Fantasyland 04 Broken Dove Read Free

pressing into the wall behind me like I wanted it to absorb me because it looked like he intended to cut Pol’s head off.
    I heard a thud of a body hitting floor (though not a second thud which would indicate a head hitting the floor) and I again swallowed bile and terror as police sirens sounded in the distance.
    I didn’t know if this was good or bad. I could explain my need for a gun and I’d do my time if a jury of my peers thought I deserved it.
    I couldn’t explain a beheading.
    “We must leave tout de suite .” The woman said and she didn’t sound bored anymore. She didn’t sound freaked like I was (in a big fucking way). But there was a hint of urgency to her voice.
    I opened my eyes just in time to be lifted up in romance-novel-cover Pol’s arms.
    Uh-oh.
    This wasn’t what unconscious felt like. I’d been that way often in my life and not just due to sleeping. I knew what it felt like. And this was not it.
    His arms around my middle back and behind my knees caged me iron tight to his broad chest as he peered down at me, straightened and turned, walking to the middle of the room and stopping.
    I would have protested. I should have protested.
    I didn’t protest.
    This was because I was looking in Pol’s eyes.
    But this was not Pol.
    I’d seen a myriad of looks in Pol’s eyes. Love. Hate. Fury. Annoyance. Passion. Humor. I could go on (and on).
    This man in his weird clothes did not have any of the looks Pol had given me over the way too many years we were together.
    He was gazing at me with a tenderness that was so acute I swear it looked like he was in pain.
    And not a little of it, the tenderness or the pain.
    “You’re not Pol,” I whispered.
    “No. I am not,” he replied, steel threading through his tone, his voice Pol’s voice and yet… not .
    His arms held me close as all around us went black.
    The loss of the green didn’t concern me. This guy concerned me. This guy who wore weird clothes, knew how to wield a sword and didn’t hesitate using it and looked at me like I was his reason for breathing concerned me.
    So I kept talking.
    “You’re not a hallucination.”
    Some of the tenderness leaked from his eyes but only so amusement could replace it and this was far from unattractive.
    “I’m not that either, my dove.”
    My dove?
    What the hell?
    “Do I have a brain injury?” I asked, figuring this was the only explanation, and his eyes dropped to my cheek.
    The tenderness and humor vanished before his gaze came back to mine.
    “We shall see.”
    That wasn’t a good answer.
    I mean, I was uncertain about a reality where some dude had beat the shit out of Pol, cut off his hand and maybe his head, but only because there’d be a lot of explaining to do with the police. And I didn’t care what that said about me. Perhaps dismemberment was a wee bit harsh a punishment for all of Pol’s transgressions. But only a wee bit.
    I wasn’t uncertain about not wanting to have a brain injury. Pol had inflicted a lot of damage over the years (broken wrist, broken ribs, concussions, contusions, sprained ankles, etc.) but he’d never put me into a coma.
    Before I could come to terms with any of this, new Pol was gently lying me down on a bed and it was a fluffy bed that felt great (thus I knew it wasn’t my lumpy bed in my apartment that didn’t feel great).
    He muttered to the room at large, “Light,” which I took as an order to the unknown woman I sensed still with us because, within seconds, weak light lit the room.
    I didn’t get the chance to process this new impossibility of me being on a comfy bed because he sat by my side and lifted his hand to rest it on my cheek. The flat of his thumb was just below the still stinging, tightening (thus swelling) flesh where Pol hit me with the butt of the gun.
    Oh, and he’d bent deep, his face was close to mine and that sweet look was on it again.
    “What did you endure prior to our arrival, Ilsa?” he asked, his voice low, deep, warm and