Stone Magic: dark urban fantasy (Counterfeit Psychic Book 1) by Thea Atkinson

Author:Thea Atkinson [Atkinson, Thea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2021-11-16T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Layne wasn’t moving. He lay swathed in light from the streetlamp, and if he was breathing it was at some level I couldn’t discern from where I stood in the darkness.

I strained to hear a breath as I approached with cautious steps that made little sound as I moved, still not quite sure what I was seeing was real. I took furtive, studious glances up and down the street as I closed the distance, making sure that whatever had attacked him was well and truly gone.

All that met my gaze was a lazy street with the warm glow of lights in windows and the flickering of television screens between half-closed curtains.

I dropped my gaze to the man at my feet, noting that now the entire block had come alive with sound again. Night-blooming flowers in annual pots sent out a myriad of floral scents, all strong enough to make my nose twitch. If this was reality, then what in the name of God was what I’d just lived through?

I rolled Layne onto his back, my hands touching down on the skin where his clothes were rent. Wet skin. When I pulled away, it was because I knew without looking that it was blood that stained my fingers and palm.

I wanted to make sure I didn’t smear more over into places that were clear. The paramedics would have enough to assess without having to guess where his wounds were because he had so much blood all over. If he was alive.

With a calm I didn’t know I possessed, I wiped the blood on my jeans and then sought his neck with my fingertips. I brushed away bits of gravel that stuck to his jaw as I tested for a pulse.

A groan of relief slipped from me when I felt it hammering against the pads of my fingers.

Not dead.

"Lucky son of a bitch," I said.

I fell back on my haunches as I swept him top to toe for the telltale form of a cellphone. There. In his front pocket.

I had to work to shove my hand into his pocket, cursing him beneath my breath for wearing his jeans so damn tight. I had to shimmy back and forth with my fingers to get a good grip and then I pulled it free with a muffled whoop of victory…

Until a grip of iron went round my wrist.

He squeezed. I yelped in surprise. The phone might have dropped from my grasp if I’d been able to open my fingers at all.

"Don’t." His voice came out in a rasp and he cleared his throat.

"I have to call for help," I said, relieved he was conscious.

"I don’t need help. I’m perfectly fine."

"You’re not fine. You’re bleeding. You were passed out."

He used my hold as leverage to pull himself to a half-seated position. When he released a low, quiet chuckle, a breath of air whooshed out of my lungs in relief. He wasn’t dying at least.

"About that," he said. "I wasn’t exactly unconscious."

I sat back, pulling my hand from his finally.

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