Chains of Fire

by Christina Dodd

  Distantly, he could hear her breathing grow harsh.

  This was why he hated her to carry this burden. He knew how she did it. She put her hands on the sufferer and took the anguish as her own. Her body encapsulated his ruptured disks and healed them quickly, generously.

  Yet it was a cruel torture, for she suffered all the pain that he suffered—and she knew she would. The first time she touched him, she had tasted the anguish of his injury, and yet she took the pain voluntarily.

  He was a strong man, yet he knew he wouldn’t have had the courage to do what she did.

  She was the bravest person he’d ever met.

  He didn’t know how long she kept her hands on him, how long their hearts beat together, how long they breathed with the same lungs, how long their bones healed as one.

  But when he opened his eyes, he was whole once more—and she sat over him, swaying, face pale, eyes weary.

  “Come on.” He pulled her down on top of him, wrapped his arms around her. “Rest on me.”

  She was stiff, resistant.

  “I won’t grope you,” he assured her. “At least until you’ve recovered.”

  “Ass,” she whispered. With a sigh, she relaxed and turned her head into his neck.

  Her voluminous coat enveloped them, cocooning them in warmth. His body protected her from the chill of the floor. . . . He liked knowing he could protect her from something. He sure as hell hadn’t kept her safe tonight. Soon, he knew, they would be at odds again, but for this moment, they had escaped death, and they were joined.

  As her body grew warm and pliant, she asked, “How did you know?”

  “How did I know what?”

  “You knew about the tree across the road. You knew about the avalanche before they set the charges. You’re not a mind reader. So how did you know?”

  He grimaced. “I may not be a mind reader, but I was in that guy’s mind tonight. It was not a pleasant place. I forced him to give me the information about Mathis, where they were keeping him, how many men were guarding him. He was fighting me, which made overcoming him kind of fun because . . .”

  She tensed against him.

  He continued. “. . . Because I knew he’d almost killed a child.” He waited, curious to see whether she would chide him.

  But she remained still, neither approving nor disapproving.

  So he said, “At the same time . . . he was experiencing this sense of glee.”

  “So you made him tell you about it?” She had that tone in her voice, not quite accusatory, but not pleasant, either.

  “I didn’t bother. My mistake, but at the time, I was afraid the kid was going to die if we didn’t get there in a hurry.”

  “If he didn’t tell you, how did you know about the tree across the road? And the avalanche?”

  “I didn’t know. Not . . . really. But as I drove along, I started feeling that glee again. It was sick and it was mean, and I knew it was him. The farther I drove, the worse it got. It made me hurry—”

  “That’s why you were speeding.”

  “Yeah, I was on the run. Then . . . they must have been watching us with binoculars, because I got this huge burst of pure mean-ass pleasure, right before we went around that corner.”

  “You . . . read his mind?” She sounded politely incredulous.

  For good reason. He wasn’t a mind reader. Well, except for the weird connection with Dina, and he thought that was an anomaly, a meeting of their two talents. “This feeling was just an impression. I don’t know why it had happened, or how. Maybe it was a hangover from me being in his mind.”

  “That makes a weird kind of sense,” she conceded.

  “In a gross way.” Samuel didn’t want any of that bastard clinging to his mind. Sitting up, he crossed his legs, settled her in his lap, and picked through his memory for the pieces of the puzzle. “I was going to turn around and run the other direction, because I knew they had set a trap of some kind; I just couldn’t figure out what. If we’d hit that tree, the car would have been disabled and we would have been sitting ducks for whatever they had planned. Everybody up here knows that the wind blows the snow into the drifts that cause avalanches. I saw that tree cut across the road and the way the wind was blowing the snow, looked up at the mountain and that open stretch of pasture, and I knew. I knew. I figured if this castle was sturdy enough to stand all these years, it was our best chance to survive.”

  She looked up at the dark cavern of the ceiling. “I don’t think the castle is still standing.”

