She let Tari show her the loose floorboards. Then she lifted them carefully. A dank, stale waft of air greeted her. She didn’t like having to put the girl, the human girl, into the dark hole.
A small baby lizard skittered into the opening and immediately ducked back into his hideout. Any other time, Rye might have snatched the creature up to skin it. A good number of things could be made from the durable hides besides boots, coats, gloves and flasks. She had made Shay a belt and hat from a patchwork of baby lizard hides. The larger adult-sized lizards, growing the length of her arm, offered skins that she used to make a seamless pillow and a padded stool, which turned out to be her favorite.
“Don’t come out until I or someone you know tells you it’s safe,” Rye told her, helping Tari crawl into the niche.
“I won’t.” Tari lay down, crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes.
Rye stared at her for a second, laid out like a lamian in slumber. She’ll be safe, Rye assured herself and carefully placed the boards back in place.
“Ready?” Sevrin put a hand on her back.
“She will be safe in there, won’t she?” Rye asked, seeking the assurance she had trouble mustering on her own.
“We’ll keep trouble as far from this shack as possible.” He pulled her from the corner and pushed her to the side of the door. “I’m going out and around the building. I’ll walk into the camp as if I just arrived from the same direction we came the first time. From there, I won’t know what to do next until I see how they react.”
“And me?”
“Sneak into as many of these shanties as you can without being seen. Explain to the locals we’re here to help, but we need their assistance too. Once the marauders wake up, it will take all of us to convince the leader to leave.”
“What if these people are too scared to help?”
“You’ll have to convince them. Just don’t take too long. I’ll be in a very sticky situation if no one’s got my back.” He cracked open the door.
“Sevrin?” She put her hand on his arm. “You have me, if no one else.”
He patted her hand and went out the door.
She waited. When no alarms went up, she slipped outside and headed for the next building. She peered through the gapped boards and saw two men.
“Bring us more of the drink,” the scruffy bearded man demanded, banging his cup repeatedly on the table.
Shifting her position to get a new angle on her view of the room, Rye spotted the to whom he spoke. A bedraggled female with a small, unhealed cut on her cheek approached the table with a clay jug. The human woman pulled at her torn clothing, drawing it back up on her shoulder as she refilled the man’s cup.
“What about me?” The heavier, surly man swung his cup up and clacked it against the clay jug so hard, Rye expected the vessel to break.
“That’s-that’s all-all of it,” the woman stuttered, stepping back.
“Don’t go holding out on us.” He jumped to his feet and snatched her by the arms. The jug fell and hit the edge of the table. It split into several pieces. Some stayed on the table, others dropped to the floor. “We want more and you’re going to get us more.”
“There is none,” she whimpered.
“Don’t lie to me.” He shook her, making her dress drop from both her shoulders and slip low on her arms.
“Forget about the drink, Milt.” The scruffy bearded man rose, tipped back his head and gulped down the rest of his drink. “I’ve recovered enough to go at her again.”
Surly Milt responded with a grin. Then as if the idea were his own, he twisted the woman around and bent her forward over the table. “You went first before, Wirdle. I get to do her while she’s conscious this time.”
Rye had seen enough. She hurried to the door and grabbed the handle, ready to barge into the scene with her anger. Instinct and common sense stopped her. She took a steadying breath. If she went in raising a ruckus, it would alert the other marauders.
A whimper instead of a scream escaped the woman inside. The sound of defeat made Rye wonder how many times they had raped her.
Rye’s thoughts blurred with images of Shay’s face. Had her sister suffered similar abuse? Rye shook away the vision and pushed down on the lever. When she let go, the unleveled door swung open on its own.
“Hello, gentlemen,” Rye said, knowing exactly what she had to do to distract them from the despoiled female.
The scruffy bearded man stood at the far side of the table holding the woman’s outstretched arms across the wood surface. Milt had the woman’s filthy skirt shoved to her waist, her bruised buttocks bare. He fumbled with the closure on his pants.
