuselage the only thing that remained. It lay strewn across the dusky sand like a skeleton, a reminder that nothing lived in the desert that didn’t belong there.

Helen had counted on him to protect her, and he’d failed. His throat closed, and horrific visions of what might have happened to her burned his soul. He cast them aside. She wasn’t dead. If she were dead, he’d feel it.

But, dear God, had she tried to find help on her own?

Through the ash, another memory formed.

Blue had warned him.
You can’t force her to love you. You must let her come to you
.

“I don’t want to wait. I want her now.”

“She will come to you when the road ends. In the rainbow of time, but you must allow her to find her way.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

He knew precisely what that meant now. He’d gone against the history of the land and the wisdom of whatever forces controlled the lives of mortals. Hell, he’d taken her against her will, kicking and screaming, and now she risked her life for him.

He ran his hand through his hair, searching the desert for any sign that she might be hidden somewhere, searching for food or water. There was nothing. Nowhere for her to hide, and nothing for her to find.

And then he saw it. A trail leading west through the sand. Aching and terrified for what he might find, he made his way to the small indentations in the sand. Hours had passed, from the rounded edges of the tracks, but they were the right size for a small human. They weren’t his own. He was sure of that.

He studied the earth on the edges of the trail. She wasn’t traveling alone.

The dingos were following her.