by Anny Cook
Schalzina.
What the hell is that? Try explaining in words of one or two syllables, he suggested impatiently.
Schalzina is the name for the physical changes that prepare valley women for bonding. There is rhythmic tightening in the womb and an increase in fluid from the vagina. Over time, if bonding is delayed too long the tightening becomes contractions and eventually terrible cramps, leading to convulsions and finally death. Her calm, blunt explanation captured his attention in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Her tranquil acceptance of the possible life-threatening consequences if he failed her stunned him to silence as he groped for something to say. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Her explanation was so beyond what he had expected that his mind froze.
Then in the way that men latch onto something familiar, he demanded, You mean your pussy gets wet?
Very, she answered with restrained brevity.
So the short version is that once you begin this schalzina, you get aroused and need to be fucked. She wasn’t surprised by his crude but succinct summation. She had brothers, didn’t she?
Is there more?
How to explain bonding? Or the schela? Mhital? She took a deep breath and rubbed her forehead in frustration. What fate decided that she should be bonded with an out-valley man? There is more, she admitted reluctantly.
Uh-huh. I would have bet my paycheck on that. Okay, I have to go now. We’ll talk about this again when I’m in a more secure situation. Count on it, Wrenna. You have that long to figure out how to explain what’s going on. And then to her profound relief, he was gone.
Chapter Six
Trav padded soundlessly down the narrow alley behind the old rowhouses built back in the 1800s. Noting the extensive renovations and improvements, he shook his head in amazement. Urban renewal could be a wonderful thing if the emphasis was on improvement and not starting over from scratch. Thank God the rain had finally stopped. He counted buildings in the long row until he reached eleven. It would never do to break into the wrong house. Fifteen minutes before, he’d conducted an interesting conversation with Paullie the Weasel. Time was of the essence if he was going to get everything done before Paullie reported and Free came roaring after him.
He disabled the alarm, picked the lock and was inside the silent, dark hallway under five minutes. Not bothering to explore, he went straight to the office, booted up the computer and set to work. A short time later, he had downloaded everything he needed to a series of flash drives which he carefully stashed in the zipper pocket on his coat. Next he sent an e-mail to his cousin, Runner, with an attachment containing all the information Dancer had left him on the CD. Then with a few more clicks, he wiped the computer hard drive clean. Collecting his belongings, he went to the hidden door that connected with the neighboring building, pressed the latch and entered the pantry.
He stood in the dark, listening intently. Loud snores. Muffled whimpers. Now that just wasn’t a good sign. It sounded like Bish had company. He stashed his stuff in the living room and ghosted up the stairs to the bedroom. The moon broke through the cloud cover, illuminating the bedroom through the partially opened blinds.
Bish was sprawled naked across the bed, taking up more than his fair share of the wide mattress and snoring loud enough to vibrate the windows. Trav shook his head in disapproval. The woman lying next to Bishop was rigid with rage. Her arms were stretched out overhead, firmly restrained by what appeared to be a necktie wrapped around her wrists and fastened to one of the uprights on his antique iron bedstead. Her ankles were tied in a similar fashion to the footboard. Another tie was serving as a gag. Hmmm. Now what?
He slipped the prepared syringe from his pocket, approached the bed and slipped the needle in Bishop’s leg just above the ankle. He worked so quickly that he was done by the time Bish jackknifed up to grapple with him. A well aimed snap to the jaw and Bish folded. Trav caught him before he rolled off the bed and settled him back in his place before he went around the bed and pulled the woman’s gag down over her chin.
Immediately, he decided that was a mistake. The litany of curses and threats that spewed from her mouth had him on Bishop’s side without any further explanations. He wrestled the gag back in place and prowled the darkened room in search of her purse. He might as well find out who she was. The flicker of his small flashlight caught a big red leather tote bag. Bingo.
Like Bish before him, he simply dumped it out and pawed through the stuff until he found what he was looking for—a wallet with driver’s license that identified the woman as Tiffany DeMarko. Shit. He wondered if she was related to Carl. Probably. He flipped open the leather ID folder. More good news—she was FBI. Oh, joy! No wonder Bishop had her tied up. Traveller grinned. That had to be quite a rush to have a Fed tied to your bed.
Well, now. This might work out even better. He flipped through her daybook, noting the lunch appointments with Free. Yeah, this was better than his plan to use Paullie. Tossing the book down in the tumbled pile on the floor, he went out and trotted down the stairs in search of a vehicle. He sure hoped Bishop still had that SUV stashed in the garage next door.
Ten minutes later, he had the SUV loaded with his baggage and the things he considered necessities from Bish’s hidden basement. Little things like weapons, some camping gear and food were packed in the back of the squat black vehicle. He reclined the passenger seat and left the door open while he went back upstairs to retrieve Bish.
