Page 11 of The Darkest Chase

My blood simmers so thick I feel the bright midmorning light turning darker in my vision as I head up the sidewalk toward the station.

My vision hazes and halos around the edges.

I’ve always been sensitive to light. If I didn’t need my nights to myself, I’d trade with Henri for evening on-calls in a heartbeat. The corrective contact lenses I wear don’t really help, scattering the sun into starbursts.

So I almost miss it when it happens.

The girl, staggering through the loose streams of morning shoppers out running their errands. She starts fumbling with her purse, wearing a desperate look.

Her skin looks like white ash against her fiery-red hair, her eyes wide, her face an unnatural red that screams panic.

It’s her motion that grabs my attention.

Then the dull thump of her purse and leather portfolio hitting cobblestone.

Right before she goes tumbling down, collapsing in a spill of vivid scarlet and delicate limbs.

“Shit,” I mutter.

The people milling around her gasp, pulling back with a collective cry.

I don’t even realize I’m moving until I’m halfway across the square.

Dropping the coffee with a messy splash, I sprint to the girl’s side and fling myself down so hard I bruise my shins.

She’s not quite unconscious, not yet.

Her long lashes flutter against her red cheeks, offering glimpses of hazy blue eyes.

A familiar face?

Yeah, she works at the furniture shop down the street. Can’t remember her name, but that doesn’t matter right now.

I cup her face gently in both hands, stopping her from turning it from side to side in case she has head trauma.

“Miss,” I growl firmly, looking down into her eyes. “Focus on me. I’m a police officer. Can you tell me if you hit your head?”

Her lips part, but nothing comes out besides a wheeze. Her chest rises and falls, swift and shallow.

No blood, though.

No contusions that I can see at a glance.

Then I freeze.

She’s trying to reach her purse, I realize, her eyes rolling toward it helplessly while her throat clicks with fear.

That’s when what’s happening really sinks in.

She can’t breathe.

Probably an allergic reaction or an asthma attack.

I let go of her head and dive for her purse, ripping it open and spilling the contents. Notepad, phone, pens, receipts, lipstick, comb. Come on, come on, where’s the goddamn EpiPen or inhaler—

Aha.

An inhaler goes clattering across the stone.