  “Probably not. Not all of it. No matter how strong the structure—and it had to be formidable to withstand other avalanches that have surely swept down on it—it couldn’t withstand such a large snowfield and such a maliciously placed charge.” He looked up, too. “But it’s holding its own.”

  “I guess that leaves two questions.”

  “How long will the building survive?”

  “That’s one.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “Why did the Others set a trap for us?”

  Chapter 11

  Effortlessly, as if he’d never been hurt, Samuel rose, lifting Isabelle to her feet. “We were set up. Or rather—I was set up. The Others are trying to kill me.”

  Her hackles rose at his assumption he was the target. “Don’t be so conceited. They hurt the boy to bring me to help.”

  “Maybe. I think it was simply to give urgency to the call.”

  “Oh, stop brooding.” She put her hand to her forehead. Her brain felt heavy. Her eyes hurt from keeping them open.

  “I’m not brooding. Just feeling stupid.”

  As the adrenaline rush faded, exhaustion dragged at her. She’d healed Mathis’s not-inconsiderable injuries, then restored Samuel’s ruptured disks. She didn’t have the strength to be tactful. Besides, with Samuel, tact was a waste of time. “Tell me, what else would we have done? We rescue children. From bad situations. And from the Others. That’s what we do.”

  “I should have been more cautious. I should have known they were watching me go to the bank to open the accounts.” He saw the startled expression on her face, and said, “You didn’t think of that, did you? That that’s why we’ve been buried alive?”

  “No. That didn’t occur to me. I’ve had other things on my mind.” She was so tired, she couldn’t even snap at him with any fire.

  Picking up the flashlight, he shined it around the locker room. It occupied the whole basement of the castle, with two dozen rows of lockers, half a dozen picnic tables and benches, and various changing rooms.

  The open ceiling was fourteen feet over their heads: ancient, sturdy oak beams supported on oak columns with reinforcements of modern steel that spanned from wall to wall, and steel columns spaced to support the weight of the castle above. If she didn’t know about the tons of snow that buried them, she would have thought they could walk out of here. But she had felt the blast of the avalanche, and as the flashlight played over the place the stairs had once been, a frozen waterfall of snow blocked the former entrance.

  Lockers stood in double rows up and down the large room, except close against them where the lockers had fallen and smashed open. She saw an ax in the rubble, bricks and stones, broken glass, and, incongruously, one red ski still attached to its boot.

  “Aren’t you going to ask if the accounts transferred?” he asked.

  “I never doubted you would succeed.”

  “I did succeed.” Disheveled, his formal clothes flecked with dust and snow, he looked like a corporate pirate as he mocked her with his smile. “I met with the bank president and presented our case. He refused.”

  She looked down at herself. The mink no longer looked like a hundred thousand dollars. Tiny pieces of castle clung to the fur; she shook it, brushed it, unreasonably distressed by the chaos. “So you controlled his mind and forced him to give you what you wanted.”

  “That’s right. Why do you think I was chosen to come on this mission? Who else could have done what I did
?”

  “I didn’t accuse you of anything,” she said in a carefully neutral voice, but now she smoothed her gown, admiring how the resilient silk had shaken off the trauma to glisten once more.

  “Didn’t you?”

  Her Jimmy Choo stilettos hadn’t survived the night as well as the gown; they were scuffed, the right heel felt loose, and her toes hurt from exposure to snow and ice and cold. Her whole body ached and throbbed. And Samuel’s hostility hit her like a blow, hurting her when she could not bear to be hurt any more.

  Of course, Samuel being Samuel, he didn’t realize he was being a jerk moron creep snake scumbucket. He just kept on talking. “You were the acting leader of the Chosen Ones for almost a year.”

  She stood by a table surrounded by benches, a place for the skiers to adjust their boots and eat their lunches. Wearily, she brushed the worst of the debris off the wooden surface. She tucked the length of the mink beneath her, crossed her legs, wrapped the wings of the coat around her. “Yes. So?”

  “Did you ever hear anything about a safety-deposit box?”

