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CAPTURED
With stories by
Barri Bryan
Elizabeth Batten-Carew
Jaide Fox
Kimberly Zant
Hostage © copyright July 2005, Billie and Herb Houston
Virtual Love © copyright July 2005, Elizabeth Batten-Carew
Forbidden Fruit © copyright July 2005, Jaide Fox
Heart of Midnight © copyright July 2005, Kimberly Zant
Cover art by Amber Moon, © copyright July 2005
ISBN 1-58608-537-9
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
HOSTAGE
By
Barri Bryan
Chapter One
June 7, 1859--Horse Head Crossing Stagecoach Way Station, Texas
Abigail Warren smiled at the man who sat across the table from her and lied with practiced ease. "I acted hastily and I am truly sorry." Lies--both lies. Abigail had given careful consideration to her earlier actions and she was not in the least sorry for anything she had said or done.
Reverend Rufus Abernathy was a pompous little man with thinning hair and a face like dough. Reaching across the rude table he touched Abigail's hand. "You must learn to control your wicked temper. Second chances are hard to come by."
Abigail moved her hand away. This was not her second chance it was her only chance. Perhaps she should reconsider. No! Closing her ears and her mind to any voice of caution, she told an even bigger lie and with no less difficulty. "I will be more careful in the future."
The weak rays of a sinking sun spilled through the open window of the way station's waiting room. The dying light accentuated the Reverend's puffy features making them appear swollen and distorted. "I take my position as your escort and guardian very seriously."
He wasn't her guardian. He was her jailor. And like every other man she had ever known he was a fool for flattery. Abigail laid her hand over her heart and said what she knew he wanted to hear. "In the future I will be more discreet." She smiled her most seductive smile. "I hope I haven't been a problem to you, Reverend."
Rufus Abernathy ran his finger around his cleric's collar. "I know of your past and I understand." On the end of a longsuffering sigh he added, "There are those who would try to take unfair advantage if they knew that you..." He cleared his throat. "If I am to protect you, it is important that you behave in a ladylike fashion at all times."
So the Reverend was afraid someone might suspect what she was, or at least what she had been. That came as no surprise. Reflexively, she apologized again. "I am very sorry if my behavior was not in keeping with my new station in life." As she spoke, her mind hopped back to the events that had led to the Reverend's verbal rebuke.
She and Reverend Abernathy had been the only passengers on the stagecoach that arrived at the Horse Head Crossing shortly before five o'clock in the afternoon. As the driver pulled the mules to a halt, a gaunt disheveled man with an apron tied around his skinny middle rushed to greet them. His dun colored hair was in disarray and his perspiring face was troubled. Before the driver and the conductor could crawl down from their high seat he shouted, "We got problems boys. Last night a bunch of sidewinders stole every horse in the corral. They didn't bother to shut the gate so the mules are gone too."
The driver, a tall man with hawk-like nose and a complexion like leather, looped the reins he held between his fingers around the stagecoach's brake and crawled down the wheel and onto the parched ground. "Son of a bitch! Was it Injuns?"
Reverend Abernathy stuck his head out the coach's window. "Gentlemen, watch your language please. There's a lady present."
The drive mumbled a halfhearted apology. "Sorry, ma'am."
The man in the apron hurried to explain, "We ain't sure."
The driver raised an eyebrow. "We, Jed? I thought you ran this place by yourself."
"I do." Jed smiled. "I got lucky. Sheriff Martin come through here around noon today with a deputy and a prisoner. He done me the favor of hanging around for a while just in case them horse thieves decide to come back."
The driver smiled wryly. "Come back? For what?" He surveyed the dismal dusty scene around him. "There ain't nothin' here worth comin' back for."
Indignantly Jed replied, "That depends on how you look at things." He spat on the ground. "The Sheriff sent his deputy over to the way station at Valley Creek to bring back some mules so he has to wait around for him anyways."
The driver asked, "When will the deputy be back?"
"Damned if I know." Jed frowned. "I calculate sometime tomorrow."
The driver shrugged. "If he ain't back by noon tomorrow this team should be rested enough to make it to on over to the way station at Fort Stockton."
The conductor climbed down from his high seat, came around to Abigail's side of the stagecoach and opened the door. "Looks like we will be here for the night. You folks can wait inside the way station." He pointed to the man in the apron. "Jed will fix you some food and find beds for you."
For Abigail getting out of the stagecoach was not an easy task. The hoop she wore--it was really no more than a series of graduated steel rings suspended from her waist by cloth tapes--made it difficult for her to manage the two petticoats and the full-skirted dress that she wore over it. After some effort she squeezed through the narrow door, stepped to the ground and came around the coach to be greeted by a sight that froze the blood in her veins.
Halfway across the yard a dark-skinned man sat with his back resting against the trunk of a gnarled old mesquite. Except for the pair of fine leather boots that encased his feet he was buck-naked. He was also hobbled and his hands were tied. As if that weren't a cruel enough treatment, one end of a strand of wire had been wrapped around his testicles. The other end was entwined securely around the trunk of the tree. The hot sun beating down unmercifully on his bare body only added to his suffering.
A shiver of fear danced down Abigail's spine as she stopped and pointed. "God Almighty, who is that?"
Jed volunteered, "That there's Sheriff Martin's prisoner. He's dangerous. Don't git too close."
Anger loosened Abigail's tongue. "He looks nearer dead than dangerous." She was set to say much more when Reverend Abernathy grabbed her arm and pointed her in the direction of the way station. "It's not our place to ask questions. Come along."
As he propelled her across the dusty yard, Abigail struggled to pull her arm free. "Like hell!" Something had to be done for that suffering man.
Reverend Abernathy held on with concentrated force "Watch your tongue." Through clenched teeth he added, "This is not our affair."
As she came nearer Abigail was surprised to see that the prisoner was young and quite handsome. The heat from the sun had scorched his already tanned skin to a crisp. He lifted his face and looked directly into her eyes. The pain she saw reflected there imprinted indelibly in her mind. There was something else buried in the depths of those piercing ebony eyes, something desperate and dangerous. Despite the heat a second shiver of fear danced down Abigail's backbone.
The man pushed his swollen tongue through his cracked lips and pleaded in a dry, raspy voice, "Agua, por favor, agua."
He spoke in a language foreign to her ears but she knew immediately what he was saying. Wrenching her arm from Reverend Abernathy's grasp Abigail picked up her skirts and sped toward a bucket of water that sat on a table on the porch of the way station. She filled the gourd dipper with the tepid liquid and was turning toward the prisoner when a man sitting in a chair on the porch slammed both booted feet onto the floor. "Whoa there, girlie." He vaulted to a standing position. "What the hell do you think you're a doin'?"
Abigail scrutinized the tall stranger and felt a tremor of fear and an instant dislike. "That should be obvious, even to a jackass like you."
The man pushed his hat back on his head as his beady eyes narrowed dangerously. "You've got a bad mouth, girlie." The stubble of a red beard grew on his heavily jowled face. He wore a gun belt low on his hips and a tin star pinned to his dirty shirt. Nodding toward the way station entrance, he growled, "Get inside."
Abigail's rage made her reckless. "Like hell I will. Get out of my way!" She took a few steps forward.
Two long strides brought the angry man to stand directly in front of her. "That's my prisoner, girlie. He gits water when I say he can have water." He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the floor of the porch and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "If I say he can."
Even as Abigail argued she sensed that protesting was not only useless but also dangerous. "Without water he will die."
"That will save me havin' to hang him." Taking the dipper from Abigail's hand the man tossed the water onto the parched ground.
Abigail's anger escalated and mixed with her rising fear. Before she could stop them the words were out of her mouth. "You son of a bitch."
The red-haired stranger reached around Abigail and dropped the dipper back into the bucket. "Maybe I better introduce myself, my name's Wesley Martin. I'm the sheriff of this here county." He hooked his fingers in his belt loops and scowled. "It ain't real smart to go callin' me insultin' names." Jerking his thumb toward the door, he ordered, "Git in the way station."
