the main tribe.”
“They are all dangerous, until provenotherwise,” Booker commented casually, but those blue eyes were anything but as they swept over her pale features. “One, two, a half-dozen bad ones—any more than one just becomes a number.”
“I can prove the Al Asheera are not in league with Trygg,” she stated, steel now in her tone, her feet back under her. She took a step to him, then another, until they were almost toe to toe.
“It’stime for you to trust me.” Her chin lifted higher until her gaze locked with his. “I have connections in Tourlay. Connections that are not influenced by Trygg. We can stay here for twenty-four hours, then we’ll find my friends. They’ll help us get to the cylinders quicker.”
“That is not going to happen.”
“Give me one good reason why not?”
“Let’s start with your capabilities,” Bookerstated. “The reason I’m in this condition? Saving you. The reason it got worse? Saving you again. And that doesn’t even include the apartment the other night, when I saved you the first time.”
“I didn’t ask—”
“My turn,” he interrupted, the two words cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “Now, back in the day of your ancestors, I’d own you.”
“That’s ridiculous—”
“Still talking,” Booker warned.
Sandra placed her hands on her hips, not happy.
“Now,” Booker continued, “because I respect your medical abilities—to a point—we’ll take a few hours, until the heat lessens, then we’ll move.”
“You need rest,” Sandra replied, her voice hard with a doctor’s impatience. “Why on earth would you risk serious complications—”
“Because frankly, I’m notup to the task of saving you a fourth time. And staying here too long will make us easy targets. Is that clear?”
She couldn’t argue with that, as much as she wanted to.
But it was the fatigue that overtook his features—just for a second. Just long enough to remind her that he was suffering.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes. You can tell me where the cylinders are, and stay put somewheresafe.”
“No. We’re in this together.”
“Noted,” he said grimly. He eased back against the rock, dismissing her. “Now if we’re done—”
Frustration bubbled, until it spit angry sparks that sizzled and snapped at her nerves. “Not quite. You still need to tell me about Emily. And your baby.”
Chapter Twelve
Night covered the city of Tourlay. The streetlamps burned a dull, misty yellow, thickening the smoke spewing from the roof holes of nearby dwellings. Buildings that had years before lost their charm—their bricks now gouged, the paint long replaced with graffiti.
“Follow me.” Booker kept to the shadows, peering in windows they passed.
“Are you looking fora place?” Sandra asked, making sure she kept within a few steps. “Because I know of one up the street.”
His eyes studied her face for a moment, but he didn’t ask how she knew. “Okay. Show me.”
The dwelling was little more than a room with a roof, gutted long before by its original owners, or nomads like Booker and Sandra who sought shelter. Dirt floors, clay walls and a roof made ofscrap lumber, it did little more than protect them from the elements.
Sandra stepped through the door after Booker gave her the “all clear.” “The family that lived here, they had moved on to better things.”
“You helped them?”
“Not as much as I wanted to.”
Booker nodded. “Stay here. Keep away from the windows and door. I’ll be back in a while.” Before she could respond, he steppedout into the darkness.
In the back corner, near the only window, lay a small circle of stone for fire.
With the dry wood for the roof, Sandra decided against tempting fate and hugged her arms to her chest.
She was my wife, long before I met you. She died from complications when our baby miscarried.
Also long before I met you.
And frankly, its none of your damn business,Doc.
That
“They are all dangerous, until provenotherwise,” Booker commented casually, but those blue eyes were anything but as they swept over her pale features. “One, two, a half-dozen bad ones—any more than one just becomes a number.”
“I can prove the Al Asheera are not in league with Trygg,” she stated, steel now in her tone, her feet back under her. She took a step to him, then another, until they were almost toe to toe.
“It’stime for you to trust me.” Her chin lifted higher until her gaze locked with his. “I have connections in Tourlay. Connections that are not influenced by Trygg. We can stay here for twenty-four hours, then we’ll find my friends. They’ll help us get to the cylinders quicker.”
“That is not going to happen.”
“Give me one good reason why not?”
“Let’s start with your capabilities,” Bookerstated. “The reason I’m in this condition? Saving you. The reason it got worse? Saving you again. And that doesn’t even include the apartment the other night, when I saved you the first time.”
“I didn’t ask—”
“My turn,” he interrupted, the two words cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “Now, back in the day of your ancestors, I’d own you.”
“That’s ridiculous—”
“Still talking,” Booker warned.
Sandra placed her hands on her hips, not happy.
“Now,” Booker continued, “because I respect your medical abilities—to a point—we’ll take a few hours, until the heat lessens, then we’ll move.”
“You need rest,” Sandra replied, her voice hard with a doctor’s impatience. “Why on earth would you risk serious complications—”
“Because frankly, I’m notup to the task of saving you a fourth time. And staying here too long will make us easy targets. Is that clear?”
She couldn’t argue with that, as much as she wanted to.
But it was the fatigue that overtook his features—just for a second. Just long enough to remind her that he was suffering.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes. You can tell me where the cylinders are, and stay put somewheresafe.”
“No. We’re in this together.”
“Noted,” he said grimly. He eased back against the rock, dismissing her. “Now if we’re done—”
Frustration bubbled, until it spit angry sparks that sizzled and snapped at her nerves. “Not quite. You still need to tell me about Emily. And your baby.”
Chapter Twelve
Night covered the city of Tourlay. The streetlamps burned a dull, misty yellow, thickening the smoke spewing from the roof holes of nearby dwellings. Buildings that had years before lost their charm—their bricks now gouged, the paint long replaced with graffiti.
“Follow me.” Booker kept to the shadows, peering in windows they passed.
“Are you looking fora place?” Sandra asked, making sure she kept within a few steps. “Because I know of one up the street.”
His eyes studied her face for a moment, but he didn’t ask how she knew. “Okay. Show me.”
The dwelling was little more than a room with a roof, gutted long before by its original owners, or nomads like Booker and Sandra who sought shelter. Dirt floors, clay walls and a roof made ofscrap lumber, it did little more than protect them from the elements.
Sandra stepped through the door after Booker gave her the “all clear.” “The family that lived here, they had moved on to better things.”
“You helped them?”
“Not as much as I wanted to.”
Booker nodded. “Stay here. Keep away from the windows and door. I’ll be back in a while.” Before she could respond, he steppedout into the darkness.
In the back corner, near the only window, lay a small circle of stone for fire.
With the dry wood for the roof, Sandra decided against tempting fate and hugged her arms to her chest.
She was my wife, long before I met you. She died from complications when our baby miscarried.
Also long before I met you.
And frankly, its none of your damn business,Doc.
That
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