  She was hearing him, but at a distance. “No. Why?”

  “There’s a safety-deposit box at the bank in Zurich. The bank president took me down there. To open it takes some kind of combination or chanting or some silly-ass thing.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “That’s the question that interests me. Not even Adelbrecht Wagner had a clue.”

  Her head drooped.

  “He’s the bank president,” Samuel said helpfully.

  She didn’t care. She was waiting to die.

  Samuel asked, “Do you mind if I wander away with the flashlight?”

  “No.” Belatedly she thought she should show some curiosity. “Why?”

  “I’m going to see if I can find us somewhere to sleep.”

  “Right.” Somewhere to sleep? Where? The Holiday Inn? She grinned to herself, and waved him away.

  He took the light and disappeared down a row of lockers. For a few minutes she watched, then realized her eyes had drifted shut. No, slammed shut. Slowly she reclined on the table. This wasn’t too bad a spot. She was so tired she didn’t think she’d even roll off.

  A second later, she opened her eyes to see Samuel standing over her.

  “Come on, honey; you need to change and crawl into bed.”

  “Bed?”

  He gestured. “I found the ski-patrol supplies. We’ve got a two-man tent with a raised floor, sleeping bags, and for you”—he held up oatmeal-colored long johns, top and bottom—“some socks and warm pajamas.”

  She smiled at him, so cold she was drifting away. “You didn’t really find that stuff, did you? This is a hallucination.”

  “Come on, Isabelle.” He helped her sit up. He groped her legs.

  She knew she should protest, but she was too tired, and anyway, what difference did it make? He would have to get past her knees before she could feel anything.

  Grabbing her ankles, he brought her feet out from under the coat, removed her shoes, and tossed them aside.

  That roused a murmur of protest from her.

  “I’ll buy you some new ones when we get out of here,” he said, and slid socks on her feet, first one, then the other. Then après-ski boots.

  “They’re too big,” she told him.

  “We’ll find you the right size tomorrow.”

  She was sure that in a couple of years, her feet would get warm again. Polite as always, she said, “Thank you,” leaned her head against his chest, and fell instantly asleep.

  He pulled the pins out of her hair and worked his fingers through the stiff, hair-sprayed strands.

  She half roused, and almost purred with pleasure. “Nice.” Her voice was slurred.

  “You can’t sit here and freeze to death. I’m not done with you yet.” He shook her, and when she lifted her head, he pressed something into her hand. “Drink this.”

  She lifted the bottle to look at it.

  Perrier.

  “How did you find that? That’s wonderful.”

  He helped her tilt it to her lips. “I told you. I found the ski-patrol supplies.”

  Sure he did. She drank gratefully. Her fingers involuntarily loosened.

  Catching the bottle, he set it down to the side. Made her slide, protesting, off the table.

  “I want you to take the flashlight and go into the ladies’ room.” He pointed her toward a darkened entrance. “The water’s not frozen yet. Better yet, the hot-water heater is down here, the water’s still warm, and there are showers.”

  She squinted at him. His hair was damp and he looked considerably less grimy. “You took a shower!”

  It sounded so good. To be clean . . .

  She sighed and closed her eyes.

  But it was too much effort.

  He continued. “You can pee—”

  Her proper upbringing rose in automatic protest. “Refresh myself,” she corrected.

  “Right. You can refresh yourself. Wash and change, then come back to me, and we’ll go to bed and get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll figure out a way out of here. Okay?”

  She couldn’t pull herself out of her malaise. She couldn’t even try. Her knees sagged, and if he hadn’t held her up, she would have fallen to the floor and stayed there until she died.

  His hand tightened on her, holding her close against him. For a moment, she thought he actually empathized with her.

  But no. In his amused, hateful, horny Samuel voice, he said, “I have been watching you all night long in this silk dress, and all I could think was—what have you got on underneath?” He pushed the mink coat off her shoulders and dropped it to the ground. “Before you go change, I’m going to find out.”