Abigail's outrage overrode her fear. "You sorry, low-down..." She was poised to say much more when Reverend Abernathy came from behind and once more grabbed her arm. This time he held it in a death grip as he steered her toward the way station entrance.
Abigail protested, "Let me go!"
Reverend Abernathy pushed her through the door. As he followed her inside, he looked over his shoulder and called out, "I'll see that the little lady behaves, sheriff."
Once inside, Abigail yanked her arm free. The sight of someone tied and nude and being sexually tortured brought to her remembrance a brutal episode from her own past. It also unleashed a violent and uncontrollable anger. She doubled her right hand into a fist and swung at Reverend Abernathy, missing his chin by inches. "Don't touch me again, you bastard!"
Reverend Abernathy grabbed both her arms and held her from him. "Stop it, Abigail. The sheriff's actions, as cruel as they are, do not concern us."
"This is beyond cruel, it's uncivilized." Abigail swung one foot at the Reverend's shin. This time she connected causing him to grab his leg and cry out in pain. "If you won't let me do something then get your sorry ass out there and do something yourself."
Reverend Abernathy straightened, grabbed Abigail's shoulders and gave her a rough shake. "Shut up, I say, shut up!" His voice fell as he dropped his hands to his sides. Clearly he was struggling to get a firmer grip on his emotions. "We left civilization as we know it when we left Memphis. This is the Texas Badlands."
Abigail folded her arms across her chest and forced her mind to let go of painful past recollections. "That's an excuse. Where we are makes no difference."
"Ah, but it does." Reverend Abernathy led her to a bench and pushed her down onto it. "Circumstances alter cases." He sat beside her and waved one arm in an all-encompassing gesture. "Have a look around and you may begin to understand why the stage run from here to El Paso is rightly called a race with the Devil."
For the past ten days as Abigail and Reverend Abernathy had journeyed through the wilderness that was Arkansas and traveled halfway across the vast wasteland that was Texas, she had been 'looking around' at a world that became progressively more primitive. What she had just witnessed was past primitive--it was barbaric. "You can at least voice a protest." Quite suddenly she realized that Rufus Abernathy was too frightened to confront Sheriff Martin. "You're afraid to speak out."
Rufus replied, "There are times when discretion is the better part of valor. The Good Book teaches that His ministers must be as be as wise as serpents and as harmless as doves."
Now, almost two hours later, sitting across the supper table from Reverend Abernathy and listening to but not hearing his carping words, Abigail reached a decision. What she couldn't accomplish by force she would achieve through deception. Later tonight....
"Abigail!"
Reverend Abernathy almost shouting her name pulled Abigail's thoughts back to the present. She pushed her tin plate aside. Supper had been beans, chili and hard bread. She had been hungry enough to eat everything on her plate. "Yes, Reverend?"
"As I was saying," the Reverend cleared his throat. "The Missionary Alliance holds me accountable for you, and for your actions, until you arrive at the mission hospital in El Paso. That's a heavy responsibility." He shook his finger in mild reproach. "You promised me at the onset of this journey that you would conduct yourself at all times in a manner becoming to a lady."
Abigail had promised that and much more. In some ways she was as cowardly as this pretentious little man. She had taken the path of least resistance then just as he was doing now. A sudden surge of sympathy softened her reply. "Hereafter I will keep that promise."
"That is no longer enough. You must also promise that during the remainder of our journey to you will not talk to strangers, you will obey me when I speak to you and you must refrain from using profanity."
Abigail was tired from riding endless hours in a rumbling uncomfortable stagecoach. Her head ached and she would trade a year of her life for a good bath. When she left Memphis she was convinced that nothing could be worse than what she must endure if she stayed there. Now she was beginning to wonder if she had been mistaken. Nothing about her journey to El Paso was what she'd expected it to be. She was too weary to argue further. Instead she told yet another lie. "I promise, Reverend Abernathy."
The Reverend said with self-righteous smugness, "Thank heavens you have decided against acting on some foolish impulse and creating a big problem for both of us."
Through the window Abigail watched the last rays of a weak sun as they fanned across the western sky. Her resolve hardened. She could live with another problem--even a big problem--much more easily than she could live with a leaving a helpless man to die from thirst and abuse. She pushed down a pang of conscience and lied again. "My days of acting foolishly and impetuously are behind me."
The Reverend seemed poised to dispute that statement and then obviously changed his mind. "Then the matter is settled," he sighed his relief. "Since it seems that the sheriff has commandeered the only spare room in the way station and the driver and conductor are bedding down in the waiting room, you will sleep on a cot in the shed room behind the kitchen and I will bunk with Jed."
After so many seemingly endless days and nights of being bounced about in a rumbling dusty stagecoach or sleeping in chairs or on hard benches, a room with a cot would seem a luxury. Abigail stood. "I'll fetch my valise and retire."
Reverend Abernathy raised one hand. "No. Sheriff Martin's orders are that you remain inside the way station until we depart for El Paso."
Abigail couldn't resist. Shyly she asked, "But Reverend, how can I stay inside at all times when there are occasions that I must relieve myself?"
That seemed to be an eventually that the Reverend had failed to consider. After a moment's silence he blushed as he replied, "I will have the station master provide you with a chamber pot."
Abigail asked, "Do you think I might also have a candle and some water for a sponge bath?" The last time she had requested water to wash her face and hands she'd been told that water was hauled to that particular way station and it was used only for cooking and drinking. She wondered if the same held true at this station.
Reverend Abernathy nodded his head. "I'll ask the station master for a candle also. I'll draw a pail of water from the well at the back and bring it to you when I bring your valise."
Abigail smiled. "Thank you, Reverend."
Reverend Abernathy said emphatically, "You are to stay inside the station until tomorrow when we depart for El Paso. Do you understand?"
Abigail bowed her head. "I understand." For once she had spoken the truth. She understood all too well. Experience had taught her that those who defied authority and flew in the face of the powers-that-be paid a high price. That knowledge only strengthened her resolve.
Reverend Abernathy reached for his Bible. "Sit down. We will have our evening devotional here."
Abigail sat in the chair she had so recently vacated and with a sigh folded her hands in her lap.
The Reverend brushed crumbs from the table with his sleeve, opened his Bible and began to read. "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore..."
After evening devotional Abigail retired to the shed room. It was more shed than room with a dirt floor and one tiny window. Barrels and sacks of supplies were stacked along the walls. The ceiling was low and slanted downward. As she came through the door a scurvy rat with a long mangy tail darted from beneath a barrel and scurried across the floor. Abigail gritted her teeth, sat on the cot and surveyed her surroundings. For all the shed room's filth and squalor it did have one advantage. There were two doors. One of them opened into the kitchen and the other to the outside.
Abigail's vague plans began to take shape. From her sleeping quarters she had unobserved access to the kitchen. The Reverend had provided her with a candle and promised to bring her water. The shed room's backdoor made it possible for her to reach the prisoner without having to pass through the way station's waiting room. There still remained the problem of finding clothing for the naked man.
Abigail looked around the walls of the room and spied a hand woven calico shirt hanging on a hook near the kitchen door. Only one problem remained. Where did she find a pair of pants to go with that well-worn shirt?
She was still pondering that problem when Reverend Abernathy appeared at the door with a pail of water in one hand and Abigail's valise and an earthen pot in the other. He put the valise on the dirt floor and set the pail of water beside it. His doughy face turned beet red as he handed Abigail the earthen pot. "You may use this when you feel the urge to go." In no uncertain terms he then instructed her to lock both her doors and not to open them until he knocked the next morning.
Good advice except for one little problem--there was no lock on the door that opened into the kitchen. When Abigail pointed out that fact the Reverend suggested that she roll a barrel in front of it once he was gone.
