Deadly Captive (7 page)

Facing Cyrus, I said the first thing that came to my mind. "Pain is inevitable.

Suffering is optional. Author unknown."

He laughed, then cracked me in the jaw with his fist. My head snapped to the side, and I fell to my knees. "Is it really? That sounds like a challenge, Lydia."

I squared my shoulders. "Given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I choose pain. William Faulkner."

His eyes snapped, and he slammed his hand into the center of my chest. I hit the wall, but forced myself to stay my feet. He was on me again before I could brace for the blow. "Interesting game. I wonder how long you can keep it up."

Catching hold of my hair, he dragged me to the wall of chains. With his arm braced against my neck to hold me against the wall, he lifted my hand high over my head. One of the men clamped a metal shackle around my wrist. When both of my wrists were bound, Cyrus released me and stepped back, watching as the man chained my ankles.

"Funny how you remember nothing, Lydia, yet you recall quotations with that particular theme." He arched a brow, eyes trailing down my naked body. "I think you must like pain."

"Pain is a sign that you're still alive." I said.

One of the men came to Cyrus's side and offered him tray of hooks and scalpels.

Terror froze my mind. I couldn't remember where I'd heard the quote.

Cyrus selected a long, serrated blade and held it up, lips curving as he looked it over. "Or something that makes you wish you weren't."

Cupping one hand over my breast as though to keep it out of the way, he held the knife like an artist holds a paintbrush.

"Shall I show you?"

The cut was clean, despite the blade's jagged teeth. He drew the knife along my collarbone, and then he set down the blade to take up another, this one straighter and smaller but just as sharp. He drew a curled line at each end of the cut. The blood coated my chest in seconds. Smearing a hand through the blood, he lifted it to his mouth, licking it slowly clean as he watched me.

I stared at something just over his head, a phantom image of the sun. A fantasy, or maybe a memory. I envisioned tall grass, tickling my feet as I danced with my arms full of wild flowers. A gentle voice called out:
Don't go too far!

Children's laughter echoed around me as I spun around and around . . . .

"Oh, no, you don't." Cyrus said. His fingers dug into my jaw. "Stay with me."

He was so close I could have spit in his face. I resisted the urge, forcing myself to smile instead. "Didn't you tell me to follow Joe's lead, Cyrus? You enjoy finding new ways to break him. Are you giving up with me already?"

Cyrus slapped me. My head whipped to the side. I kept it there for a minute, just trying to breathe. Cyrus threw back his head and roared a loud, off-pitch laugh. "Oh, I do like you. That's quite clever, Lydia." Shaking his head, he reached up with one hand, his other hand on my hip, and twisted me around in the chains so I faced the wall. "I do think I will enjoy seeing how long you can hold to this brave front."

I heard movement behind me, a snap, then scalding pain. Something imbedded in my flesh. I gagged as the flesh of my back stretched and tore. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the whip snake through the air. The hooked tip flashed in the light.

Three strokes—each shredding skin into searing ribbons—battered my will to nothing. I ground my forehead into the wall and watched my tears mix with the blood splattered on the concrete. My vision exploded in a flash of white.

Then I felt nothing. A cocoon of nothingness enveloped me. For all I knew, Cyrus had killed me. At least I'd spared Joe my screams.

Warmth caressed me like a summer breeze—no like the desert wind in Joe's oasis—then kicked up to a storm blasting hot sand. I rolled and let out a muffled cry, torn with agony. I had to find shelter before the sand skinned me alive.

Something wet pressed against my forehead. I opened my eyes. Joe smoothed a wet compress down my cheek.

I attempted a smile. "Hey."

Joe's lips curved, but his eyes were troubled. "Hey."

I lifted my hands over my head, immediately regretting the movement, and then left them there. "How long have I been out?"

The question brought an unguarded grin of amusement to Joe's face. "Oh, at least a year."

The choked sound that ended this proclamation informed me I had been unconscious a while. For his sake, I kept my tone light. "So, I guess, by your estimation, I'm either twenty or twenty-four now."

Lying down beside me, Joe stroked his fingers down the side of my face, careful to avoid the scabbed flesh over the cut. "Hmm, well, from all these wrinkles, I'm thinking maybe I was off by a few years."

