Carry On Wayward Son(24)
Theresa was gone.
Simon ran across the yard and down to the street corner, skidding to a halt. He caught Eric’s arm as he saw her, heading up the long sidewalk to the Victorian.
He couldn’t call out, couldn’t stop her, and damn if she didn’t know it.
Helpless, he watched her walk straight toward the hot zone.
ELEVEN
Marcus knelt on the stone floor, wrapped in chain and blood.
Steel chain—to cripple his power.
Half a dozen men stood over him, one of them holding a stained whip. Claire hugged the wall behind her, hidden by the flickering shadows. It was solid, real. She was here.
The man holding the whip spoke, his light voice edged with satisfaction. “You will make your confession, Marcus of Sinai, and accept the sentence laid down by this council.” The whip dragged across stone, leaving behind a dark trail. “Will you speak?”
Swallowing, Marcus said nothing. Before she could react the whip snapped up and out, sliced into already lacerated skin. Marcus hunched over, his sweat soaked hair nearly touching the floor. Agony wrapped him like a shroud.
His tormentor raised the whip again—and Claire pushed off the wall.
“Stop!”
He spun, a knife in his free hand. Shaking, she moved out of the shadows, and stepped between him and Marcus. He hissed, raised his knife. Silver flared around the man, and she realized he was Jinn. “Demon—you dare walk among us—”
“Harm her, Baran, and it will be your life.” Marcus lifted his head; she sucked in a breath when she saw the ugly welt across his left cheek. Pain scraped his sand rough voice. “Claire, what are—Baran no—”
She whirled, warned by the panic in his voice—just in time to see Baran raise the whip and snap it forward. Flinging up her arm, she covered her face and stepped in front of the whip.
“Claire!”
Fire ripped across her forearm. She locked her knees, waited for the next blow, determined Marcus wouldn’t be hurt again—
“Enough.” The giant figure appeared in front of her, catching the whip in his hand. With a start she recognized him—Jamal, the man who had been training with Marcus, teasing him about her. Yanking the whip out of Baran’s hand, he turned, clear, sharp green eyes studying her. “Give me your arm, child.”
She obeyed, dizzy with pain, wanting to sink to the floor. Instead, she watched him remove a length of red silk wrapped around his waist and use it to bind her arm. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Sit now, before you topple over.” He eased her to the floor, crouched in front of Marcus. “This is how you talk your way free?”
Marcus raised his head, blood sliding down his throat. “I was ambushed, on my way to the trial.” Claire flinched at his raw voice.
“I gave you the time you asked me for. You should be grateful I decided to break my promise and check on you.”
Marcus sucked in his breath as Jamal touched the chains trapping him. They snapped open and clattered to the stone floor.
Baran’s furious roar brought Jamal to his feet. “You dare interfere—
“You dare question my authority?” Jamal raised his arms and every door in the chamber slammed shut. The other men trying to quietly sneak out froze. “You may not agree with my decisions, Baran,” Jamal stepped to him, towering over the smaller Jinn. “But you will obey them. Marcus will be freed. This woman knows him, bears witness to his redemption, and I believe her.”
She gave Baran credit; however foolish, he refused to back down. “I have not heard this evidence—”
“And you never will. That is for me to decide, and I decide, demon or no, that she knows the truth.” Jamal leaned down, until he was eye level, spoke in ancient Arabic. The Jinn’s face paled, and Claire understood who Jamal was. What he was. “Leave us, before I bestow on you the punishment you gave Marcus.”
Baran stumbled backward, his face drained of color. The silver Claire saw flaring around him before snuffed out. “You cannot—”
“Don’t tempt me, Jinn. Out—all of you. Now.”
The doors flew open, and the men did the smart thing—they ran. Baran paused at the threshold of the double doors, gave Jamal a mocking bow before he strode out of sight.
“Impudent sand pup.” Another flick of his hand closed the doors, locks clicking over, turning the torture chamber into a safe haven. Jamal knelt behind Marcus, whistled as he peeled what was left of Marcus’s shirt off his back. “Baran always did hate you best, my friend. Can you do this on your own?”
Nodding, Marcus clutched the floor, his left arm shaking. Sand and smoke whipped out of thin air, gathered around his hunched figure. Claire watched him heal, his soul a bright, pure light inside the whirlwind. His power astonished her—he had never completely worn it until now. Three hundred years in a cave, separated from the sun and sand that was his essence, had broken part of him.