Abigail promised to obey his every instruction and then shut the door, pushed a chair against it and unfastened her cage crinoline hoop. It fell in a heap at her feet. As she kicked it into a corner, she wondered where the hell she was going to get a pair of pants. The man outside needed clothing almost as badly as he needed food and water, even though the days in this God-forsaken place were blazing hot the nights were chilly. She shed her dress and her short-sleeved petticoat before sitting down on the narrow cot to wait for nightfall.
It seemed an eternity before a blue twilight darkened to velvet shades of black and a pale moon appeared in the night sky. The ensuing hush of silence that fell across the countryside told Abigail that once again night had come to the badlands.
She waited until there was no sound to be heard inside the way station. Then with her nervous fingers holding her candle above her head, she crept to the kitchen and began her search for food. She soon discovered that the makeshift cabinet was as bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. Her heart was pounding and her hands shook as she set the candle on the kitchen table and opened boxes stored on a low shelf. In one box she found the hardtack that was left from supper and in another several strips of beef jerky and a sack of soda crackers. She put the items into one box, replaced the lid, and slipped it under her arm. With her other hand clutching the candle she tiptoed across the floor.
When she was once again safely inside the shed room, Abigail put her stash of food on her cot, blew out the candle and retraced her steps back through the kitchen. At the door that led to the waiting room she paused and swallowed her fear before tiptoeing inside.
In the semidarkness she could see the stage driver and the conductor sleeping on blankets they had spread on the floor. The driver was on the far side of the room. He slept on his side with his knees drawn up under his chin. The moon's silvery rays fell across the pants he had hung on a chair near the front entrance. To reach them Abigail would have to cross the room and she dared not risk that.
She narrowed her eyes against the darkness as she surveyed the conductor. He was lying on his back between Abigail and the stagecoach driver with his mouth open, snoring like a buzz saw. At last she spotted them! His pants were draped over a bench very near where he slept.
Abigail's pulses raced and her palms were sweaty. She tiptoed across the short distance and was set to grab the pants when the conductor shifted and turned on his side to face her. She froze in her tracks.
He opened his eyes and Abigail's heart almost stopped beating. A surging flood of relief swept through her when he shut them again and continued his snoring.
Abigail's knees had turned to water. Snagging the pants with one finger she clutched them to her chest. Fighting the impulse to run, she forced herself to tiptoe slowly back across the darkened room. Once inside the kitchen she leaned against the door and tried to slow the rapid beating of her racing heart.
She was still shaking like a leaf in a windstorm when she reached the shed room. Sitting on the side of the narrow cot, she struggled to pull her scattered thoughts together. After a few minutes her hands stilled and her mind cleared. Laying the pants and the box of food atop the shirt, she tied the tail to the collar, knotted the sleeves into a handle, hung the shirt over her arm and opened the backdoor of the shed room. Grasping the pail of water in her other hand she stepped outside.
As she set the pail on the hard ground a bat darted from overhead, swooped and then fell on silent wings. Abigail shut the door. For the first time doubt slipped in around her resolve. Was she making a mistake? Then the ineffaceable memory of a suffering man tied by his testicles flashed across her mind. Her steadfastness returned with a vengeance. She grasped the handle of the water pail. In the distance the sound of a lone coyote's wail echoed across the stillness of the night.
Abigail crept around the corner of the way station. Soft moonbeams cast an eerie light across the landscape. In the semi-darkness she could distinguish the faint image of the prisoner huddled at the base of the tree. She looked in all directions before beginning her journey across the yard. Halfway to her destination second thoughts halted her footsteps. Maybe she should turn back while she still could. No! She had to go on. With renewed resolve she stole silently toward the scrubby tree and the man tethered to it.
VIRTUAL LOVE
By
Elizabeth Batten-Carew
To Mark,
If you hadn’t believed in me,
I wouldn’t have followed my dreams.
With very special thanks to my husband, Mark, who coined the word e-scape, and to my two wonderful friends and critiquers, Vicki Daly and Trish Wall, who helped me make this story all that it is.
Chapter One
A muscular arm clamped around Captain Jerette’s waist from behind, knocking the wind from her lungs as she collided with a hard male chest. A wicked laugh sounded behind her, barely discernible over the roar of the storm. Rain and wind clouded her vision. She struggled to keep her feet beneath her on the slippery deck as her captor dragged her away from her post. Where was her crew? Had they abandoned ship? The pirate vessel had caught them off guard in this hellish storm and the blast from their cannon had ripped a huge hole in the hull of “Fearless Virginia”.
“Get your hands off me, you villainous devil,” she screamed.
“Not this time, my pretty,” a deep voice rumbled in her ear. “You, Captain Jerette, terror of the high seas, have inflicted too much damage on my people. You’ve escaped too many times. I believe it is high time you pay your debt.”
“And who are you to extract this debt?”
“I am Phantom. King of the Pirates.”
She gasped. Captain Jerette knew all about the pirate king. He had gathered together a motley collection of buccaneer ships and forged them into a formidable fighting force. She had vowed to free the ocean from his tyrannical rule.
“You call me terror when it is you people fear.”
He spun her around and pressed her against the mast. Long tendrils of hair had escaped the ribbon binding it and whipped wildly across her eyes. But she took no notice. Not with those pair of cutting blue eyes staring into her own.
“And what about you, Captain?” He leaned toward her, his words more chilling than the icy rain assaulting her. “Are you afraid?”
She felt her pulse quicken, knowing the danger he represented. “Never.”
A lazy smile spread across his face at her resolute stand.
“We’ll see.”
She stood defiant in the face of his amusement. A shudder beneath their feet, and a great wooden groan, made it clear that the “Fearless Virginia” would not be afloat much longer. How had things gotten so out of control?
Before she knew it, he had thrown her over his shoulder. She struggled, pummeling his back with her fists and kicking in a desperate attempt to escape. Her howls of rage merged with the wail of the wind and the rumbling thunder. She grabbed onto the railing as he attempted to carry her across to his own ship. He easily tugged her free. A strange fear surged through her, as though the danger he represented was far worse than it appeared. He pulled her below deck and pushed her into a cabin. The door slammed behind him and he locked it. Laughing, he pulled off his hat and shook his head, sending droplets of water flying through the air. She stood firm in the center of the room, eyes narrowed, watching him.
“You’ve destroyed my ship. That should be enough revenge for you,” she spat. “It’s a captain’s duty to go down with her vessel. At least that you should respect.”
He stepped forward, his heels stomping on the wooden floor. He reached out a finger and stroked it down her cheek with an insolent grin. She refused to flinch and stared boldly back at him.
“No, I wouldn’t waste such beauty on shark food.” His gaze traveled leisurely down her body and up again. An unwanted awareness shot through her. “There are too many interesting… duties I can think of for you.”
Her control momentarily shattered. “I am a captain in the Queen’s fleet. An officer.”
His amusement increased. “That should make it all the more interesting.”
With a suddenness that caught her off guard, he shoved her onto the bunk and ripped open her shirt. The storm had soaked her to the skin and the thin cotton chemise she wore underneath clung to her shamelessly. The cold made her nipples erect and horror spiked through her to see that the garment offered no protection from his eyes. In fact, the way his gaze seared her, she felt she’d be better off without it.
As though reading her thoughts, he knelt down beside the bunk, brought his huge hands to her shoulders and tore the limp fabric from her. Conscious that her breasts, glistening wet, heaved up and down with her labored breath, she tried to cross her arms to cover herself. Too fast for her, he grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head with one strong hand. He used his free hand to push the wet, clinging hair from her face with a tenderness she had not expected. Then he trailed his fingers down her neck and across her quivering chest. As he cupped her breast, her skin molded to his palm and the warmth gave her exquisite pleasure. The nipple thrust into his hand. Then his lips warmed her other nipple and she gasped.
This is not how it’s supposed to go, her thoughts screamed. I’m supposed to be in control. To her utter shame, a tear of frustration escaped her eye. He lifted his head and focused on that tear, then lowered his lips to kiss it away.
“Don’t be afraid, sweet Jerette. Let yourself lose control.”
