Chapter Twenty
Cas’s leg was not broken.
In some ways that was a disappointment. He’d been carried out of Black Hill Cemetery with extreme care, and laid out on a stretcher like an injured hero. He’d looked forward to having his picture taken for the papers, leaning on his crutches like a seasoned soldier just back from some thrilling campaign; he’d adopt a slightly pained but noble expression, his suffering evident but his staunch courage equally so. His crutches and his broken leg would be his badge of honour, evidence of his extraordinary bravery.
In the midst of these pleasant dreams had come the ruling: his right leg was badly sprained in two places and he had more bruises than he could count, but the bones were sound.
Damn.
“You can’t truly wish for a broken leg, Cas,” Clara had
