Read Online Crushed (City of Eldrich Book 2) by Laura Kirwan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Kirwan
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tilted up Patrice’s chin. A fresh bruise covered Patrice’s left eye and cheek. Blood trickled from her split lip. Angry red marks, finger shaped, covered her bare arms.
Feeling a sick knot in her gut, Meaghan, already knowing the answer, asked, “Who did this, Patrice? Where’s Jamie?”
Patrice’s eyes welled up. “He . . . he’s . . .” The remaining shreds of her self-control evaporated. Her face screwed up like a child’s and she dissolved into racking sobs. “He hit me.”
“Where are the kids?” Meaghan asked Natalie.
“Lynette’s. To give them time to be alone,” Natalie said, her face pale and rigid. “You . . . I can’t see him right now. I’ll do something I can’t take back.” Patrice sobbed in her arms. “That bastard,” Natalie continued. “I’m done protecting him.”
“I’ll go,” Meaghan said. “Stay with Patrice.”
“Be careful,” Natalie said. “He blew out the windows when she left.”
The neighbors were already out, trying to see what had happened. She walked past them without a glance, through the gate in the white picket fence and into the yard.
Glass lay everywhere in jagged shards. Someone standing in the yard—or, Meaghan thought with a chill, running from the house—could have been killed.
She stepped through the open front door, grateful she’d changed from flip flops to heavier sandals before driving to Natalie’s.
“Jamie?” Her voice shook, fear and anger fighting for control. Meaghan wasn’t sure she could save him this time. The young man she had known before he’d been taken never would have harmed his wife and never would forgive himself for hurting her now.
Meaghan found him standing in the kitchen. The sigils etched into his back glowed a deep angry red. Below them, like the trunk of a tree, ran long scars along his spine where his Fahrayan wings had been cut away. He gripped a shard of glass in his right hand, blood dripping from his fingers.
“You should have let them kill me,” he said, his voice flat.
“Jamie, put the glass down.” Meaghan crept closer. “Please. Put it down and tell me what happened.”
“I hit my wife,” he said in the same flat voice. His fingers dropped the bloody shard and curled into a ball. “I made a fist and slugged her. Like this.” He hit himself hard on the side of his head. “And like this.” He punched himself in the mouth.
He fell to his knees in the broken glass. “Like this,” he shouted, now enraged, and pummeled his head with both fists. His fury spent, he hugged himself and rocked back and forth, sobbing. “Why didn’t you let them kill me? Why?”
She placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “Jamie, I . . .”
He scrambled away, leaving bloody handprints on the floor. “Don’t touch me. I’m wrong. I’m bad.” His tears came in painful gasps that echoed Patrice’s sobs. Still on his knees, he curled into a ball, his arms over his head.
Meaghan pulled her phone from her pocket. Jamie needed help she couldn’t give him. He needed to be in a hospital, in a psych ward. But she had to get him calm before help arrived. No suicide-by-cop scenarios could be allowed to unfold.
“9-1-1 dispatch,” a young female voice answered. “What is your emergency?”
“This is Meaghan Keele—”
“Meaghan? This is Dana—I mean Cassandra—I was at your house today?”
Meaghan felt a stirring of hope. A witch was working dispatch. “Dana, I need to keep this to the clued-in as much as possible.”
“Got it. Are you at Jamie’s?”
“Yeah,” Meaghan said, surprised. “How did you know?”
“The calls are rolling in. I’ve got a couple of clued-in cops—”
“City cops? Not county?”
“Yeah. And paramedics. It’s handled.”
“Dana—or is it Cassandra?”
“Dana,” she said firmly. “Cassandra was Circe’s idea.”
“Whatever your name, you’re a lifesaver,” Meaghan said, feeling a wave of relief.
“If there’s anything else you need,
Feeling a sick knot in her gut, Meaghan, already knowing the answer, asked, “Who did this, Patrice? Where’s Jamie?”
Patrice’s eyes welled up. “He . . . he’s . . .” The remaining shreds of her self-control evaporated. Her face screwed up like a child’s and she dissolved into racking sobs. “He hit me.”
“Where are the kids?” Meaghan asked Natalie.
“Lynette’s. To give them time to be alone,” Natalie said, her face pale and rigid. “You . . . I can’t see him right now. I’ll do something I can’t take back.” Patrice sobbed in her arms. “That bastard,” Natalie continued. “I’m done protecting him.”
“I’ll go,” Meaghan said. “Stay with Patrice.”
“Be careful,” Natalie said. “He blew out the windows when she left.”
The neighbors were already out, trying to see what had happened. She walked past them without a glance, through the gate in the white picket fence and into the yard.
Glass lay everywhere in jagged shards. Someone standing in the yard—or, Meaghan thought with a chill, running from the house—could have been killed.
She stepped through the open front door, grateful she’d changed from flip flops to heavier sandals before driving to Natalie’s.
“Jamie?” Her voice shook, fear and anger fighting for control. Meaghan wasn’t sure she could save him this time. The young man she had known before he’d been taken never would have harmed his wife and never would forgive himself for hurting her now.
Meaghan found him standing in the kitchen. The sigils etched into his back glowed a deep angry red. Below them, like the trunk of a tree, ran long scars along his spine where his Fahrayan wings had been cut away. He gripped a shard of glass in his right hand, blood dripping from his fingers.
“You should have let them kill me,” he said, his voice flat.
“Jamie, put the glass down.” Meaghan crept closer. “Please. Put it down and tell me what happened.”
“I hit my wife,” he said in the same flat voice. His fingers dropped the bloody shard and curled into a ball. “I made a fist and slugged her. Like this.” He hit himself hard on the side of his head. “And like this.” He punched himself in the mouth.
He fell to his knees in the broken glass. “Like this,” he shouted, now enraged, and pummeled his head with both fists. His fury spent, he hugged himself and rocked back and forth, sobbing. “Why didn’t you let them kill me? Why?”
She placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “Jamie, I . . .”
He scrambled away, leaving bloody handprints on the floor. “Don’t touch me. I’m wrong. I’m bad.” His tears came in painful gasps that echoed Patrice’s sobs. Still on his knees, he curled into a ball, his arms over his head.
Meaghan pulled her phone from her pocket. Jamie needed help she couldn’t give him. He needed to be in a hospital, in a psych ward. But she had to get him calm before help arrived. No suicide-by-cop scenarios could be allowed to unfold.
“9-1-1 dispatch,” a young female voice answered. “What is your emergency?”
“This is Meaghan Keele—”
“Meaghan? This is Dana—I mean Cassandra—I was at your house today?”
Meaghan felt a stirring of hope. A witch was working dispatch. “Dana, I need to keep this to the clued-in as much as possible.”
“Got it. Are you at Jamie’s?”
“Yeah,” Meaghan said, surprised. “How did you know?”
“The calls are rolling in. I’ve got a couple of clued-in cops—”
“City cops? Not county?”
“Yeah. And paramedics. It’s handled.”
“Dana—or is it Cassandra?”
“Dana,” she said firmly. “Cassandra was Circe’s idea.”
“Whatever your name, you’re a lifesaver,” Meaghan said, feeling a wave of relief.
“If there’s anything else you need,
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