His double edged meaning cut through the gauzy pleasure that held her hostage to his touch. She would stop this right now.
His eyes narrowed as though he knew her thoughts. “No, Jerette. Don’t–”
Her voice cut across his as she cried out.
“End session!”
The scene around her dissolved and she lay gasping for breath in her game lounger, arms wrapped around herself. The dark-eyed pirate had also disappeared but she could remember the look of frustration on his face when he faded away. Slowly, she focused on the familiar walls surrounding her. Her leisure room was small but that didn’t matter, since the time she spent here was typically in a virtual reality simulation where she was totally unaware of physical surroundings. Like the one she’d just fled.
Damn! What was going on? The whole reason she escaped into VR was to go somewhere she could control her destiny. She defined the parameters of her adventures and knew precisely where they would go. Except something had changed. Someone was messing with her system--and she didn’t like it.
At first, it was subtle. Characters in her illusions became more real than ordinary computer simulations. Or more precisely, one character. One man. Oh, he looked different each time, had a different name, different mannerisms, but he was always strong and domineering. He must be a hacker who’d broken into her system but she was baffled as to how.
Many people elected to network with others and play interactive games. But Jerette always played the simulations alone. No one should be able to access her system from outside. Yet this man was too real to be a computer personality.
Messing with her system was bad enough but now he was taking control of her fantasies, changing them to suit his own purposes.
* * * *
Some said the VR was addictive. Jerette didn’t believe that. Since her session on the high seas, she’d stayed out of VR but her reason was to avoid a software pirate of a new kind--one who stole her fantasies. Now he’d even infiltrated her dreams. When she closed her eyes at night to sleep, he came to her. And even there--especially there--she couldn’t control him. Or her desires.
What did he want? And where did he come from? These questions sifted through her mind continuously. The safest thing to do would be to stay out of VR.
But she couldn’t.
During her days at work, she experienced great satisfaction in her role as manager of a large software development project. She controlled every detail of that effort, either personally or through the large team of professionals who reported to her. Still, things happened that sent plans skidding out of kilter. Only in VR could she totally control what happened. The draw of that perfectly controlled existence proved irresistible.
The phantom pirate couldn’t be present in the system all the time, she finally convinced herself. Why should she deny herself her much needed leisure time? So, she chose a time in the wee hours of the morning when system usage slumped. Surely this time he would not find her.
* * * *
She fanned the cards out in front of her, eyeing the hand Kid had dealt her. Three aces, king high. Not bad. She surreptitiously perused the faces around the table as she read her cards. Jake, the man on her left, tugged at his raggedy beard, a sure sign he reckoned himself in trouble. The Kid grinned widely, as always, smug. His streak of luck had flared to a peak but had started on a decline. He would not win this hand. She could feel it. That left one opponent, the stranger who sat across from her, eyes frigid blue, giving away nothing. She studied him, face closed, just as determined to give nothing back.
“So, what is it, Marshall? Hold, or draw?” Kid held the deck expectantly.
“Hold,” she answered without hesitation.
Jake and the Kid each drew cards. The stranger held. Betting soared around the table. Marshall Jerette knew Kid was bluffing and apparently so did Jake because he tossed in a huge stack of coins. Jake obviously didn’t consider Jerette much of a threat. That’s a mistake too many men had made and for that she would not feel sympathy for him when he lost more than he could afford. When the cards were called in, Jake watched her rake in the winnings with ill concealed hostility.
“I’m out,” he spat. “You’re too danged lucky, Marshall. T’ain’t fair.” He threw back his last swallow of whiskey and pushed himself to his feet. “Too danged lucky,” he muttered again as he clomped out of the saloon.
The Kid jerked his head toward the swinging door. “You’d better watch yer back, Marshall. Jake ain’t takin’ too well to losin’ these days.”
Jerette nodded. “He’s had a bad streak but he should know better than to play if he can’t afford to lose.”
“Good advice.”
The cold voice of the stranger sent shivers crawling up her spine. Her head snapped up to meet those ice blue eyes. It couldn’t be him, she thought desperately. She’d been so careful.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Call me Phantom, ma’am.” He tipped his hat and smiled but it never reached his eyes.
There it was. That cold, calculating look that she’d seen in countless pairs of eyes on different faces but all with one thing in common--the ability to unravel the control she so carefully guarded.
“I don’t believe I know you.” She met that cold gaze and gave back every bit as good.
“Oh, I believe you do… Marshall Jerette.” The words rolled out in his maddeningly relaxed drawl.
“Why are you here?” The words came out as a whisper and she swore internally. Control. She had to maintain control, if not of her fantasy at least of her own reactions.
The Kid glanced from one to the other, a puzzled look on his face. “Marshall. You invited him to play. Remember?”
“I never invited him to play.”
“But you…”
At the look of steel she mustered, Kid changed his mind about contradicting her.
“Whether you believe you did or not, Marshall Jerette,” Phantom’s even voice said, “you want me to play.”
He wasn’t talking about poker and they both knew it. Panic scuttled through her and an anxious little voice inside her head insisted she flee. Leave the session right now before it was too late. But too late for what? Anyway, she would not be driven from her own fantasy.
The sound of coins clinking on the table drew her attention. “I’m out, too, I’m afraid, Marshall.” The Kid’s voice sounded disappointed.
“It looks like it’s just you and me.” Phantom’s gaze drifted across her face and down her chest, seeming to strip away her button-down vest, shirt, and cotton undershirt all with one look. “Do you want to play for something more… interesting?”
A snicker sounded from the table next to them and her frigid glare froze the looks of amusement on the faces of those men.
She slapped her hands on the table top and pushed herself to her feet. “I don’t intend to play with you… stranger.”
She waited, eyes narrowed, right hand resting on her hip near her weapon--just in case. Men had claimed insult for less and she didn’t intend to be outdrawn in her own town--by a stranger. Especially when the stranger is so familiar--and so dangerous.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he dropped both his hands on the table and laughed. “Don’t worry, Marshall. You and I will play soon enough.”
She swaggered out of the saloon, pushing back the swinging doors with a loud creak. A blast of dusty air stung her face as the wind whipped down the main street of the town they called Hell. A tumbleweed flung itself against her feet then careened away.
“Marshall Jerette. I was just lookin’ fer ye.”
She turned at the sound of her deputy hailing her from three doors down.
“What is it, Hank?”
“There’s some kind of trouble out at Charity’s ranch. Heard tell of some kind of vandalism. Want me to go check on it?”
She shook her head. “Naw. I’ll go, Hank. The ride’ll clear my head.”
“But do ye think ye should go alone?”
“I’m not exactly alone.” Her hand slid to the Colt Peacemaker slung at her hip. “Anyway, scarin’ off vandals ain’t exactly the same as wranglin’ with the James brothers.”
“If’n yer sure, Marshal.” He scratched at the thick growth on his chin. “Reckon I’ll just grab me somethin’ to ease my parched throat.”
“Go on, Hank. I’ll be back by sundown.” She eyed the sun. Still a good three hours till it set, she reckoned, and the ride to Charity’s could be done in a half hour on a good horse. And Major Blue was the best. She grabbed his reins from the hitching post and swung into the saddle.
“Come on, Blue. Time to go.”
He whinnied in agreement and soon they galloped across the dry packed earth. When she arrived at Charity’s, she wasn’t surprised to find the place empty. Charity had gone to help her sister get settled with a new baby and wouldn’t be back for another week. She’d asked Jerette to keep an eye on her place.
Jerette pushed open the gate on the picket fence and marched up to the front door. A thorough scan of the area had shown no damage. As she pushed open the door, the sound of a stone scuttling across the ground caused her to jump. She glanced around but saw no one. Stepping into the house, she scanned the room with quick glances back and forth, assuring herself no one lay in wait inside.
The familiar kitchen was big and bright, with blue gingham curtains adorning the windows. The wood stove, which usually sported a big pot of stew, stood dark and cold in the corner. An examination of the other rooms soon convinced her the house was empty. And, just like outside, there was no sign of damage.