I blinked and frowned. Any movement was painful, stretching the delicate new skin forming over my wounds, but I touched my cheek anyway. "I have wrinkles?"

Shaking his head quickly, Joe took my hand and eased my arm down to my side.

"No. I was kidding. Sorry about that. I thought you'd realize." Brow creased, he rolled over and sat up. Taking hold of a sheet, he tugged it up to my chin. "Try not to move too much. You're still not fully healed."

The dark regret in his eyes made me feel guilty. I almost told him I could feel how far from healed I was, but kept it to myself. He'd take all the blame for my condition if I didn't change the subject.

"I must look nasty . . . ." I cursed myself when he winced and decided not to mention the blood caked on my flesh or the scars. "I mean, I haven't washed in awhile."

I sniffed and pursed my lips. "And I stink."

He chuckled. "You don't smell any worse than when we work out."

His laughter was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard. I wanted to hear the wonderful sound again, but I hurt too much to tell jokes. Instead, I tried to figure out a way to make him feel useful. I knew if I were in his place, watching him suffer would be hell. The pressure of my heartbeat throbbed against aching flesh that felt sewn together with the thinnest thread. All I really wanted to do was sleep—which gave me an idea.

"Joe." I carefully slanted my head, so I could see him without moving the rest of my body.

Shifting closer, Joe took my hand. "Yeah?"

I licked my lips. "I'm really tired."

Joe nodded, set down my hand, and stood. "I know, but you should eat. Here, let me get you something." He went to the table and returned with a bowl and a small glass. "Have a couple of bites and something to drink, you'll heal faster." He had a spoon dipped in the mush before I could speak, covering only the tip so I wouldn't have trouble getting it in my mouth. Being fed made me feel like a child, but I knew I was in no condition to feed myself. Even opening my mouth tugged at the sore, tight skin around the wounds on my face.

Swallowing the tasteless food with a grimace that made my eyes water, I accepted the glass he handed me, then took a sip of the milky sweet liquor that reminded me of some kind of nut. "Thank you, but what I wanted to say—" I inhaled roughly, trying to hide how much talking hurt.

Joe gave me another mouthful, tenderly stroking back my hair. "Shh. Don't talk, Lydia. Just eat, and then get some rest. It'll take a while, but you'll get better." His words seemed as much for himself as for me, as though he thought, if he said it out loud, he could make it come true.

"Yes, but I need your help. Just . . . ." I paused, inhaling slowly to minimize the pain. "Talk to me. Tell me about your past or . . . ." I closed my eyes, fighting back tears.

When I opened my eyes, I saw an expression of doubt and sympathy pass over Joe's face. Brow furrowed, he remained silent for a moment, then smiled and nodded.

"How 'bout I tell you a story?"

I lifted the corners of my mouth. My body jerked. God, it hurt. "Just not Hansel and Gretel. Never liked that one."

Joe seemed pleased by the admission. I realized now, any memory, no matter how vague and obscure, even the memory of a fairy tale, encouraged us both. It meant maybe, just maybe, one day I'd remember everything.

"I'll assume that means no other stories with cannibalistic undertones," he said, knowing me well enough to understand why I found the story so unpleasant. With a thoughtful look, Joe moved to sit at the end of the bed, sliding back so he could rest against the wall. "How about
The Taming of the Shrew
?" I stuck my tongue out at him. He laughed.

I blinked as something hinted at my mind. "I like Shakespeare." Drawing in a shaky breath, I wet my lips with my tongue. "Not that one though."

He nodded. "Do you remember
Romeo and Juliet
?" I nibbled at my lip and he shrugged. "Well, it's one of the more famous ones. I'll tell you that one. It might jog your memory, and, since I'm such a lousy story teller, it's guaranteed to put you to sleep."

I wanted to smile, to laugh, but I resisted the urge. Letting my body sink heavily into the mattress, I watched Joe's eyes take on a far-off look, like he was trying to figure out where to start.

"Well, once upon a time . . . ." He winked at me, and I knew my eyes shone in response because he seemed much more at ease when he continued. "There were these two families—the Montagues and the Capulets. The head of each family was a powerful man, sort of like a don. These men were enemies, and so their families were enemies.

