Page 92 of Kings of Sherwood

Somehow I see it’s not John, not the sheriff. A stranger. Hired muscle—the same one who grabbed me from the truck. He’s big, much bigger than me. Swats away my scratches and elbows and squeezes both my wrists in a single hand.

“Please!” I gasp, writhing. “Please. Please don’t. Please—”

I catch his face—broad, rounded, deep-set eyes and a scraggled beard. Baseball cap. Something in his stare like fear, almost.

“Please,” I wheeze. “Don’t. I—we’ll pay you. My guys will—whatever you want. Anything. You don’t have to do this.”

The fear in his eyes turns to pain. Apology. Like I’m a runt calf, too small to survive, and he’s got to put me out of my misery.

“Please,” I repeat. “If it’s money—”

“They already paid me,” he mutters, like it hurts him to say. “And if I don’t, they’re liable to...” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry, lady. I got kids.”

The underbrush crackles—John and the sheriff crashing closer, shouting over each other, voices echoing down into the ravine. I start to cry in earnest, sniveling and pathetic, wrenching my head from side to side as I try to escape, blood and snot and tears sliding everywhere. My ears ring, terror blotting out my senses even as my thoughts seem to sharpen.

Gun?I wonder.Knife? Bare hands?

How are you going to kill me?

How am I going to die?

My sobs grow frantic, ugly, as he holds me down with a farmer’s practice, pinning me with a thick leg on the side of either hip.

The dots connect before I realize.

Instinct. Memory.

One knee tucks. My other foot flat. I shrimp, hard, to to the side, the edge of my hip scraping mud and pine needles. Wedge my shin.

Arm grab.

Bridge, then—

Twist, thrust, and flip.

There’s anunhas his back hits the ground, and I lose my balance backwards, falling flat on my ass again but free. Free.

Up.Up,Maren. I scramble to my feet, almost tripping again on a root, clutching a sapling for balance.

There’s yelling—he’s lunging for me, I have to run, when—

Thunk.

A thin, swift missile splits through the air and slams into tree trunk, inches from his head, spraying bark and splinters. He jerks back as it quivers there, stuck fast.

A crossbow bolt.

“Maren!”

At the top of the ravine, I see him. Bow raised.

Rob.

My whole body collapses. I crumple into the dirt, my legs giving way as someone wails—me, I realize, something between a sob and a scream.

And just as quickly, I hear them.

Growl. Roar. Flap of wings.

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