She pulled open the door and stepped outside. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Was she being watched? Bringing a hand to her brow to shade her eyes from the sun, she glanced around. Major Blue munched on a tuft of grass, snorting occasionally, tail whipping to shoo away flies. He whinnied once, then stepped forward and back.
She laughed. “What’s the matter, Blue? You look a mite nervous.” She stepped toward him and stopped cold when she heard the hammer of a Schofield click back.
“Hold it right there, Marshall.”
The gruff masculine voice came from behind her. Jake. He must have been waiting beside the house, staying out of sight until she’d come back out. It would be easier trapping her out here in the open where there were no handy barriers to use for cover.
“Turn around… real slow. And put your hands on your head.”
She did as he said and found herself facing the tall, lanky man who’d lost so much to her such a short time ago.
“I never figured you for a sore loser, Jake,” she said, keeping her voice light.
“T’ain’t sore. I jest plan on gettin’ my money back.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You planning on robbing me, Jake?”
“I don’t call it robbin’, Marshall. Jest takin’ back what’s rightfully mine.”
He ambled toward her, gun trained on her heart.
“You won’t get away with this, Jake.”
He reached for the pouch slung to her belt and freed it with a sudden tug.
“I don’t know about that, Marshall. You see, I’m sick of this town. Plan to move on.”
“I’ll find you, Jake. Wherever you go.”
“Don’t know about that, Marshall. You see, I got me some help.”
He grabbed the rope she kept on Blue’s saddle and slung it over his shoulder, then shoved her towards the barn. She stumbled forward and when she regained her balance she felt the tip of Jake’s gun in the middle of her back.
“Go on, Marshall.”
Once inside, he tied her hands. He pushed one end of the rope through her bound arms then tied an expert knot around the bindings at her wrists. He tossed the other end up over one of the rafters and tugged the rope taut, pulling her arms over her head. He kept pulling, until she took her weight on her toes, then finally hung solely by her wrists.
“There you go, Marshall. Reckon that’ll slow you down a might.”
“Jake–”
“Save it, Marshall. You’ll be needin’ yer strength.” With that he turned and raced from the barn chuckling in triumph.
In real life, she might feel a bit panicky about now but she knew freedom lay just two words away. So again things had gone astray. At least the pirate hadn’t decided to play a starring role this time. She’d wait a little longer to see what happened next.
The barn door creaked open.
“So, Jake, you changed your mind–”
The words stopped short as the stranger, who called himself Phantom, strode into the barn. His gaze raked down and up her body in a frankly sexual assessment.
“So, Marshall Jerette, are you going to flee, or are you… woman enough to face me this time?”
She raised her head at his challenge, firmly squelching the little voice that prodded her to shout out those two little words. “You have me at a slight disadvantage… Phantom.”
“Yes.” The grin that split his face belonged to the devil himself. “But only slight. And I think I rather like it that way.”
He walked up to face her and, though she hung with her toes dangling an inch off the ground, they were eye to eye. He stood so close she could feel the heat of his body. Even though the rope at her wrists burned into her flesh, her body ignored the pain and screamed its craving for this tall, and very dark, stranger.
Dark as night. Dark as the unknown. Dark as fear.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Marshall Jerette.” His words, softly spoken, designed to soothe, were followed by his hands gently skimming down her sides. One strong arm snaked around her waist, pulling her against his chest. As that hard wall of muscle crushed her soft breasts between their two bodies, her heart quickened.
Then it leaped as his knife flashed across her vision, her throat clogged with a stifled scream, preventing her from shouting the words of freedom. Before she could question the lack of cutting pain, she dropped a few inches, her whole weight falling against his body. Her arms, still bound at the wrists, dropped over his head. She found herself draped across him like a wanton, and judging from his smile, he enjoyed it immensely.
The words, that little voice reminded, even as her body insisted she forget. Her eyes wide, she parted her lips to utter freedom when his lips clamped down on them. His hand curled around the back of her head and held them firmly enmeshed. When she tried to form the words in his mouth he slashed out his tongue to keep hers occupied, fervently, tortuously… lovingly.
Contradictions. Aggressive, yet tender. Serious, yet teasing. Overpowering, yet giving.
Giving? Yes, somehow she knew he meant to give her as much pleasure as he took. Maybe even more.
“Definitely more, sweet Jerette.”
His gentle, smiling words enslaved her in his spell. How could he read her thoughts like that? She knew she shouldn’t waste precious words on anything save escape--but she had to know.
“Who are you? And why are you here?”
“My name is Phantom. I’m here to delay you from pulling together a posse and apprehending Jake.”
“I don’t mean your purpose in VR,” she whispered. “Why do you keep coming after me? Taking over my fantasies?”
He frowned. “You know it’s a blatant disregard of etiquette to slip out of your role.”
“I don’t care,” she hissed. “Tell me why you’re here. What do you want from me?”
His fingers feathered down her rib cage, coming to rest beside her breasts, his thumbs sliding up and down the sides of those soft mounds.
“I think it’s very obvious what I want.” The words rumbled from deep inside his chest.
“But… why me? My system’s closed. It should be clear I don’t want this.”
“But you do.”
The certainty in his words shook her. “Why you obnoxious –”
“And I don’t mean a moment of fleeting pleasure,” he continued through her outburst. “We both know what you really want… and need.”
No, she cried out. She didn’t know what he meant. She didn’t.
“Just let go, sweet Jerette. Let loose the reins.”
Her eyes widened a fraction and his mouth took hers again. She insisted to herself a tiny shock of fear must have flickered in her eyes and that prompted his action. To prevent her from screaming out the words. Not the fact that he could read her mind. It was just too frightening a prospect to believe he could crawl into her head as well as her fantasies.
He backed her against the nearby wall, still locked in a kiss, and his body imprisoned her as his hands slid away. His fingertips whispered against her neck and the caress of cloth slithering away told her he’d untied her bandanna. He slid it up and pulled his lips from hers as he covered her mouth with the fabric.
“It’s not that I don’t like hearing your lovely voice, Marshall. I just don’t want you escaping just yet.”
He ducked his head out from the circle of her arms, trapping her hands down between their bodies. Ignoring the pain the ropes inflicted on her flesh, she pushed against him with all her considerable strength. She gained a couple of inches between them. Just enough for his palms to skim up and find her breasts. She jerked back at the contact, unadulterated pleasure rippling through her despite herself. He kneaded her to a frantic level of desire, then slid his fingers to the buttons of her vest, releasing them, lovingly, one by one. Her hands seemed frozen, unable to move in her defense. He moved on to her shirt and dispensed with those fastenings with the same sweet care. Pulling open the sides he smiled down at her cotton undershirt.
“Too bad we don’t have a bucket of water handy.” His smile was pure seduction. They both remembered that damp, clinging chemise from their last encounter. “Don’t worry. I have an idea.”
She shuddered as she felt his warm, damp tongue flick across her already erect nipple.
No, don’t. The silent plea ripped from her anguished mind. He raised his face to look into her widened eyes and she saw something she hadn’t expected from this sometimes teasing, sometimes serious, but always confident man. Uncertainty.
“Jerette.” Her name whispered off his lips and across her cheek. “I really do believe you want--need--this. And us. But if I’m wrong…”
He pulled back slightly. She felt something biting cold against the skin of her wrists then her hands fell free. He lifted first one wrist, then the other, to examine the angry lesions on her tender skin.
“I’ve hurt you.”
He followed his tender words with gentle, butterfly kisses. Wherever his lips touched, the lesions--and the pain--disappeared. She watched in awe. This session wasn’t programmed for magic so he shouldn’t be able to do that.
She closed her eyes, feeling his healing lips, his drugging kisses, send mixed sensations through her.
It would be so easy…
His lips finished with her wrists and started moving up her arm.
So easy to…
His tongue cajoled the inside of her elbow, making her gasp.