When they met on the street, there would be fights over stupid stuff. The first one mentioned is because one guy bit his thumb at another. I can only assume back then, biting your thumb was like giving someone the finger today."

The sound of Joe's voice as he recounted the story was soothing. As I lay still, the pain began to subside, and I knew sleep would come. At first, I fought it, enjoying Joe's obvious twist on the tale—
très drole
with his quirky comments—but the needs of my body won out. Still, even though I regretted not hearing the end of the story, I was satisfied. I'd taken some of the weight of guilt from Joe, a weight our captors would use to break him.

Before, I hadn't thought I had the power to thwart them. Now, I knew I did.

* * * * *

I felt the wind, actually felt it. Standing tall, I held out my arms, turning around and
around, letting the flow of it surround me, breathing deep to let it fill me. Joe chuckled nearby.

"You keep turning like that, and you're gonna fall."

I stopped turning and caught my breath. I was standing at the edge of a rocky cliff. With
an exaggerated little shriek, I threw myself into Joe's arms.

"Can we stay here, Joe?" I looked up at him.

Joe smiled. "Sure." He kissed my forehead and stepped back, reaching behind him to pull
out a sword. "As soon as we kill them all."

My hand tightened around something, and I looked down to see that I held a sword in my
white-knuckled grasp. "Kill them. Yes, I like that idea very much."

Joe's hand was suddenly on my shoulder, his grip almost painful. "You need practice,
Lydia. You have the skill, but it's buried, deep within. You can practice here, but you'll have to
give up digging for memories. Your past is like a scrapbook in a house that's gone up in flames.

A sad loss, but you survived. Be grateful."

I closed my eyes and rolled my shoulders. I could feel the truth of his words. Either my
body would remember, or my mind would. For some reason, I couldn't have both.

"But I won't be here forever. I have a life . . . somewhere . . . ."

"Your mind was damaged, love." Joe circled me, trailing his fingers through my hair.

"The life you had is worth nothing if you can't fight for your freedom. You can start again. If
you live."

The lure of memories teased at the back of my consciousness. Family, friends, other
nameless faces hovering in the darkest reaches of my mind.

"Are you ready to say 'goodbye' to them?" Joe stood behind me, rubbing his hands down
my arms, a gentle comfort. He knew the sacrifice wouldn't be easy.

I turned and let him hold me as I nodded. A sob broke out, and the warmth of tears spilled
down my cheeks. "I'm ready."

Joe pressed his fingers under my chin, drawing me up for a kiss. The faces hovering in the
dark were gone. There was nothing left, nothing but a slow buzz that began flowing through me,
twitching my muscles. Focus overcame all. With fierce discipline, I pushed back the sadness.

There was no room for regret. Like a fire within, a new drive burst to life. I heard a voice, deep,
warm, somehow kind and stern at once. "Uncontrolled thoughts steal focus, Lydia. You must
not let them slip, anymore than you would let slip your hold on balance."

Had I made a different choice, I would have known the face behind the voice. But
something told me that, had I made a different choice, I would have disappointed that unknown
person. I'd been taught better, and I had done what I must. I knew, somewhere deep within, he
would have been proud.

A sword came at me and, without thinking, I brought up my own to block it.

Joe smirked at me over our crossed swords. "Are you done with self-pity? You've been
lazy. You have a lot of work to do."

I was tempted to argue, but, instead, I shook my head and laughed. "Yeah. I'm done." I
drew my sword back and turned swiftly, swinging too fast for him to do more than jump back
out of my reach. "You're going to wish I wasn't."

"I think she's awake."

The youthful voice sounded excited. I woke with a groan, pushing myself up, ignoring the complaint of my stiff muscles straining under fragile skin. Then I opened my eyes. And stared.

What the hell is a kid doing in here?
But after a few quick blinks, I realized she wasn't a kid. Not really. Her body had soft curves; her breasts were a little larger than mine. I could tell from her face that she was quite a bit younger than I was. Her cheeks were still plump with baby fat, and the dark, rich color of her perfectly smooth skin added to her youthful look. The sparkle in her wide, mocha-colored eyes topped it off.