Free Blood Brothers by Richie Tankersley Cusick

truth seeemd unbelievable.
    She was lying on her side, nestled in the curve of Jared’s body. His left arm was draped across her shoulder, and her forehead rested lightly on his chest. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here, couldn’t remember even falling asleep. In fact, the last thing she remembered at all was Jared pulling a splinter from her hand.
    Or was that just part of my nightmare?
    Her right hand was pressed to Jared’s heart. His skin was warm, and she could feel the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. But there was a vague sense of discomfort, as well—as though her palm were swollen and tender. And a lingering throb of pain kept time to Jared’s heartbeat.
    Lucy heard him moan. As his body shifted against her, she was able to ease out from underneath his arm. The lantern she’d brought was glowing near the bed, and the initial terror she’d felt was finally beginning to subside. She propped herself on one elbow and watched him.
    She wished this were a joke.
    Because then, in the end, there would be answers, and everything would go away, and nothing would be real.
    But Lucy had no answers. And nothing had gone away except people and things she loved.
    And real was here ; real was now .
    Just like the change in Jared.
    It was obvious that his wound had healed even more. Since the last time she’d checked it, it seemed to have shrunk to nearly half its original size. No matter the weakness she’d sensed in him before, or the quiver she’d heard in his voice—now the sharp hollows of his cheeks were beginning to fill in slightly, and the bruising had practically vanished around his eyes. Even his lips looked different, Lucy thought—fuller somehow, and no longer pale. The transformation was nothing short of miraculous. Yet even though he found respite in sleep, she could tell that the pain hadn’t left him. Not all of it . . . not yet.
    She placed her hand gently upon his brow.
    Wind . . . earth . . . sweat . . . blood . . . They drifted from his skin and from his hair, though not unpleasantly. And with them came a sense of some deep, inner struggle. Something far more desperate—more dangerous even—than a struggle for self-survival.
    Lucy’s fingertips slid lower, tracing the jagged mark across his face. The shock she felt was immediate and unexpected—a bolt of rage, a hatred so intense that she nearly reeled from the impact.
    Alarmed, she took a closer look.
    It was even deeper than she’d thought, and much more gruesome. As though something had not merely stabbed the flesh, but twisted . . . not only cut the flesh, but slashed with relentless force.
    And yet . . . he’s still so beautiful . . .
    Lucy gazed at him with a kind of awe.
    So beautiful and so handsome, in spite of the scars.
    A dark, compelling beauty, full of secrets . . .
    â€œStop now,” she whispered to herself. “Don’t go any further.”
    But she was already touching his arm.
    Trailing her fingers lightly over the puckered skin of his burn . . . the charred remains of his tattoo . . .
    This time, she cried out when the shock wave hit. As the uncontrolled fury surged through her, searing every artery and vein.
    She jerked backward, clutching her fingers, shaking violently, and becoming certain of two things:
    At some past time, Jared had been tortured.
    And both of his scars had come from the same merciless hand.

11
    She’d never expected to see such cruelty.
    Such brutal anger . . . such excruciating pain.
    Was it even humanly possible, she wondered, for someone to inflict—or bear—that kind of suffering?
    She’d only touched Jared’s scars for a moment.
    How many other scars ached deep within him, far beyond her reach?
    Lucy sat on the bed and watched him sleep. It was colder down here now, and she could hear the wind outside, rattling the chain on the doors. An occasional burst of snow gusted through the cracks and