So easy to let…
“Yes, sweet Jerette. Yes. Let go.”
She watched him, mesmerized as he again brought his mouth down on her nipple, licking across it, bringing it to a new, rigid height. Oh, sweet heaven, she wanted this, wanted him. But he frightened her.
“You know I’ll be gentle, my love. I would never hurt you.”
She knew. Somehow she knew she could believe that. But she was frightened of her own reaction. Of her own innocence. She was a virgin in every way. She’d heard it was possible to experience sex in VR but she’d been told it was a shadow of the real thing. With what she’d been feeling here--with him--she was afraid if she allowed him to continue that she’d be too afraid to ever experience the real thing.
“A virgin? I didn’t know.” He turned his face away, eyes closing briefly. “How can I expect you to.…” He sighed and captured her gaze again. “This isn’t merely sex, my sweet. This is so much more.”
He tugged the gag from between her lips and replaced it with his mouth. The kiss was long and bitterly sweet.
“Sweet Jerette. I want you. And I believe you want me. Please, don’t say those two words. Choose to stay. With me.”
He kissed her again, lovingly, tenderly, drawing forth her passions like the moon draws the tides, until finally the only release she wanted to cry out for was that of ecstasy. As he raised his lips from hers, he watched her expectantly, hope filling his eyes. She hesitated, standing on the edge of the precipice, wondering whether stepping off would mean to fall--or to fly. She parted her lips but no words emerged. The tip of her tongue edged out and swirled around, moistening her dry lips. As though he took that as a sign, Phantom’s face lit up with a slow smile.
Panic tore through her as she felt her wanton response to his pure male beauty. She bit her lip but before she knew it the words burst forth.
“End session.”
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
By
Jaide Fox
Chapter One
Lilith Somerset was miserable, in every way that a person could be miserable--mind, body, and soul.
She despised being forced into marriage, even to a rich man rumored to be incredibly handsome. Rumor or truth, it mattered not. She hated having no power to make her own choices in life, her freedom lost to the whims of men.
Even her journey echoed the mind-numbing pain she felt, and as gratified as she was that her doom was slow in coming, it was still inevitable. She had only to look at her surroundings to know that she was in John Dentin’s, her betrothed’s, power--his carriage, his overseer, and his riders. Even the gown she wore … he had bought for her. Her body was no longer her own. In a few days, he would complete his purchase by rutting her in front of his friends and family, forever sealing their fate as man and wife.
Her mind alone remained free, but she was so preoccupied by her coming nuptials, she could think of little else.
The road--if such it could be called--bearing her to her new life was full of ruts from the recent monsoons, jouncing the carriage with each wheel rotation--its being well sprung and padded having no discernable effect on her comfort. She could see nothing from the windows to distract her from the turmoil of her mind, for a thick fog lay over the land, forcing the riders to light torches to see. Only the faint glow and the whinnying protests of the horses alerted her to the fact that she was not alone in her traveling misery.
She felt claustrophobic in the confined space, with only Dentin’s overseer, Fargus Leks, as company. Poor company at best. At the worst, a lascivious nuisance. He’d begun staring at her as if he’d like to eat her once they were out of her father’s lands--beyond his protection.
She’d done her best to ignore him, feeling safe from his advances only with the knowledge that her soon to be husband was obsessed by her purity and would likely cut off a man’s privates for daring to touch her.
If only she’d been allowed to bring her maid, Sarah … or a tome of poetry … or her embroidery….
If only….
Lilith fumed mentally and squirmed in her seat, trying to awaken the feeling back in her buttocks.
Fargus smiled at her breasts, making her feel drenched in oil. He never missed an opportunity to remind her that he was there. “Anxious to meet your betrothed, my dear?”
She sent him a look, recognizing his implication at once. She ignored it. “How much farther must we travel?” She could hardly wait to be free of him. Men were such pigs!
His eyes never deterred from her chest. “I suspect many hours yet. I’ve no notion of how long it will take in this blasted fog. The rains came sooner than we expected.”
It had been like that for two years … ever since her mother had died. They had no way of predicting the weather. It seemed almost as if the Goddess herself mourned the loss of Her daughter.
He tore his gaze from her chest to slide open a window and call to a guard. The rider pulled alongside the carriage. “Aye, sir?”
“What make you of our progress?”
The man looked ahead, as if he could will the fog to part. “I expect we’ll have to make camp soon. Dusk approaches. We’ll not reach Dentin Keep by nightfall.”
Fargus grunted in response and slid the window closed. Lilith opened hers, looking up at the sky. She could tell nothing of the time--day or night. The entire world seemed shrouded by a grey pall.
Somewhere in the distance, the piercing call of a bird of prey echoed. Another answered … then another. A falcon perhaps? She thought. Or an eagle?
A gathering wind swirled the mist around them, cloaking and then revealing her travel guard.
The horses neighed, snorting in protest. The rider nearest them barely kept his horse from bolting. Another reared, the rider’s torch falling to the ground, mud hissing under naked flame.
A vague sense of uneasiness settled over her. She gripped the window sill, watching a slow build of chaos erupt around them as the mist swirled.
Someone up ahead cried out and was abruptly silenced. The carriage slammed to a halt, nearly jerking her from her seat.
Fargus looked alarmed. “What is it?” he yelled to the driver and received no response, not daring to open his window to investigate.
Lilith wanted to close hers, but then she could hear nothing and see even less. “Shhh!” she hissed, craning her head, trying to see what was happening.
She knew by now they were being attacked, but by who and where?
A bird cried, high pitched, right above them. Someone screamed. She jerked her head in that direction, trying to see. Torches flew past. Horses bucked, throwing their riders.
“Circle! Circle round the carriage! Defend Lady Lilith!”
No one came. Either they were too busy fighting … or most were already dead.
Something heavy slammed into the ground behind them, in front. The carriage rocked violently, the front jackknifed a foot in the air, crashing back onto its wheels with bone jarring force. Lilith caught herself on the window, looking around wildly.
Fargus screamed and opened his door, vanishing into the mist, leaving her to fend for herself.
Lilith watched him go, frozen in place. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She snatched the door shut, wondering if she would be better off huddled inside the carriage or running around outside like a mad woman. She knew the countryside. There was almost no ground cover, nowhere to hide unless she crawled under a rock.
She couldn’t sit here, not with the sounds of battle outside. She wasn’t a coward, but she wasn’t a fool either. Whoever attacked either wanted her or wanted money--either way, the carriage would be their target.
Steeling herself, she opened the door and dropped to the ground. Her legs immediately tried to collapse from her weight and hours of disuse. She clung to the door, gaining her balance, fighting the panic that welled in her chest and threatened to crush her lungs and heart with fear.
Wings flapped above her, pushing great gusts of wind that swirled the mist around her, blinding her further.
Lilith hobbled forward, her heart in her throat. It was something huge. Whatever stalked her from the sky had to be monstrous in size to produce such hard currents of wind when it flapped its wings. She froze, wondering which direction safety lay. There was no safety on the road at all, she knew. Everyone had fled or was dead.
Turning, she moved as quickly as she could into the meadow alongside the road. There were no trees, but she thought she might find a shallow ditch to hide herself in. She had stumbled only a little ways into the meadow, however, when she heard the great flutter of wings above her again.
It swooped low, landing only a few arms length in front of her. Horror filled her when she saw what manner of beast it was, for it was a griffin--the wings and head of an eagle, the body of a lion. Upon the beast’s back sat a man in leather armor, a warrior of formidable proportions. His expression hard and uncompromising, he leapt from the griffin’s back and strode toward her, his cloak and long blond hair fluttering around him. The purposefulness of the warrior’s approach galvanized her, freeing her from her frozen state of terror. She turned to run. She had barely launched herself into flight, however, when he caught her from behind, his arms snaking around her waist and jerking her off her feet.
Screaming in fear and anger, she whirled to fight her attacker. He released her abruptly. Grabbing her flailing arms and thrusting them behind her back, he jerked her up against him.
