Do Your Worst(21)
“Sometimes. It depends on the age and origin of the curse—” Her next few words were cut off by a sudden, intense gust of wind, so strong it rattled the remains of the kitchen’s wooden shelving.
Both Riley and Clark turned toward the room’s set of busted windows, but the source of the current seemed to come from behind them, instead, from the doorway.
“There must be some kind of cross breeze coming from the other side of the castle,” Clark said, coughing a bit as the wind caught and carried ash from the hearth, scattering orange embers at their feet.
“You think this is normal?” Riley threw up her arms, protecting her face from the gray clouds as another gust tore through, this one seemingly from the opposite direction.
By the time they could both open their eyes, they had other problems.
“Something’s burning,” Clark said at the exact same moment that Riley looked down and screamed.
The second he saw the flame starting to lick up the loose fringe of her trouser cuffs, he didn’t think, just wrapped one arm around her waist and used the other to cradle the back of her skull as he threw them both to the ground.
He landed hard on his back in the packed earth, his teeth clacking together.
“Roll,” he commanded, flinging them both bodily to the side, hoping the combination of momentum and the coverage of his body worked to smother the small flame.
For several dizzy seconds he could hear nothing, see nothing, think of nothing but how blankly terrified he was and taste the dirt in his mouth.
They kept rolling until they hit the far wall of the room. Pushing up to his knees, Clark frantically checked to see if her black, smoking hem had gone out.
“Did it get you?” The damaged fabric didn’t appear to reach higher than her ankle, and she had on thick boots, but—
“No.” Her voice shook a little as she sat up on her elbows. “No, I don’t think so.”
Carefully, Clark reached for her, tugging up from the untouched part of her jeans to reveal the boots and the tops of her ice-cream-patterned socks, both unburned, as well as the smooth, pale skin of her lower calf.
He should have stopped there, but Clark caught a glimpse of pink scar, and his hand acted of its own accord, shoving the fabric higher toward her knee, heart stuttering.
“That’s old,” Riley protested, and Clark could see now that it was, jagged and faded. “I got caught in a barbed-wire chicken fence last year, helping a farmer whose crops had suffered several years of blight.”
Clark’s thumb traced another scar, small and white across her knee. “And this?”
“That was my fault.” She stared at his hand on her skin rather than look at his face. “I was gathering blackberries for a cleansing solution, and I knelt on a thorn.”
For some reason, Clark’s throat hurt, each swallow sharp and tight. “You get hurt a lot?”
“It’s part of the gig,” she said, finally tugging the fabric back down.
“Right.” Clark shoved his hands in his pockets.
She’s fine. Look at her, she’s okay now.
Everyone had scars. It didn’t make sense that he wanted to treat these old wounds as if they were fresh—as if Riley would have let him. She wasn’t his dad, coming home with bruises, laughing around a split lip. Telling Clark to grab the first aid kit so he could see to some sutures he’d accidentally torn.
You’re too controlling, Patrick had said, scolding at the end of another long day in the sun because he’d insisted on repackaging all the samples after an intern had used the wrong method. It was a weakness. And one of the reasons why Clark had bitten his tongue for so long in Spain.
For years he’d been told he was overbearing, relentless in his expectations for himself and others. Until one day Patrick said, Relax. Trust me. And out of love and a desire to be better, Clark had made himself do it.
Not anymore.
“There are rules on an archaeological site.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “In fact, I’m pretty sure there are rules on any job site—especially when that job site is a giant, ancient, crumbling castle.”
Riley nodded, the serious look she was going for slightly undercut by the mussed, dirt-laden state of her ponytail.
“I understand that you’re upset.”
“No.” Clark got to his feet. “I’m not upset. I am . . .” Shaken. Unmoored. “. . . irate.”
“Oh boy,” Riley muttered, standing herself.
“I’ll never be able to get my work done”—he tried to instill every ounce of authority he possessed into his tone—“if I’m constantly babysitting you.”
“Babysitting? Are you fucking kidding me?” Riley threw up her hands. “How about this—just stay away from me.”
As much as he’d like to agree to such a simple suggestion, Clark couldn’t. “I won’t be able to stop worrying about you.”
“You don’t even like me.” She barely bit out the sentence around her mounting fury.
“That’s not the point.” It also wasn’t completely true. Not that Clark needed her knowing how difficult he found it to write her off. “If we’re sharing a site, you have to follow basic safety procedures. It’s nonnegotiable.”
“Oh really?” She opened her mouth, presumably to tell him exactly where he could shove his demands, but then something seemed to occur to her. “Wait a minute. Maybe there’s a way for both of us to get what we want here.”