Ignoring the angry noises Tiffany made through her gag, he grappled until he had Bish’s body in a secure fireman’s lift and carried him down to the truck. As a finishing touch, he turned off the alarms in Bish’s townhouse, unlocked both the front and back doors and went back into the neighboring building, locking everything in that building behind him when he returned to the garage. He tossed an afghan over Bishop’s body, tilted his head against the window as though he was sleeping and fastened the seat belt. When he was satisfied with his arrangements, Trav fastened his own seat belt, found the garage door opener, opened the door and cautiously backed out into the alley. The door rolled down and Trav drove away, heading for Bright Shadows Mountains.
Hours later, near noon, Tiffany heard the heavy sound of men pounding up the stairs and squeezed her eyes shut in abject humiliation. When she next saw Bishop Llewellyn, she was going to kill him. Black-clad men, bristling with weapons piled into the bedroom jolting to a halt when they saw her. One by one, the men peeled back their masks and lowered their weapons. Then they did the unforgivable. They laughed.
Tiffany mentally added them to her “kill” list.
“Well, would you looky there,” one behemoth drawled. “A she-Fed all tied up and ripe for the plucking.”
“Back off,” a gravelly growl behind them reproved but there wasn’t a noticeable change in the men’s attitudes as the owner of the voice moved closer to the bed and slowly surveyed Tiffany’s naked body with pursed lips. “I would guess, just off-hand, that Mr. Bishop Llewellyn knows who you are. Let us hope that his father does not.” His dark FBI windbreaker rippled as he planted his hands on his hips and stared at her.
There was a heavy silence for a few moments before he sighed and moved to the bed to remove her gag. “Untie me!” she ordered sharply. When she was free, she rolled to her feet and groaned. “Get the fuck out of the way!” Shoving her colleague roughly to the side, she bolted past him into the bathroom and slammed the door. She heard the men’s rough laughter, even over the rush of her desperately emptying bladder. She was going to kill someone, she decided coldly and she might as well start with the jerks out in the bedroom.
And Garrett Stone! Just wait until she slapped him with a sexual harassment suit. He wouldn’t find that so funny! As for Bishop Llewellyn and his best buddy, Trav Devereaux—she prayed her father Carl caught them and killed them both. She hobbled over to the door, made sure it was securely locked and headed for the shower. She had plans to make while she cleaned up.
* * * * *
Bishop Llewellyn
woke with the certainty that it was not going to be a good day. His head was full of tiny elves industriously beating on drums. His stomach was jumping in time to the drum beating. And his arms were twisted uncomfortably behind his back, where they appeared to be tied to his ankles. No, it wasn’t going to be a good day. A dark bag that seemed to be impregnated with cow manure was pulled over his head. He sincerely hoped that most of the cow manure had been emptied from the bag before he had dubious pleasure of its acquaintance. As he carefully took stock of his situation, he realized that he was stark naked and cold and had been rather carelessly dumped on the rough metal floor of a moving vehicle. It was a stupid way to spend his forty-fifth birthday.
The speed at which the vehicle was moving down something that resembled a dry, potholed riverbed did not augur well for either the vehicle or his skin. He bounced from one side to the other, slamming into hard pointy objects and concluded with faint resignation that he had no hope of getting out of this situation with a whole skin. The vehicle slammed to a stop and he heard the driver get out and shut the door. A few seconds later, the back door was opened and he was yanked toward the opening, losing more skin on the way. Almost with relief, he felt the tiny needle prick in his ankle and then he knew no more.
When he woke next, the elves were still with him but he was stretched out on the cold ground with his arms and legs firmly tied to stakes. And much to his dismay, he was still naked. The odiferous bag had been removed from his head and he saw that he was surrounded by darkness. About six feet away, a small fire was merrily crackling but it provided no heat for him. The duct tape that had covered his mouth had obviously been ripped off, taking part of his skin and mustache with it. It still burned, so he decided he was glad that he had not been conscious for that particular delight. His field of vision was limited but it seemed to him that he was in a cave.
“Happy birthday, Bishop. I see you decided to finally rejoin the almost living,” a dark, velvety voice observed and he knew exactly why he was in this situation.
“’Lo, Trav,” he said casually. “Lots of work to piss off my father.”
“Now, Bish,” he was assured, “nothing is too much work to piss off your father.” Traveller moved into his field of vision and looked down at him. “You don’t look very comfortable, Bish. Aren’t you cold, like that?”
“Freezing,” Bish replied curtly. “But I’m sure you have something in mind to warm me up, so I’m not too worried about it.” He shivered artistically but Trav wasn’t buying. “So, what’s the deal? Are we waiting for a party? Or is this a stag deal?”
“Just you and me,” Trav informed him agreeably. “Straight trade. You for Dance.”
“And if Dad doesn’t have Dancer?” Bish didn’t think that his father had Dancer.
“We-ll, we’ll get to be better friends than we are now.” Traveller laughed quietly, sending chills up Bishop’s back. “I do hope that your father believed me when I said that I won’t negotiate.” He moved away and Bish heard the sound of liquid splashing into a container. “Are you thirsty?”
“I could use some water,” Bish replied.
“Here. Turn your head,” Trav instructed as he held a metal cup to Bish’s mouth. “There are approximately six hundred men out there on the mountain, trying to pinpoint this position. One of them is your girlfriend’s father, Carl DeMarko,” he said casually, as he tossed his heavy auburn braid back over his shoulder.
