Chains of Fire (11 page)

As her maid carried her away, Samuel would have followed her, but Darren put his hand on Samuel’s shoulder and stopped him cold. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “She’s not for you. You can’t ever have her.”

Samuel didn’t know where the words came from. From the heights of his soul, maybe, but more likely from the depths of his gut. But he distinctly remembered saying, “I don’t want to hear
can’t
or
won’t
or
don’t
anymore. I’ll be who I want. I’ll have who I want. And I want her.”

He’d had her, too. She had been his, and he had been hers. They had lived together, and not just once. Both times, she had seen past the harsh exterior he presented to the world. They had had something real together. And the second time, when he could have kept her forever . . . he’d screwed it up.

Even in the depths of his sleep, Samuel knew this was his last chance to make things right.

The pain in his face eased. He sighed and opened his eyes.

In the darkness, Isabelle was leaning over him, her hands on his face.

“Whatryadoing?” he asked groggily.

“You’re
snoring
. I can’t stand it anymore. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep. So I’m
fixing
your
nose
.”

Each breath he drew was clearer. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She lifted her hands away. Lay down, her back to him. “Don’t even ask me to fix your balls. You deserve every bit of pain you’re suffering.”

He grinned into the dark, and pulled her close, her body relaxing against his, yet separated by the mummy sleeping bags that kept them alive, kept them warm.

She might not know it, but holding her made everything better.

He’d been gone for a while, though, because his body warmth had faded from his side of the tiny two-man tent. She opened her eyes, frustrated that she cared. That she liked sleeping with him, holding him in her arms, being glad that of all the men in the world, she was trapped with him, that if they had to die . . .

Well. They’d lived through the night, and that was a miracle. They could get out of here, too. Somehow.

She looked around.

Light came through the thin nylon walls of the tent. Light that seemed focused off to the left side toward the table. Laid out beside her were clothes: a gold sweat-shirt, green ski pants, a purple thigh-length parka, all approximately her size, if not even close to her taste. She pulled them on over the long underwear, shivering as the chill of the clothes stole away the lingering warmth of the sleeping bag.

A camp lantern sat on the table, its LED light shedding enough illumination for her to see that the area around the tent had been swept clear of dust and debris. A breakfast had been placed on the table: a bottle of water, an energy bar, a battered apple.

Samuel knew how to forage.

She drained the water, then muttered, “No cappuccino?” She was grateful to be alive. She was glad to fill her stomach. But Dracula was wrong. Blood wasn’t life. Caffeine was life, and she needed some.

She picked up the lantern and went in search of Samuel, wandering up and down the rows of lockers. She found him at the back, lit by another camp lantern, dressed in mismatched ski clothes, and using a pickax to pry open a series of lockers set behind a now-open wire mesh cage.

He looked her over, grinned, and nodded. “Nice.”

“I feel like a Mardi Gras necklace.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“No, and I’m grateful.”

“Don’t be grateful to me. Be grateful to the women whose lockers I’ve broken into.” He showed her the point of the pickax. “It’s not as elegant as your lock picking, but it’s warmed me up.” Walking over to her, he tucked his hand under her chin and turned her face from side to side. “You look like you’re going to live. Last night, I wasn’t so sure.”

“I was fine.” He looked good this morning, too, his nose completely healed and a twenty-four-hour growth of dark beard covering his chin.

“You had done too much. You were ready to lie down and die.”

Vaguely, she remembered thinking just that. Vividly, she remembered him running his hand up her leg and rubbing her rear. And her flare of fury. For one wild moment, she almost asked him if he’d groped her merely to revive her.

But that would be stupid. Getting her on her feet might have been his primary objective. But he’d enjoyed himself, too, and she saw no reason to give him an opening to suggest a rerun.

He was still observing her, standing a little too close, breathing her air.

She pushed his hand away and stepped back. “Now—can I help?”

“That would be great. We’re not going to starve to death—there are dry rations galore, not to mention energy bars and sack lunches. Water’s a little more difficult. I think the blanket of snow is acting as insulation on top of us, so the temp has leveled off at about freezing. Fluids are slushy. Yet we can’t light a stove to heat them up because—”

“Because it’ll take oxygen.” She sighed. He was right, but the choices down here were tough ones.

“I’ll open lockers.” He showed her the pickax. “You sort stuff into piles. I’ve got it organized.” He pointed. “Perishables go there. Obviously, we don’t have to worry about refrigeration.”