  A spark of surprise lit inside her.

  He bent her over his knee. Swift as a striking snake, he ran his hand over her rear, down her leg, then under her skirt and up. His hand was on her bare butt before she had time to react. He stroked her, whispered, “Damn, that’s a fine ass,” then his fingers caught the elastic band of her thong and slid underneath, riding along the crack of her rear, pushing it down her legs, returning to stroke her clit.

  She was awake now, aware, furious, fighting. She slammed herself out of his grip and almost toppled over. He caught her hands, pulled her back into him—and she kicked him right in the crotch.

  He yelled, bent over, grabbed his balls.

  And she kneed him in the face. She felt his nose crunch, saw the blood spurt, heard him yell in agony. All in all, it was a satisfying and exhilarating experience.

  She didn’t wait for him to recover. Snatching up the underwear, she stormed toward the ladies’ room. “I hope you choke,” she shouted.

  “Wort ebry bita pain,” he shouted back. “Come beck; I’ll do et again.”

  “Jerk,” she muttered, and went in to do what he said—pee, wash, and change.

  When Isabelle climbed into the tent, she expected to have to fight Samuel off. After all, twenty minutes ago he’d been groping her intimately.

  Instead, once he helped her remove her boots and zipped her into her own sleeping bag, he turned his back to her and went instantly to sleep. She knew he did, because right away he started twitching and moaning. And snoring and snorting. She waited for another few seconds, then snuggled against him, desperate for his heat, and fell into sleep on the lullaby of his nightmares.

  Chapter 12

  Samuel’s very first memory was of walking into the tavern, covered with the garbage he’d used to keep warm the night before, and hearing the regulars laugh at him. Laugh and point and laugh.

  Humiliation. Incandescent fury. He bunched his fists and shouted at Fat Woman, “My mama’s going to come and get me, and she’ll kill you!”

  But instead of giving him the clout to the head he expected, Fat Woman laughed louder and slapped her knee. “Your mama had you in the back of my garage like a stray cat; then she ran away, leaving me to clean up the mess. Stupid tall blond German woman gave b
irth to you. Look at you. You’re a little troll. You haven’t got a mama. You haven’t got a family. You’re nothing but a dark, dirty Gypsy bastard, and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

  He was only four, but he recognized contempt when he heard it. Contempt for him. Contempt for the pretty, kind, loving mother he’d imagined all his life. He flung himself at Fat Woman, biting and scratching, and he was fast. He got her blood in his mouth and her skin under his fingernails.

  But she was fast, too. Her fist swung at him like a wrecking ball, hitting him hard.

  He flew across the room. Hit the wall.

  But she stopped laughing.

  In his sleep, Samuel ducked. But his face hurt anyway.

  His dreams drifted to . . .

  He slipped through the crowds. Tourists were everywhere. Bright-colored shorts, long legs, hemp sandals, all moving along the seawall overlooking the beach. He smelled sausage and ocean and flowers and sweat, and he concentrated on his mission.

  Fat Woman wanted money. Lots of money. She’d trained him to pick out expensive handbags and wallets. That was the easy part. Pockets and purses were at eye level.

  So he must have been about five, Samuel mused in his sleep.

  Then he was back again, in the town, smelling the odors, seeing the leather bags, stalking the thin, tourist American lady because . . .

  He’d taught himself to observe people first. Then what they carried. Whether they looked dangerous. Because if he stalked the wrong quarry, he would get caught. Put in prison. And tortured, raped, killed, and eaten.

  That was what had happened to Fat Woman’s last boy. That was what she told him.

  He waited until the American lady was in the thickest part of the crowd, then moved in. Lifting the flap of her purse, he removed her wallet.

  Something snapped at his wrist like a mousetrap. A man’s hand. The man lifted Sammy off his feet, and in a dispassionate English accent, he said, “Madam, this boy just picked your pocket.”

  “No. No. No!” Sammy dropped the wallet and kicked at the man, swinging wildly like a trapped monkey.