In My Arms Till Break of Day (original) (raw)

Prologue Los Angeles, Midsummer's Day, 2006

Alex held her small body as closely as he could, pulling her nearly onto his lap as he knelt beside her.

Nearly, because they wouldn't both fit.

He felt, distantly, his body struggling to balance against the weight she held. Against the curl of her body around the man in her arms. Against the way she was rocking them both. His hands were trembling, he noted as he reached to stop the motion. He tried to grasp her more firmly, but his hands found purchase only along her outer arms. Head, shoulders, torso, hands—all were melded to her burden.

Her body was clenched, arms locked, face buried in the man's hair, her only motion the gentle swaying: Back and forth, back and forth, like mother and child. Slow and steady. Soothing.

Callie was tiny—had always seemed, despite the level of their training, fragile, despite her strength. But now, when she was broken…she was unfathomably solid. Fixed. Relentless as granite. Alex shut his eyes for a moment. Steeled himself.

Then reached further, cradling her body, pulling her more tightly to him. Wrapping his long arms around her and the person she held.

Stilling the terrible, inexorable movement.

But for all his struggle against the dreadful weight in his arms, it was the sound of her voice that made the hair on his arms, his nape, stand at attention. That pushed a shock of cold from his scalp down to the base of his spine. Its pitch was constant; a high, hushed tone that might have been mistaken for an excited whisper had it come from any other teenaged girl. From Callie it was a quiet, harrowing wail. An unending plea.

A prayer in extremis, uttered by an acolyte who had watched all her gods die.

Alex shut his eyes again. Felt the dry, pleasant warmth of the summer breeze chill the silent tears slipping from beneath his lashes, and did not fight against them. His rigid control, bred to the bone, could hold only so far. Could hold only his voice. He had no training which would allow him to dam this kind of weeping. He was not enough for this. Not enough.

He felt himself stretching thin, the sounds and smells of the summer night acrid and overwhelming, losing depth and directionality, shifting at random. Shock, his numbing brain supplied. He could not help them like this. Could not guard them like this. Was in no condition to shield them as they knelt there.

He clutched her more firmly with his left arm, reaching for the phone in his right pocket, hitting two buttons by feel, registering a single ring as the phone reached his ear and a smooth baritone sounded. “Alex?” Alex’s voice cracked. “We…” The pronoun overcame him. He did not bother to clear his throat.

“Alex?” Alarm rang through the raised tone. “Where are you? Where’s Callie? What’s happening?” Muffled sounds: steps, a door shutting, steps, the slam of a car door. Some distant, muted part of Alex’s brain responded with relief. Help was coming; was on its way. “Malwiya Mosque. We—” His voice cracked again and this time he cleared his throat, spoke with a hoarse, atonal blankness. “We’re not—she and I aren’t…”

His voice faded on the next word. It was a lie. Any word he could have used would have been a lie. “…hurt. Can’t protect ourselves. Need help with—need you and—and—” He could not ask Julian or Elenor to come. To see this. To do this.

The flat, harsh tone of the next-voiced demand jolted him from his thoughts and he realized he’d gone silent. “Alex. Tell me what’s happened. Now.”

“Sorry. Sorry, Josh, it’s—I—Keen. He’s been killed.”