Both men let go of the woman, surprise widening their eyes.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Rye purred with false sincerity, keeping one hand near her mouth to hide her fangs from view. “I was told to come here and pleasure Wirdle and Milt. But you gentleman already have a woman, so I must have the wrong place.”
She turned, pretending to leave.
“Wait. I’m Wirdle,” the man said. “This is Milt. Who sent you? Orland?”
“Does it matter?” She batted her lashes and gave a nod toward the woman. “He must not have known about her. I’m sure if he did, he would have sent me to someone else. He had a strong desire to reward all his men for a job well done.” She hoped they’d not question what job.
“She was just leaving.” Wirdle motioned to the woman to get out.
The woman hurried around Milt and past Wirdle.
“Wait.” Rye seized the woman’s wrist, stopping her from running out the door. “Go fetch us some wine.”
“There isn’t any more.” The woman flashed a nervous look at Rye.
“Come now, we don’t want to hold out on these men.” Rye ushered the woman out the door and then whispered, “Go to Tari’s shack and stay there.”
“Who are you?” Confusion glistened in the woman’s tear-filled eyes.
“Just go.” Rye pushed the woman outside and shut the door. Then she turned to the men. “Now, where we? Oh yes, I remember.”
Slowly, provocatively, she unlaced the shirt of Sevrin’s she still wore. The garment wasn’t as appealing as when she had first started wearing it. Spotted with dirt and dried blood, it lacked the alluring scent of Sevrin. Still, she felt connected to him by the memory of his unselfish offering of blood when he found her near death.
“I do her first,” Milt declared, unfastening his pants.
Since neither of them had noticed her fangs, Rye moved toward the men in a way that kept their attention fixated on her hypnotic motions. She played with the shirt’s opening, sliding her fingers up and down to expose more of her skin.
Wirdle harshly shoved Milt aside. “You ain’t man enough for her.”
“What do you mean I ain’t man enough for her?” Wirdle puffed out his chest. “You saw me with that other one. I banged the hell out of her.”
“And nary a fight out of her either,” Milt countered. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a wild one.”
Rye left the shirt hanging partly opened. She unlaced the front of her pants, deciding to entice the two men into fighting over her instead of continuing their almost comically childish argument.
“I’ll just do myself, if you two can’t decide.” She slid her hand inside and rubbed her cunt. “Ah, I’m so wet.”
Milt grabbed Wirdle’s arm and tried forcing him out of the way.
“Oh, how I could use a big fat cock in me,” she moaned. “Which of you has what I need?”
“I do,” they said in unison.
Wirdle swung at Milt and knocked him to the floor.
Opportunity presented itself and Rye rushed Wirdle. His arms went around her, hugging her tight. She pushed her face into the damp staleness of his neck and sunk her fangs into the whisker-prickled skin. The pop of his vein was louder than the barely audible whine he made. She dug deep, lacerating his jugular, sucking hard on the warm liquid to stop his
struggle. His arms went slack as his whole body quaked and jolted. She let go.
Big man—down.
She turned her sights on Milt, looking at him through the red haze saturating her eyes.
“You’re a filthy vamp!” he shrieked, fear raising the pitch of his voice.
He leapt up from the floor. Whether he meant to come at her or aim for the exit didn’t matter, she couldn’t let him escape and warn the others.
She launched toward him, snatching him by the arms and whirling him around. When she let go, he flew into the wall. He drew a knife from his pocket and turned. The small weapon or impending pain didn’t stop her from lunging forward. She seized hold of his greasy dark hair and yanked his head to the side. The excruciating pain from his blade plunging into her side prompted her to bite with more force.
Unlike Wirdle, Milt cried out in another of his high-pitched screeches. He thrashed and clawed, unexpectedly putting up more of a fight than Wirdle had. To stop him, she ripped the flesh from his throat. He went limp.
With her keen sense of hearing, she noticed the creak of the door behind her. She released the now-dead Milt and spun around. Her jaw dropped at the surprising sight of Hamner. She hadn’t seen him in how long?