“Tiff’s not my girlfriend,” Bish declared curtly. “She’s a Fed they sicced on me when you disappeared.”
“I see. Now it’s my fault you were sleeping with that foul-mouthed wildcat?”
Bish shrugged. “Why turn down what’s offered?”
“Oh, maybe because she might just stick her gun up your butt and pull the trigger?”
“Nah, never happen. She’s using me to get something on my old man. Anyway, she’s fucking us both.”
Trav just stared at him in disbelief. “If Free finds out she’s a Fed, she’ll be a dead Fed.”
“Not my problem. She’s a big girl.” Bishop yawned and closed his eyes. “So what’s your plan to keep them from just rushing this cave?”
“If they get too close, the entire canyon this cave opens onto is going to become a solid wall.”
“Dynamite?”
“Something better.” He stood and walked away with the cup. “I gave your father detailed instructions, which he seems to be having difficulty following. But then, I always thought that Harry Keller was probably really running the show.”
“And after you blow the canyon?” Bish asked, praying that Trav had an escape route planned.
“I guess we’ll play poker while we wait for the air to run out,” Trav answered calmly. “If you want, I’ll even untie you. Can’t play strip poker because I don’t have any clothes for you but it was a come-as-you-are party and that’s how you were. I can give you a blanket.”
“What if Dad can’t produce your brother?”
“Well, I’ll be really sorry about that but he should have let Dancer retire. Your father knew the job was tearing Dance apart after those kids died.” Trav drank from the cup, before tossing the dregs to the side. “Dancer wasn’t ever the same.”
There didn’t seem to be anything useful to say, so Bish kept his mouth shut. He hoped his father was considering all the options. Of all the things that Traveller could have pulled, taking one of the sons of Free Llewellyn was the one most likely to get his attention. After his son Baron and his daughter-in-law, Jade, had been abducted, they were never seen again. Free had never quite gotten over their loss, even after more than twenty-five years. He sighed.
“I don’t suppose you would like to let me go to the bathroom?”
“I might be able to arrange it,” Trav conceded. “But you’ll have to keep the restraints. If they succeed in taking me down, the only thing that will protect you are the restraints. They prove you’re my hostage.” He moved away for a moment and returned with a bundle of sturdy plastic strips that Bish recognized. Used in differing combinations, they could serve as temporary restraints for almost any situation. Trav put together an efficient hobble and attached it to his ankles. Leaving one ankle staked, he moved up to work on Bishop’s wrists. When they were secured, he pulled up the remaining stakes and hoisted Bish to his feet. Pointing him in the direction of the far corner, he waited for him to shuffle off.
“What, no hands?” Bish complained.
“Improvise. If it’s going to be too difficult, I’ll start thinking that you really don’t need to go.”
Bish shuffled off to the corner, taking his time. When he reached the corner, he leaned his head against the wall and aimed with mixed results. He heard the dim bark of a rifle shot and then the cave seemed to jump up and shake him like a dog.
When the vibrations from the explosives detonating rippled away, he saw Traveller stretched out in the dirt across the cave from him. Incredibly, the fire still burned, though it looked as though the tidy little pile of wood was somewhat scattered. In the distance, he could hear a low rumbling and somewhere, deep inside, he knew that they were trapped. Lucky shot. Or unlucky shot, if you were the fella that was going to answer to his father. Actually, he hoped it was that son of a bitch, DeMarko. Shaking his head, he shuffled over to Trav’s body, praying that he wasn’t dead yet. He didn’t particularly want to be shut up in a cave with a body—even Trav’s— for company.
“Trav?” He could see Trav’s chest moving, so that meant he was still breathing. “Trav! Wake up!”
“Why?” Trav’s voice was a faint thread.
“Because I would like to be untied now. That was the deal. The canyon goes down, I get to be untied,” Bish reminded him reasonably, while trying to stave off the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn’t do well in small places. Especially small dark places.
“I seem to recall that the deal was based on me blowing the stuff, not some idiot with a rifle for a brain.” He sighed. “I’ve always said
that they let any fool jackass carry a gun. Too bad, they don’t know what to do with them. Well, don’t stand there. Get over here and dig my knife out of my pocket.”
Bish studied him thoughtfully. Trav wasn’t moving and that was a very bad sign. “How badly are you injured?”
“Well, I think that pretty well everything that can break is broken,” Trav replied too calmly. “I seem to be breathing, so I’m not sure about my neck or spinal cord…and I seem to be feeling plenty of pain, so I suppose that’s a good sign—if I was within a reasonable distance to a hospital. Even my hair hurts.”
“Want me to cut it off?” Bish offered helpfully, squatting down next to him. “Which pocket is the knife in?”
“The right one. And if you cut my hair, there won’t be a place on earth I won’t find you.”
Moving like a lame duck, Bish carefully turned around with his back to Trav. “You’re going to have to tell me when I get in the general vicinity. I don’t want to touch you any more than I have to until these manacles are off.”