“Cease,” he growled. “No harm will come to you.”
She didn’t believe him. He’d attacked her coach with his beasts. “I’m to take the word of a highwayman? Take what you want and go!” she commanded.
He looked at her hard for several moments. “Very well, my lady,” he growled. Releasing her wrists, he bent over, pressing his shoulder against her rib cage as he caught her around the knees and tossed her over his shoulder.
Lilith was so stunned by the move that he was halfway back to the griffin before she’d recovered enough to fight him again, screaming and kicking and clawing at his leather jerkin. His hand came down on her rump. Hard.
“Be still, you shrewish wench!”
Lilith gasped in outrage, both at his familiarity with her rump in manhandling her and his derogatory comments. “Shrew! How dare you call me a shrew, you knave! You bastard of a wart hog! You scum of humanity! Put me down this instant! My betrothed will skewer you like the pig you are.”
He set her down so abruptly her arms pin-wheeled and she landed on her already abused rear. She’d barely bounced to a halt when he fell to his knees, straddling her legs.
Horror filled her. Her eyes widened. My Goddess, she thought, he means to rape me.
She was so stunned, he had already whipped a scarf from his cuff, shoved it into her mouth, and tied it around her head, before she realized what he was about. Her scream of outrage was muffled by the gag he’d placed in her mouth. Enraged, she swung at him. He grabbed her arm, dragging it behind her back as he moved around her. Not to be so easily thwarted, she swung backwards at him with her other arm, clubbing him several times with her fist before he caught that one as well, binding her wrists together.
He was breathing heavily when he jerked her to her feet. “Now, my lady,” he said through clenched teeth, “Would you prefer to ride the griffin astride, or on your belly? Because either way, you’re coming with me.”
* * * *
Lilith had never been more glad of anything than when the griffin alit on solid ground. Her ribs ached from being draped over the back of the beast. Her buttocks were numb from the frigid air fanning the skirts of her gown. Her hair had come loose from its pins and threatened to blind her.
The monster who had captured her climbed down, dragging her from her perch. Her knees wobbled and gave way, and she landed in an ignominious heap on the planking of the ramparts. She glared up at her tormentor.
Without a word, he grasped her arms and hauled her to her feet again. “Can you walk, or must I carry you?”
If carrying her meant slinging her over his shoulder, she didn’t think she could bear any more of that. “Mmmwahh,” she said around her gag.
He pulled the gag away from her lips. “What was that, my lady?”
“Pig,” she snarled.
He replaced the gag. Grabbing her around the waist, he threw her over his shoulder. She groaned.
She struggled for all the good it did. She was no dainty bit of fluff. She stood toe to toe and eye to eye with many men, could look down upon more than she liked. This man still towered over her and was strong as a bull besides. Too tired to put up more than a token protest for the moment, she gave up as he crossed the bulwarks, trying instead to see where he was taking her. She could see very little beyond his back and the flooring they traversed, however, and the attempt to observe from her upside down position only made her dizzy and ill. Fighting it, she closed her eyes, merely listening as he walked downstairs and passed through a doorway into the castle, traversed several hallways and finally entered a small room.
She didn’t realize it was to be her cell until he deposited her on the narrow bed. She immediately began kicking him as she landed on her mattress, which she doubted was very little softer than the floor, rolling onto her back and arms for leverage. He grunted and caught one foot, securing her ankle to a bed post with a length of silken rope.
She screamed around the gag--muffled to futility--and kicked the side of his head as he was bent over tying her down. He dropped her foot, holding his cheek, turning a murderous glare on her. Her belly quivered with fear, and she paused a moment, wondering if she’d gone far enough to make him throttle her. Grabbing the offending foot in a rough grip, he secured it to the other post, leaving her spread eagle.
He made short work of freeing her arms from behind her back, moving quickly and allowing her only a few scratches and slaps before she was securely strapped down.
The silk rope held her taut, allowing her little wiggle movement. It didn’t hurt or abrade her wrists, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Considerate bastard, she thought furiously, wondering if he thought for one moment that that small a consideration would make her feel less murderous.
He was breathing heavily by the time he finished. Straightening, he stared down at her, giving her a hard once over. She tensed, expecting the worst.
He surprised her when he walked out of the room without a word and slammed the door shut.
HEART OF MIDNIGHT
By
Kimberly Zant
Chapter One
“….series of bizarre murders. Although they originally refuted such a possibility, Police are now saying this is the work of a serial killer. Althea Malone, now believed to be the first victim, survived the attack. In an interview earlier with this reporter, she said that the driver of the car flashed his lights at her as he met her on the road, made a U turn, and pursued her until he’d run her off the road. Before she could flee, he leapt from his car, dragged her from hers and brutally assaulted her.
“This eerie similarity to the urban legend, police say, is only one of the bizarre aspects of this case, though they declined to comment further regarding the investigation.
“Ms. Malone, who has been in critical condition since the attack, has been upgraded to guarded condition. Although she is finally able to talk, she would not say whether or not she could identify her assailant, but police have been stationed at her hospital room around the clock and it is speculated that she has given them a description of the man who brutally assaulted her.
“An FBI profiler who was called in to help with the case describes the killer as a white male, of average height and build, and between the ages of 30 and 35. He would most likely have some disability that would make it difficult for him to socialize--such as a stutter. Women are strongly cautioned not to travel alone in the evenings, or go out at all unless it is absolutely necessary.”
A shiver cased its way down her spine as Amy switched the radio off. “Fat lot of good it is to know he’s got a frigging stutter!” she muttered. “I guess if somebody runs you off the road and he doesn’t stutter, you can relax?”
Reaching blindly for the controls on her door, she clicked the automatic door lock again, just to be sure.
Ordinarily, she didn’t really mind working the late shift at the hospital. She lived alone, so it didn’t matter that she didn’t have her evenings at home. In fact, working was preferable to spending every evening alone, staring at the TV, which as often as not had nothing on of any interest to her even when she could get a clear picture. If it rained, she couldn’t, and if the wind was blowing she couldn’t because the trees in the forest surrounding her place were so tall that gusting winds made them sway into the line of reception of the little satellite dish mounted on her roof.
She’d been tempted a few times to clear a swath through the trees so that they wouldn’t interfere with her programs, but then she might be able to see her neighbor’s house and she lived in the country because she saw enough of people during the day. She didn’t want to even catch a glimpse of human habitation when she escaped the rat race. The people who knew her well enough to know she lived in the deep woods alone thought she was a nut case, but it was the way she maintained a healthy balance in her life--chaos at one end in her working life as a receptionist in the emergency room and absolute peace whenever she was at home.
At a time like this, though, she almost regretted her life style. It unnerved her having to drive through the almost deserted streets so late at night with a killer on the move stalking women. She dreaded even more leaving the city behind and turning onto the deep black ribbon of road that wound for miles into the countryside without passing more than a handful of houses.
She took herself to task for those wayward thoughts. What were the odds, after all, that she would run into the serial killer? “Probably almost astronomical,” she muttered. “Quit scaring yourself Amanda Louise Pendleton! Having an imagination is all well and good, but not if you’re going to use it against yourself!”
Despite the pep talk, Amy found tension winding tighter and tighter inside of her as she left the lights of the city behind and her car became engulfed in the blackness of the narrow two lane back road. She wasn’t aware of it at first, humming under her breath to keep the sense of isolation from creeping into her. After several miles, however, she began to realize that her fingers were hot and going numb from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. Her shoulders and arms ached from the tension and her foot was growing heavier and heavier on the gas pedal.
Taking herself to task again, she eased off on the accelerator and forced her body to relax. After glancing at the radio a couple of times, she decided to leave it off. Music might have lightened her mood but she was liable to hear another news report and she didn’t think that would help her feelings at all.
She hadn’t passed a house or a car in ten minutes when her headlights caught the shape of a vehicle on the side of the road. It was facing her, on the opposite side of the road.
