"Nothing. Nothing, I-I'm afraid, that's all."

"Take her back to camp, Andre," Melina said. "Take her and go. Katerina will sit vigil with me until sunrise."

"But I can stay. I'm fine," Sarafina said.

The old woman only shook her head, even as Andre set his lanterns down on the ground and put an arm around Sarafina, gently leading her away.

Sarafina knew perfectly well that old Melina was going to tell her sister everything that had happened. It would only be more ammunition for Katerina to use against her. She wouldn't be happy until she was the sole Shuvani of the tribe. She knew Sarafina, though younger, was better, stronger, more talented- and she couldn't stand it.

Andre helped her back to her vardo, and she climbed inside, tired to her very bones. It would be dawn soon. And yet she couldn't go to sleep, not just yet "Would you like me to stay with you, watch over you while you sleep?" he asked.

Sarafina shook her head. "No. I want...I want to be alone." She didn't, not really. She wanted to feel the rea.s.suring presence of her guide, her angel. She wanted to hear his voice again- clearly enough so she could listen while he explained all this to her. What was happening to her?

To her life? To her tribe? And why?

"Something frightened you out there tonight, Fina. Won't you tell me what it was?"

Again she shook her head. "Everyone is afraid of...whatever sort of creature killed poor Belinda. And the others before her. Why should I be different?"

"I don't know. It seemed like...more than just fear."

"Now you sound like my sister. I suppose you suspect me of being in league with demons, as well?"

"Of course not." He stroked her hair lovingly. "Get some sleep, Fina. You don't look well."

"I will. Good night, Andre."

He leaned close, kissed her mouth briefly, then turned and left her alone. Sarafina didn't go to bed. She closed her tent flap carefully and went to the small table in the center of her home.

Her hands trembled as she unwound the silk from around the crystal ball. When it was uncovered, she sat down before it, in the darkness, and gazed into its depths. She let her mind go still, let her vision slip out of focus, let her eyelids grow heavy. She had never tried to summon her spirit this way before. But suddenly she was moved to try. "Come to me, my beloved. Come to me, for I need your wisdom now. Tell me, what is my destiny?" she asked. "If it is true I am linked to some demon, how may I break the curse?"

The crystal clouded and then the cloud vanished, and instead she saw a person take shape before her. A man. He was darkly handsome, though not a Rom. His hair was wet, dripping, and his shirt was torn open to reveal a ghastly scar on his chest.

As she stared at this vision, wondering at it, he lifted his head and looked right into her eyes.

He looked at her-through her. And she knew him. "I have seen you before," she whispered.

"Who are you?" But even as she asked, she knew the answer. This man was her guide, her spirit, the voice who spoke to her, the presence who walked with her. But why was he wet, and so battered? Was he the ghost of some martyr who had died for his cause?

He only kept staring, clinging to her eyes as if by sheer will. There were men around him, men in foreign robes and headdresses, and they were hurting him. Branding his flesh with hot irons.

Sarafina's heart twisted in her chest, her palms pressing to either side of the crystal as if she could make the torture stop, but the man never flinched. His eyes held hers through the gla.s.s.

Then the crystal clouded over again, and he was gone. Fina sat back, breathless and sick to her stomach. He was not the demon who hunted among her tribe. She knew that without much thought at all. He was her spirit. Her spirit had a face now.

But why was he so tormented? He hadn't, during those moments when they had held each other's eyes in the crystal, seemed like a spirit at all. He had seemed like an ordinary man. Though not from this place, nor perhaps, her mind whispered to her, from this time.

3.

"Why do we keep him alive? If there were any spies among us, they fled when the Americans declared victory and pulled their troops out of our lands. It is impossible to know who they were, when we have so many men missing, so many dead and left behind in the desert."

The conversation was spoken in yet another dialect, one Will knew, though not as well as some. He was able to make out the words. That the U.S. had pulled out did not surprise him. This had never been meant to be a sustained operation, like the one in Afghanistan. This leg of Operation Enduring Freedom was a simple, short, potent lesson with clear parameters. Infiltrate terrorist cells, then, guided by spies on the inside, launch strikes on their training camps and then get the h.e.l.l out. It had worked. The cells had been decimated, the survivors scattered, the leadership cut off. This band who'd captured him had unfortunately spotted him as he made his way to the extraction point. He had been within sight of the chopper when he'd realized they were on his tail, and he'd had no choice but to take cover and open fire, holding them off long enough for the chopper full of American soldiers to get clear.

"I say we put a bullet between his eyes and leave him for the vultures."

