Now You See Him(53)

None of the other guards was in sight. Not that they would save her, but they might consider it worth their while to keep their meal ticket going. But then, maybe their payments had stopped. And that was why Juan was being given his turn.

He spun her around and shoved her hard against the wall. Her head smacked against the stone, and she blacked out for a moment, sliding to the ground. When her vision cleared he was on top of her, ripping at her buttons, his hot, fetid breath washing over her averted face as she fought and fought.

And then the magic place came back. The light was white this time, blinding, and no hands were clawing at her, no one was hurting her. She shut her eyes, blocking out everything, willingly accepting the blankness, when she heard a scream, one that echoed chillingly through the cells and then died in a rattling gurgle.

She opened her eyes. She was in no magic place. The stink and the noise of the prison were still around her, the bright white light no peaceful trance world but the brightness of electricity. Quickly she struggled to her feet, pulling her ripped dress back around her, as she surveyed the silent tableau.

The prisoners in their cells were backed against the walls, not saying a word. The Arab was standing by the light, tall, dressed in enveloping robes that obscured everything about him but the blood on the white material. And Juan was lying in a pool of blood on the floor, his mean eyes wide and staring, a knife in his throat.

Francey felt the scream of horror begin to bubble up in the back of her throat as she stared at him. Before it could erupt a hand clamped over her mouth, a hard, brown hand, and she was pulled back against the Arab's voluminous robes, against the strong body underneath it.

"You want to get out of here?" His voice whispered in her ear, a rasping, accentless voice. "Don't nod—I might break your neck. Just raise your hand."

She didn't even consider the alternatives. She raised her hand, and he caught it in his own large brown one. "Then follow me and keep quiet."

He didn't release her hand. Instead he pulled her after him, out into the stillness of the dark, moonless night. She stumbled as she followed him, and for a moment all she wanted to do was breathe in the clean, free air. But the stranger wasn't allowing her any delay. He yanked her after him, moving down a pitch-dark alley, and she followed, trying to hold her dress together with her other hand, trying to empty her mind of everything but the need to follow the huge stranger.

She didn't care where he was leading her. Whether it was to death, to white slavery, to degradation or to freedom. She'd lost the capacity to care, or to choose. She was like a leaf on the wind, swirling with the forces of nature. The last of her fight had been squandered on that fruitless struggle with Juan. If the man taking her away held a knife to her throat, she would accept it without flinching. She had had enough.

He seemed to have no interest in her, other than to lead her through the maze of back alleys of the small town of Mariz. She could smell the sea, growing stronger, and she wondered if he was going to drown her. Or simply sail away with her. It didn't matter.

Except that she wasn't sure she could make it. During those interminable weeks in the prison cell she'd barely been able to make herself eat. Her clothes had grown loose and baggy, and her strength and energy had vanished. She hadn't walked more than a few feet at a time during her stay, and this headlong march to the sea was fast draining her remaining resources.

The hand that gripped hers was hard and strong, callused and deadly. For a moment she wondered who her savior was. And then she decided it didn't matter. All that mattered was that she stayed on her feet until they reached whatever destination he'd decided on.

She wished he were Michael. But Michael was small, frail, Michael wouldn't kill a man that swiftly, mercilessly, efficiently. He wouldn't drag her through the twisty streets of a small Spanish town without a word.

Michael didn't even exist. He was a dream, from a dream world, not belonging to blood and death. She no longer wanted to find him. Searching for him had brought her to this devastating point. She had nothing more she could risk.

They were near the sea, and for a moment she could pretend they were a continent away, with clean white sand and palm trees. They were near the quay, and she could see boats at anchor. Fishing boats, yachts, one that even looked like Daniel's boat, the True Blue. But that was impossible.

She stumbled again, too weary to take another step, and she half expected the man leading her to abandon her, or haul her to her feet with unceremonious force.

He did neither. She felt him loom over her, all strength and size and enveloping robes, and a moment later she was lifted effortlessly in his arms. Her dizziness increased with the weightlessness, and she whimpered faintly, clinging to the soft cotton robes. Odd, the drunken man didn't smell like alcohol. He smelled of sunlight and warm male flesh. He smelled like blood.