A long, partially healed cut on his face ran across his cheek, over the bridge of his nose and up into his eyebrow. It made him appear more menacing than she remembered.
He pulled a steel knife from his belt and the glint of steel in the lamplight mesmerized her. Memories flooded her head, the searing pain of torture, the depravities she suffered, the fear of dying alone in a ditch. All of it had her at a standstill.
Then Hamner grinned. That evil, sadistic tilt of his mouth brought back her anger and the lust for vengeance. He must have seen that in her face, because he suddenly turned and ran.
Rye chased after him, following the movements of the form she saw through her red haze. She didn’t care who saw her in the camp. Hamner had the information she needed about Shay.
Hamner went only as far as the cabin next door. She assumed because he thought he could hide.
He rushed inside.
Ignoring the discomfort of her skin tightening around the knife wound, she let her momentum from the adrenaline rush send her straight into his body. She rammed him so hard that the knife jarred from his hand. Together, they fell onto the table. A scattering of bowls and utensils on the surface crashed to the floor.
She tried holding him down, except he showed more strength than she was able to handle. He flipped her off and she landed on the eating utensils. She scrambled across the dirt to retrieve his knife. Frantically stretching, she almost had her fingers folded over the handle when he grabbed her by the leg. He dragged her back from the weapon. She rolled to her back and kicked with her free leg.
“I thought you would have died in that ditch,” he said, getting up and standing over her.
Her eyesight cleared slightly and so did her muddled memories. She remembered why Hamner left her lying near death in the dirt. In a fit of panic, she had fought him. She had snatched his odd knife out of his hand. The one he had called a razor. That was how he had gotten that laceration across his face. She had broken that strange weapon while slicing that cut into his flesh.
Rye kicked to keep him back. “Where’s my sister?”
“Sister?” He circled her and bent to pick up his knife.
“Yes. You took her from the same shack you took me. What did you do to Shay?”
He stared at her a moment, as if he thought about the question. From inside his coat, he pulled out a rag and wiped the steel blade he held.
“Where is she?” Rye kicked at him again.
He swung his arm and cut through her pants into her shin. “Dead, of course.”
She clenched her jaw, fighting off the burning pain. It stung worse than Milt’s stab into her side. She pushed herself forward, lunging to grab Hamner. He swung a chair and hit her hard on the right side of the head. Starry dots of light blurred her vision as she fell flat on the floor.
“You’ll be dead too when I get through with you.” He thrust the knife into her back.
When he withdrew it to stab her again, she flipped over and kicked him in the knee. He stumbled away, recovered his balance and came at her again.
He clawed at her legs to get a grip. “She fought back too and it was swee—eet!” He whistled with a pleased grin. “I gave her a right nice burial. Left her tied up and lying in a thick green patch of allium. She looked so lovely surrounded by those plump balls of purple flowers. Almost made me think she was human… Until she opened her mouth to hiss curses at me and showed those fangs.”
The horror of his words gave Rye more determination than ever to kill him. He’d left Shay to fall into a coma and die a slow death.
Rye took a deep breath and kicked her leg high, catching Hamner in the face. He wailed in pain as her boot heel raked the cut open on his face. He came at her again. Scooting back on her elbows and bottom, she ended up against the wall with him on her. She struggled to get him off. Blood from his cut dripped to her face and ran in her mouth. The almost-faded haze in her eyes darkened. The allium in her system prevented the burst of strength she needed to escape his clutches.
Rye remained stuck with a diluted picture of everything in the red-flushed hue, so she didn’t see Hamner’s strike coming.
Chapter Twelve
Sevrin skirted the camp, staying clear of the stationed marauders. However, from what he’d seen, most of those men hadn’t any wits about them in their intoxicated state. What he had learned was they killed any lamian who hadn’t run off as well as killed whoever opposed them. Since arriving at the camp a cycle of the moon earlier, the marauder men would undoubtedly feel relaxed. It explained why no one questioned his presence.