Fine, he thought. Just do it and get it the h.e.l.l over with. How long had he been here, now?

Weeks? Longer? It was impossible to be sure. The G.o.dd.a.m.n broken foot and ribs ached so badly he couldn't sleep, and whatever freaking bug he'd picked up had him so weak he spent most of his time lying in the corner, shivering-at least when he wasn't hunched over in the opposite corner throwing up.

He had expected U.S. forces to come after him. Apparently he was presumed dead or they would have by now. Of course he was presumed dead. He hadn't talked. None of the men who had infiltrated the other terrorist cells in the area had been identified. They'd had time to get out.

The U.S. would a.s.sume he had died a h.e.l.l of a lot more readily than they would a.s.sume he'd withstood weeks of torture without uttering a single name.

The voice of the man who wore the silk turban and diamond pinky ring, apparent right-hand man to the leader of this small pack of jackals, came next. "We will shoot him when Ahkmed says we shoot him. Here." There was a rattle, as if of paper. "Have him hold this and take his photograph."

"You intend to ransom him?" one of the underlings asked.

"They took our men to their Bay of Guantanamo as prisoners. Perhaps we can use the colonel to get some of them back."

"Over my dead f.u.c.king body," he muttered. He would have shouted it, but his throat was so raw that muttering was the best he could manage.

The lock of his kennel sc.r.a.ped open, and two men whose faces had become familiar stepped inside. He stayed where he was, huddled in the corner of a metal box that had once been part of a cargo truck. It was his own room within the caves where they were hiding out, though not deeply enough to benefit from the one plus of cave life: a constant temperature. This place was oven hot by day, freezing cold by night. His furniture included a large tin can he used for a toilet and a pitcher of stagnant water he supposed they expected him to drink. Most days it was tough to tell which smelled worse, though when you got thirsty enough the smell of the water didn't make a h.e.l.l of a lot of difference.

When the light spilled in from the open door, it blinded him, and he covered his eyes with his hands.

"Come out, pig. We are to photograph you."

He lifted his head, squinting at them and made his way forward. Every step on the broken foot was sheer agony, but he had learned cruelly what happened when he hesitated or disobeyed.

They pulled him out when he got close enough so they could grip his arms. He was struggling to see. The caves were lit by floodlights, powered by a generator he could hear running somewhere in the distance. Probably near the entrance.

They slung him into a chair. One held a rifle on him, while the other shoved a newspaper into his hands. He glanced down at it. Jesus, it was in English.

"You hold this up so the date is showing while we take a photo."

He lifted his gaze to meet the speaker's dark brown eyes. "This says the Americans have left the country. Are you trying to give them a reason to come back and kill you all?"

"You should shut up and do as you are told, Colonel Stone. We will trade you for our prisoners. This is your only hope of leaving here alive."

He shook his head slowly and decided to use this to his advantage. His wounds were infected. He needed to clean them. "They won't even recognize me like this," he said, running a hand over his unshaven face. "And if they do, they'll be so angry at what you've done to me that they'll just renew the bombing."

The two men blinked and stared at each other. "He could be right. Do you think we should clean him up first?" one asked in his native tongue.

"I...let us ask Ahkmed."

The two of them turned and left him there, alone, in that section of the caves. Granted, there were no weapons in sight, and he couldn't try to escape, since there was only one way out of this section, and they had taken it. But still...

He got to up onto his one good foot and hopped over to the table, where a pitcher of water and a partially eaten loaf of bread were sitting, ignored. Picking up the pitcher, he sniffed it, found the water cleaner than any he'd had in days and drank deeply. He shoved a large piece of the bread into his mouth, chewed, then washed it down with more of the water.

And then he noticed the knife. It was blunt edged, not meant to cut anything. But he took it all the same, along with the rest of the bread, and he hopped across the room to his box, tossing both deep into the shadows inside.

He got back to his chair just as the men returned. One of them carried a large basin of water.

The other had a stack of clothes in his hands, a razor and a bar of soap on top.

"Ahkmed says you are to wash up and shave. Then put on these clothes." The basin was set in front of him. "Make good use of the water, Colonel. You'll get no more."

He nodded, glad they'd taken the bait. Without getting up, he peeled off his torn, b.l.o.o.d.y shirt. He took the bar of soap, which was the ugly brown-yellow hue of homemade stuff, hard as a rock and, he thought, probably strong enough to burn out his eyes. There was a washrag, too, and he made use of it. G.o.d, it felt good to wash some of the filth away.

The men stood back, guns at the ready, watching him. He cleaned the burns and cuts on his chest and arms, even though the soap felt like battery acid when it touched them. Lye soap, it had to be. Jesus.