“Somebody just broke down,” she muttered between clenched teeth, instantly feeling tension grip her once more. The car was dark. Who ever had broken down hadn’t pulled far enough off the road, in her opinion, but the shoulder was narrow and they’d probably feared they would end up in the ditch.
She was almost even with the car, staring at it and trying to decide whether she’d seen it before and if it was possible it belonged to someone who lived out this way, when the headlights suddenly flooded the road. The light blinded her. Blinking, trying to chase the spots away, she stared hard at the road, trying to keep from running off of it. Her foot came off the accelerator automatically and her car slowed. She patted the break, too focused on her predicament to spare a glance toward the car as she passed it.
The squeal of tires behind her made the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end. Gripping the steering wheel, she glanced quickly in her rearview mirror. As dark as it was, and still a little blind from the sudden flash of light, Amy could see little beyond the other car’s headlights and tail lights as it spun a donut in the middle of the road. Her heart seized in her chest. Panic washed over her like a tidal wave.
“It’s a cop,” she muttered. “It must be. Stupid son of a bitch! What the hell is he doing anyway, scaring the shit out of law abiding citizens?”
She was too panicked to decide what to do. Pull over? Keep going? Slow down? Speed up? She did all four, her car bouncing and veering as she braked and swerved toward the side of the road, then thought better of it and veered back into her lane and speeded up, stopping just shy of the speed limit.
Flashing blue lights did not fill her car. Instead, the car around her grew brighter and brighter as the car behind her closed the gap between them. Unconsciously, she depressed the accelerator a little harder, dividing her attention between the road ahead of her and the lights in her rearview mirror.
He had his brights on and those headlights rapidly moved closer and closer until she couldn’t see anything but the reflection of the lights in her night mirror.
“Oh god!” Amy gasped when she saw he wasn’t making any attempt to brake. Expecting a collision any moment, she floored it. Her car shot forward. The lights in her mirror dropped behind her. A moment later she heard the roar of the other car’s engine as the driver accelerated again until his bumper was practically touching hers.
The gas pedal was practically against the floor already, but Amy pressed harder on it anyway. Her car inched up a few more miles per hour, but not enough to put any distance between her and the car behind her.
Fighting panic, Amy’s mind leapt to grasp possibilities. None presented themselves. This stretch of the road was deserted--all the way to her turn off and once she was on her own road she would be in serious trouble. It was a dead end. She might make it to her neighbors’ house and she might not. Once she turned onto the dirt road she would have to slow down and the chances were good that she would slide off or be bumped off before she could reach the doubtful security of her own home, or her neighbors.
The thoughts had no more than materialized in her mind when she realized she was approaching the last turn off before her own road. She’d never been down it, had never had any reason to explore it, but she did not want to lead the killer to her door and she did not want to chance getting trapped on a dead end road with him.
It was the killer. She knew it had to be--unless this was some moron’s idea of a joke.
She wasn’t going to stake her life on it.
She took her foot off the accelerator. She couldn’t make the turn at the speed she was going. She’d end up in the trees.
Almost immediately, the car behind her bumped into her, dropped back a couple of feet and then bumped her again. She waited until the bumpers engaged and stood on her brake. Her tires screamed as the car behind her continued to push. The smell of burning rubber formed a thick, noxious cloud inside the car with her--but her speedometer began to drop--sixty, fifty-five. The needle was still hovering between forty and forty five when she saw the road. She hesitated, wondering if she’d slowed enough to make the turn. At the last moment, she jerked her wheel. The car behind her skidded off her bumper as she abruptly changed directions. The nudge and her speed made the car fishtail as it hit the dirt surface. For several heart stopping minutes she was completely occupied with trying to keep the car on the road as it skidded first one way and then the other. When she finally regained control again, she glanced in her rearview mirror. Her skidding car had thrown up a wall of dust and sand. Dimly, perhaps three car lengths behind her, she could see glowing eyes.
She hadn’t lost him, but then she hadn’t expected to and at least the maneuver had given her a little room. It wouldn’t last, she knew, and she pressed down on the accelerator as hard as she dared. It was a dirt road, which meant winding, and she couldn’t afford to hit a curve very hard. It was as black as pitch and she might not be able to see far enough ahead to keep the car on the road if she was going too fast.
There wasn’t a sign of a light that indicated a house. That didn’t necessarily mean there weren’t any, but she couldn’t see one.
She saw he was gaining on her when she looked back again, but the car was kicking up enough dust to severely limit visibility for him and the dirt was loose enough she could see he was having to fight to maintain speed and keep his vehicle on the road.
She poured on a little more speed, then had to slow abruptly as she rounded a curve and discovered it switched back almost immediately. The driver behind her went into a skid.
“Please, God, let him go in the ditch!” she muttered.
His headlights disappeared and she knew he must have skidded off the road. She slowed to a slightly less hazardous speed and took one hand off the steering wheel at the time to wipe the sweat off her palms so that she could get a better grip.
She’d just caught a glimpse of a light somewhere ahead of her when a flash of light in her rearview mirror nearly blinded her. If he’d gotten stuck, he’d managed to get himself out of it way too damned quick!
She sped up again, straining to catch another glimpse of the light she’d seen in the woods.
She almost passed the narrow drive that headed toward it. Slamming on brakes, she shoved the car into reverse, jerked it into drive again and shot onto a road so filled with holes the first one she hit nearly bounced her through the roof of her car. Her foot came off the accelerator as she was propelled upward. Frantically, she felt around for the pedal again and pushed for more speed, clenching her teeth together to keep from biting her tongue as her car bucked and bounced its way up the rough drive.
He turned in behind her. Her mirror caught the curve of his headlights as he made the turn.
It occurred to her then that she’d committed herself and she didn’t even know if the light meant anyone was home or not. It might be nothing more than a security light on a fucking barn! It might be the porch light on a house that belonged to some little ninety year old lady.
“Oh God! Let it be cop! A state patrolman. A GI Joe--or just a good old boy with a house-full of shotguns and bootleg liquor in his garage!”
It was a cabin and the light was on inside. Amy skidded her car to a halt when she’d pulled up behind a beat up pickup truck. She broke three nails trying to get the door open. Even as she leapt from the car, she heard the hiss and ping of scattering gravel as her stalker jerked his car to a halt behind hers.
“Help!” she screamed, running toward the cabin as fast as she could. “Help me! He’s after me!”
She was about halfway between her car and cabin when the door opened. At almost the same moment something big and hard slammed into her from behind. Stunned, she hardly even felt pain when she hit the ground. Her air left her in a rush, however, crushed from her lungs by his weight.
“What’s going on!” said a male voice sharply.
Amy lifted her head with an effort, fighting the hand the man was trying to clamp over her mouth. “It’s the killer! It’s the serial killer!”
The man shook her. “Stop it!” he growled in her ear. “It’s OK neighbor. Mmm-me and mmmm-my wife just had a--had a-- a little disagreement.”
“I’m not his wife!” Amy screamed desperately as the man finally hauled her to her feet and began trying to drag her back to his car. He was holding her from behind, making her attempts to defend herself completely ineffectual. She dropped her weight against him, hoping to break his hold, but he was far too strong for her weight to present him with any problems.
“Let her go.”
“Mmm -mind your own--mind your own business, asshole!”
“Don’t let him take me. For godsake! Please don’t let him take me.”
Through tears of terror and frustration she saw the man move to the edge of the porch. “I’m going to ask you nicely one more time. Let--her--go--NOW!”
“F-ff-fuck off!”
The man on the porch looked directly at her. “Sorry. This is going to hurt.”
Amy’s eyes widened as he lifted his hand. Thinking he’d intended to shoot the man holding her, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or more horrified when she saw he had nothing at all in his hand.
Abruptly, a jagged fork of lightening shot from his fingertips straight at her. A painful jolt went through her that was so hard she bit her tongue. The taste of blood filled her mouth and then there was nothing but blackness.
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