Born of Fire

Kill her. Hide the body.

If only he could . . . Damn, stupid conscience. Why had the gods given them that gift? It definitely should have come with a return policy.

In the end, he had no real choice about it. When she regained consciousness in another hour or so, he’d try to talk sense into her. With any luck, she’d share her brother’s reason and intellect.

Gods, just let her be more reasonable than Kasen. Otherwise he would have to kill her.

And lie to Caillen for the rest of their lives.

Yeah . . .

With that thought foremost in his mind, he moved to the front door and switched the scanner back on. Now she’d have no choice except to stay put until he could think of some way to escape this tangled nightmare with his life intact.

Shahara moaned, her temples throbbing a painful beat. Blinking open her eyes, she wondered why she felt so terrible. Her sight focused on the white stucco wall before her where a beautiful Chinergov painting hung. As she stared at the impressionist’s interpretation of a huge, black bird in flight, she instantly remembered what had happened.

Where she was.

That slippery bastard had shot her!

With a gasp, she sat up, her head protesting the sudden movement. Ignoring the pain, she forced her blurry eyesight to clear and scanned the room.

It was empty. Thank goodness.

Silence buzzed in her ears and she wondered where Syn had gone.

Why had he left her alone?

Well, she didn’t care about the answer. As long as he wasn’t here, he couldn’t kill her, or keep her from leaving. Stealthily, in case he was in the bedroom or bathroom, she slid off the couch.

Without a sound, she crossed to the door and reached for the controls. Before her fingers touched the keypad, she glanced up and gnashed her teeth in frustration. He’d reactivated the scanner.

You double bastard, rat punk!

You didn’t really think he’d make it easy for you, did you? No, but a woman could always hope for a brain injury that would leave him stupid and make it easier on her.

If only . . .

She wanted to curse and strike out at the almost invisible beams that crosshatched the door, but she knew if she did that, they’d singe her flesh with a burn far worse than any fire. Worst of all, they’d trip an alarm.

She was at his mercy.

Instinctively, she reached for her weapons. As expected, they were gone along with the lockbox she’d used to breach the security system earlier.

Clenching her fists, she wished she could strangle Syn. Without her lockbox, she had no hope of guessing the scanner’s code. Grimson had designed his security systems too carefully and the number sequences were too intricate to ever be guessed by random choice, or remembered from her earlier success.

There was a nine in it . . .

Some place.

Yeah, that wasn’t exactly helpful.

Sighing, she looked around the room. She wasn’t just going to stand here waiting for him to come back and discover she was awake. There had to be a weapon somewhere in this giant mausoleum.

She headed to the kitchen.

Maybe you should look for him first . . .

No. Better to get a weapon. If he happened to be in one of the other rooms, she didn’t want him to know she was awake until she had some way to protect herself.

Gah, my head hurts.

It’s what you deserve for letting him get the drop on you and you’re lucky that’s all he did.

Very true.

Carefully, quietly, she opened cabinets and drawers seeking a knife, but instead, all she found were empty shelves. No cutlery at all—not even a rusty spoon.

Frowning, she opened the equally empty refrigerator. What did the man live on? Air?

Aggravated at not finding anything, she had to force herself not to slam the cabinet shut—in case he was in the other room. She crossed her arms over her chest and glanced at the counter. Again she saw a bottle of wine resting near the sink.

Not quite her weapon of choice, but in a pinch . . .

A determined smile curved her lips. It should serve to at least knock him senseless for a moment or two. That should be long enough to pull a weapon off his body.

She picked up the bottle and glanced at the blue and gold label. “Hmm, vintage.” Good year too. This bottle alone would probably make her fighter payments for six months. Such a shame to waste premium Gondarion grade on a worthless criminal.

Oh well.

Sliding her fingers around the cool, slick glass neck, she gripped the bottle and went hunting. With practiced, stalking strides, she inched toward the bedroom, then paused. The door to the bedroom slid upwards, which would give him ample time to pull a blaster on her and shoot her again.

Her head pounded even more, reminding her the last thing she needed was another sharp blast.

There had to be something else . . .

She smiled as she noticed the partially opened door of the bathroom . . . it might also swing open into the bedroom.

It was her best shot.