“That’s enough fresh food to keep us for weeks.” She looked around at the cavernous room, and added hastily, “Not that we’ll be here for that long.”

“No, of course not. Canned foods, energy bars, breakfast bars go there.” He pointed again. “Bottled water, Cokes, juices.”

She looked at the assembled bottles and licked her lower lip. “Any coffee drinks?”

“Maybe. What’ll you give me for one?” He wore one of his patented clever-guy smirks.

“I won’t kill you in a caffeine-deprived rage. How’s that for a deal?” She smirked back, sweet as only she could be.

He reached into an empty locker, retrieved one of the bottles he’d stashed inside, popped the top, and handed it over.

Good to know she could make him fear her. Taking a long drink, she sighed with delight and contemplated the admirable qualities of coffee.

Abruptly he said, “I thought I had it figured out.”

“What?”

“How to let someone know we’re here. When I was at the bank, Dina was in my head giving instruction.”

“She’s a mind speaker. You’re not.”

“No, and I don’t know why or how, but we were communicating. So I tried to put in a call this morning. Sent it good and hard so it would get through.” His mouth curled in disgust.

“No luck?”

“Think of the cartoon where the coyote thinks he’s chasing the Road Runner into a tunnel, but it’s an arch painted on the rock.”

She flinched at the mental image.

“Exactly. I hit that wall so hard my brain bounced.”

“What do you think happened to your lines of communication?”

“I don’t know. I never have trusted Dina, but she had the perfect chance to betray us while I was at the bank and didn’t. Now we’re here, and I don’t know if she was so freaked about
me
talking in
her
head for a change that she shut me down. I don’t know if she set us up to be killed in this avalanche. For all I know, the cigarettes finally caught up with her and she dropped dead of a heart attack.”

“Or the Others found out she was helping us and killed her.” She was pleased to note that the caffeine was moving through her veins, because she was putting logical thoughts together.

“That’s possible, too. Have you ever heard how she got her nose sliced in half?”

“No, have you?”

“No. Last I learned about Dina was when Genny realized she and Martha were sisters. I didn’t even realize there was a similarity.”

“I didn’t know either, Sammy.”

“Really?” He moved his head back and forth. “That makes me feel better. Not quite so insensitive.”

She smirked at him. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He smirked back at her. “As soon as I said it, I knew you were going to hit that one out of the ballpark. Now—ready?” he asked, and gestured toward his well-sorted piles.

“Sure,” she said expansively.

“Here’s where I put the alcoholic beverages.”

“Wow.” She surveyed the veritable mountain of whiskies, schnapps, wines, and beers.

“Skiers do like their libations.” He grinned. “Clothes and blankets there. Any tools you run across—there.” He grabbed an energy bar, opened it, and took a big bite. “Don’t forget to eat. Maintaining body heat at this temp will really burn the calories.”

“I’m not fragile, you know. I work out and my body mass index is right on target.” And why did she feel like she needed to defend herself to him?

He swung the pickax and broke the lock. “You look great.”

What was she supposed to say to that? “Thank you,” she said.

He gestured to her. “See what you can find.” He started on the next locker.

She went to work. She drank her iced coffee—might as well put a good face on it—looked through the clothes, found a wool scarf, and wrapped it around her neck and head. Found a good pair of gloves, warm but tactile, and went to work. He was right: The problem wasn’t food or water. It was heat and light. If they didn’t get out soon enough, they were going to freeze to death in the dark. She looked up at the ceiling again, at the heat ducts hung from metal straps and the steel and oak beams. “Samuel, why isn’t anything creaking? This whole place seems solid as a—”

“Tomb?” He turned back to the locker he was excavating. “I’m not a structural engineer, but here’s my theory. You’ve got a medieval castle, some major construction, reinforced for modern life. An avalanche comes down, because it had a little help from our boys with the Others. It wipes out the castle all the way to ground level. But it’s like a tornado: It doesn’t dip down; it blasts past. The beams and the floor hold, the heat down here rises, and the snow melts, then re-freezes into ice. I think we’re in an ice cave.”

“So we can’t even dig our way out.”

“I’ve got the ski patrol’s shovels and pickaxes. We’ll give that a shot, but if it doesn’t work”—he grinned like a boy—“I found the dynamite.”