As he neared the end shack, the one with the little girl, he heard a scream.
Rye’s in trouble.
He rushed to the front of the shack and burst through the doorway, ready for a fight to protect her. She lay on the floor with a hulking figure over her. Blood dripped from her lips and her eyes glowed red with rage. The man standing over her turned toward him with a large cut on his face.
“Who are you?” The man’s gaze swung from Sevrin back to Rye.
“Sevrin.” Rye stopped him from answering, giving him her attacker’s name instead. “His name is Hamner. He’s the one who left me in that ditch to die.”
Sevrin glanced at Rye spitting blood onto the dirty wood floor. Her open shirt suggested all sorts of wrongdoings. Blood trickling from a closing wound on her side compounded his fury toward the man who tortured her.
Sevrin charged forward.
“No!” Rye screamed as he plunged his knife went into the man’s gut.
“What have you done?” Rye crawled forward. “He can’t die. Not until he tells me where to find Shay.”
Sevrin jerked the knife out of the man and watched him fall. “What does your sister have to do with him?”
“He took her. Six months before me, he kidnapped Shay. I let him take me so I could find her. When Levor mentioned the Wickstrom Group, I thought maybe Old Louis Ruins was where Hamner took her.” Rye tore the man’s shirt open and bent over him. “I have to heal him.”
Save the man who had abused her? Sevrin wanted to drag Rye away but he understood what she said and he had to let her try.
“Get off me, vamp,” the man growled, grabbing a fistful of Rye’s hair and pulling her back from licking his wound.
“Tell me where to find my sister.” Rye shook to free herself. “I can heal you, Hamner.”
Sevrin pried the man’s grip from Rye’s blonde locks.
“You ain’t using any of that magic on me, vamp bitch.” Hamner coughed and blood spewed from his mouth. “I’d rather die than let you feed on me.”
Sevrin forced the man’s arms up and held them pinned to the floor. He watched Rye bend over and licked at Hamner’s wound. The skin shrank around the laceration and s
ealed shut.
Rye sat back on her heels. “Now tell me where to find her.” She hit Hamner in the chest. “Tell me, dammit.”
Sevrin let go of Hamner’s arms. “He’s dead, Rye.”
“No.” She shot to her feet, anger burning hot in her red eyes. “No-no-no, he can’t be.”
Sevrin walked around Hamner to Rye. “I’m sorry. If I’d known…” He reached out to hold her and she swatted his hands away.
She stalked across the room to a barrel and dipped a rag into the water. Several times while washing her face, she cupped water in her hand, rinsed out her mouth and spit it on the floor.
“I’m sorry I killed him,” Sevrin said again when she turned around, her face cleaner. “If I’d known—”
“He deserved it.” She threw the wet rag to the floor. “They all deserved it, but he deserved it the most. He said he left my sister to die in a patch of allium.” Pain etched lines in her face.
“And he didn’t say where that was?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She took a shaky step forward.
“Rye, we’ll figure it out the location.”
“It’s been six months. If she was anywhere in the type of condition I was when you found me, she couldn’t last more than a few days, a quarter cycle of the moon at the longest.”
“Do you really want to leave it at that, never knowing if there was a chance to save her?” He watched her lean wearily on the table.
“No.”
“Then we’ll go looking and we’ll find her no matter what. Someone in the marauders pack has to know about the allium field besides Hamner.”
“And you’re going to go out there and ask them?” Her short laugh turned into a cough.
“I’ve mingled with the strays walking around this camp and figured out the leader is a fellow named—”
“Orland.” She completed his sentence.
“Yes.” He caught Rye as she stumbled away from the table. “What’s wrong?”
He moved his hand off her back and looked at his palm covered in blood.
“I’ll be all right. Before Hamner cut my leg, he stabbed me in the back. He had wiped his blade on a rag in his pocket. I think it was soaked in allium. My wounds aren’t healing like normal.”
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