Yeah, not going to happen.
I grabbed a coffee table book, one that was full of artsy pictures that made no sense but had the advantage of being a hardback and with over four hundred pages in it, and I swooped that from left to right as he approached me.
If I hit him, in just the right spot, he might stagger back—
Any plans screeched to a halt when he jabbed forward with the knife, and when he missed, pretty much did as I did, began swaying back and forth like he was a snake charmer who was attempting to lull me into a false sense of security.
Not gonna happen.
I had two sisters and a brother. I was used to sneaky little shits distracting me.
Panting, I focused on trying to kick him in the balls, going for the soft stuff first. When I scored a hit, he yelped, then I went for his nose with the book, but my hit glanced off his temple instead.
He surprised me by darting around the coffee table. I jerked back and out of the way, then as he swiped at me, he managed to slash me.
"OW!"
That bastard.
He’d gotten my thigh.
Nothing deep, just enough to fucking sting and I knew it was gonna bleed like an SOB because it ran all the way around the outer edge of my leg to the inner side.
Goddammit.
Pissed, aware that I was running out of time, energy, and now blood, and that I needed to get out of here fast, I swung the book hard. He batted it out of the way with the knife, and only dumb luck let me keep a firm hold on it.
I reacted faster though.
I brought the book around before he could jab at me with his weapon, and when the hardback collided with his skull, the thud was more than satisfying.
His eyes turned dazed and his head rocked like I’d spun it on its axis.
With him distracted, I brought the book back again, swinging wide with it like Dad had taught me to when playing golf—one of his coping mechanisms—twisting with all of my body and putting every ounce of strength into my hit.
It collided with him, the corner hitting him on the temple.
He fell to his knees, going down like a house of cards, yelling when they knocked into the edge of the glass coffee table. It smashed under his weight and I screamed as my support buckled out from under me. I had a millisecond to react and I dove forward, squealing with pain when I face-planted on the floor.
Groggily, I rolled onto my back, aware time wasn’t a luxury in my possession, and breathing hard, I scrambled onto my knees.
When I said that every bone in my body hurt, it wasn’t an understatement. In fact, it was being generous. My legs felt like cooked noodles, but that was nothing to the way my head, neck, and shoulders seemed as if I’d knocked all the joints out of alignment. And my hands? Sweet lord.
How could falling such a tiny distance hurt so fucking much?
My knees wobbled as I pushed onto my feet, and the lightheadedness that had spots dancing in my vision almost had me falling back down again. Gasping, I stared blindly at the coffee table, at the man lying face first amid the glass, not really registering it as I tried not to pass out.
I had to move.
I had to hurry.
Who knew when he’d wake up?
Who the fuck knew?
With him unconscious, I had more choices, but my brain was still stuck in survivor mode.
I had a phone, I even had a panic button, but I was bleeding and whatever I did, the blood from the cut on my thigh would follow me wherever I went, leading the bastard to me like a trail of nuts with a horde of carnivorous squirrels after them.
Staring down at the blood-stained carpet when I was finally standing, I grabbed a throw pillow from the sofa, swiped my foot against it to get it as clean as physically possible—news flash, it barely worked—then I did the only thing I could do—plucked at the fabric of my sweats beneath where he’d slashed through them and held it taut, so much so that I whimpered with pain. Hoping that would catch the blood so it wouldn’t just drip down my leg, I wobbled out of the room with one thought in mind—get to the penthouse.
Get to the O’Donnellys.
You know in movies, whenever you saw St. Peter’s gates, there was a song, with harps, I thought. Gold angel dust—not the PCP kind—glittered around them, and the openings were lodged into pearly white clouds?
That was the front door at that moment.
A choir of angels serenaded me as I made it there, hands scrabbling with the doorknob. It came as no surprise it was unlocked. After all, the bastard had gotten in somehow, but I still wasted precious seconds as I tried to figure out how to turn the goddamn handle.
Pissed at myself, I finally managed the simplest task in existence, and opened the door just as I heard him groan.
That sound sent shivers down my already weak spine, and I accepted that my time was more than just running out.
I could hear the ticking clock in my ear as much as I sensed how jarring that fall had been. My brain felt foggy but I had to act. It was either move it or lose it.
Literally.
Gritting my teeth, I darted out into the hall as quickly as I could, fear giving my knees the strength I needed to move faster.
There was technically only one way to reach the penthouse—a private elevator. But one time, I’d gained access to the helicopter pad up there.
I’d never know how my dad had pulled that particular string but he’d done it because Mom was rushed to the hospital with a punctured lung of all things, and I’d had to go through the emergency fire exit, up the stairs, and to the helicopter pad where my winged carriage had awaited me.
There, I’d learned about another set of stairs that would take me down to the penthouse’s terrace, and gave the owner easy access to that exit.
I didn’t know which O’Donnelly lived up there, but I was praying it was Aidan. He’d help me. He would. I knew it. He’d helped me before when I was young and stupid.
"Jesus, let it be Aidan," I rasped to myself.
I darted over to the elevator first, then summoned it. The doors immediately opened because the upper floors accessed a different elevator, one that only served a handful of people. Rushing in, I pressed the button that’d take me to the ground, then jumped out as the doors started to close.
Thanking Christ that the way I was holding my sweats meant blood wasn't dripping onto the floor, I peered down at the blood-soaked fabric and knew it wasn't going to hold for long.
Praying the intruder would take my actions with the elevator to mean I’d gone downstairs, which would have been the smart thing to do—the move that every blonde bimbette in a horror movie would never do—I stayed on course and headed for the fire exit.
I needed an O’Donnelly.
Someone had managed to break into a secured apartment building that required four different access codes to breach.
Someone had managed to do all that and then get into my apartment itself.
I knew who.
The Sparrows.
Because I’d been the one to break the news about them, because I’d been the one to write that initial exposé, to reveal the first round of faces and their purported crimes, they were gunning for me.
When you had a secret society coming after you, who were you gonna call?
Well, the Ghostbusters were out, but the Irish fucking Mob sure as hell felt like a safety net when the cops themselves had been infiltrated by the NWS too.
So, up it was.
I just never imagined that I'd be trying to find safety in a group of people who, once upon a time, had wanted me dead too.