Into the Shadow by Christina Dodd Page B

knew if it was day or night. She knew only that she waged an endless, constant, sensuous battle to keep her pride . . . and if something didn’t happen soon, she would give him what he wanted. She would yield. She would call him master . She would be not Karen Sonnet but Warlord’s slave.
    Because no matter what they were doing, she thought of pleasure. When he fed her the meals Mingma fixed them, she watched his long fingers and thought how skillfully they feathered along her spine. When he talked to her, she watched his glorious lips and remembered how they felt as they moved against her mouth in long, leisurely, damp kisses. When he walked away from her, she watched the firm, concave muscles of his butt and remembered how his cheeks felt under her palms as he thrust in and out and in and out.
    And when she stared at the bracelets he had placed on her wrists, she thought them beautiful. . . . Oh, God. He had drugged her with sex.
    She hated him. She hated this place. She hated herself and her own weakness.
    Today, as every day, she woke with a single thought—she had to get away. She had to escape before winter set in, for then she would be trapped forever.
    Normally in the morning she heard nothing but Mingma’s soft murmur speaking to Warlord, and the wind as it whistled a mocking tune. But today she lay very still, listening to a strange man speak from a position just inside the door. ‘‘Ye’ve got to come out, man. There’s trouble breaking out among the ranks. The last raid went so well it left some of the men hungry for more. The others are nervous, worried about the reports of trouble.’’
    ‘‘Which group are you in, Magnus?’’ Warlord’s smooth, menacing drawl raised the hair on the back of her neck.
    Karen heard the sharp sound of fist against flesh, and flipped over in shock.
    Magnus was short, stocky, balding, with bandy legs and a wide stance. He had a thin red scar on one cheek, and he was missing the little finger on both hands. He held his fists close to his chest like a boxer in a prizefight waiting for a fatal blow.
    Warlord was a head taller, barefoot, dressed in his half-buttoned jeans. He was staring, narrow eyed, at Magnus, and wiping the blood from his mouth. ‘‘Shall I kill you now, or should we go outside?’’
    ‘‘Ye’ll not kill me.’’ Magnus lifted his chin at him. ‘‘Ye know I’m in the right.’’
    Warlord still stared, poised on the balls of his feet, ready to spring. Then gradually, deliberately, he relaxed. ‘‘All right. Talk to me.’’
    ‘‘Two weeks ye’ve been in here, man, shaking the tent night and day.’’
    Karen stealthily pulled the covers over her crimson face.
    ‘‘Ye’ve got responsibilities. These men follow ye because ye keep them safe and make them rich. But riches will do them no good if the rumors are true.’’
    ‘‘What rumors?’’
    ‘‘That the enforcers, the ones the militaries hired to get rid of us . . . that they’re led by another like you.’’ Magnus lowered his voice, but she could still hear him. ‘‘A beastie who wanders the mountains in animal form.’’
    Magnus thought Warlord was a werewolf? Oh, brother. Warlord really had him conned.
    ‘‘Benjie and Dehqan disappeared while on patrol, and I found a trail of blood headed toward the army camp just over the border. I got close enough to hear screaming down there. They were racking someone. Then Benjie showed up here.’’
    ‘‘Unharmed?’’
    ‘‘Hale and hearty. He said Dehqan decided to head home to Afghanistan.’’
    ‘‘You don’t believe him.’’
    ‘‘Not for a minute. No one does. He’s jumpy as a cat, and Dae-Jung caught him signaling into the mountains with a mirror.’’
    Karen peeked at the two men. They stood with their heads together, intent on their discussion, and while she didn’t know for sure who Magnus was, it was clear to her that Warlord respected and liked him.
    ‘‘He’s betrayed us,’’ Warlord said.
    ‘‘No