"It is your face that needs cleaning, Stone. Get on with it."

Nodding, he cleansed all wounds he could reach on his back, fearing he'd missed more than he'd hit, and finally rinsed the cloth in the water and washed his face. Next, he leaned over the water basin, dipping his entire head into it and then scrubbing the soap over his wet hair, dipping it again to rinse. Finally he lifted the razor to his face, but paused when he glimpsed his reflection in the basin of water. The beard was coming in nicely. It would be excellent camouflage if he ever got out of here.

He set the razor down again. "I would like to keep the beard, if I may."

They looked at each other, then at him. "You are an American. You're not worthy to wear a beard. Take it off."

Sighing, he didn't see the value in arguing the point. He shaved the beard with the dull razor, sc.r.a.ping his face raw in the process.

"Now put on the clothes," one of the men ordered.

He braced his hands on the table to push himself up onto his feet, though he kept his weight on the good one. Then he balanced there as he managed to get his pants undone and off. The shorts went, too. He didn't have a single qualm about baring himself, because it meant being relatively clean for the first time in a month. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the soapy washrag and washed his lower body before they had time to object.

The water was filthy by now, and littered with whiskers floating in the soapsc.u.m. It was still valuable to him.

"The clothes, Colonel Stone!"

"Yeah, yeah." He managed to pick up the basin of dirty water and set it on the floor near his chair, as if he were moving it to make room for the clothes.

One of the men set the stack of clothes in the now-empty spot, in between splashes of water.

Will cringed when he realized the clothes placed before him were the uniform of an American soldier. Regular Army, by the looks. Not green, but desert camo.

He pulled on the pants. No shorts had been provided. "Where did you get this?"

"Shut up and put it on."

Will shut up and put it on. But first he sat down in the chair, bent to quickly roll up the pant leg and lowered his wounded foot into the basin of water. There was enough of the lye soap floating in it to disinfect the open sores, and the water was ice-cold, so it couldn't hurt the swelling. As he sat, surrept.i.tiously soaking his foot under the table, he pulled on the tank-style undershirt and the long-sleeved sand-colored outer shirt. He b.u.t.toned it up slowly, stalling for time, looking at the chest for any sign of the uniform's origins. All the patches and insignia had been torn away, leaving darker spots where they had been.

"I guess I'm ready." He pushed his hand through his wet hair, finger-combing it.

The two nodded, brought the newspaper to him.

He held it in his hands obediently as they took his photo with a Polaroid One-Step camera that seemed completely out of place here.

Then they examined the resulting photo while it developed, finally nodding in approval. One left the room, presumably to show the photo to Ahkmed, The Brainless One, while the other stayed to watch him. So far neither had noticed his aching foot, soaking in the water under the table, or, if they had, they didn't care.

Will's left foot throbbed constantly. It was an interesting mix of colors-purple, black and blue. A little green here and there around the edges of the purple. It was swollen to twice its size and shaped rather oddly.

One of their methods of questioning him had been to place the foot in a vise and tighten it each time they repeated the question.

It hadn't worked. He didn't take much credit for courage in the face of torture. Frankly, part of his motivation in keeping silent had been knowing he would be shot in the head the minute he gave them the information they wanted so badly. Part of it had been the knowledge that other men, some good friends of his among them, would die if he talked. But the rest had come from anger. They'd p.i.s.sed him off. He would be d.a.m.ned before he helped their cause.

"Ahkmed says the photo is good," said the one who had left, as he came back into the room.

"Come, back to your cell now."

Nodding, he took his feet out of the basin, rising on one leg, turning to begin the hobble back.

One of the men muttered to the other in their own language, "By the wings of Allah, the foot has worsened."

"Let it rot and fall off. He's an American."

The first looked more worried, though. Will deliberately stumbled, and the man with the microscopic trace of decency came beside him to help him to the metal box. Leaning close, Will whispered, "I will tell my people who was kind to me and who was cruel when they make the trade, so that when they come back here again, they'll know who to kill and who to spare."

The man glanced behind them nervously, but his comrade hadn't heard. He had remained several yards away. As he helped Will into the box that was his cell, the younger one said, "Take this." He handed Will the white sash that had been wrapped around his waist. "Use it to bandage your foot."

"Thank you." The man nodded, quickly closing the metal door. Will braced his back against the door as the man pulled the chain as tight as he could and snapped the padlock through it. He waited until his captor had walked away to let off the pressure, then he turned and saw that the chain was lax.

He could push the door open a couple of inches. And that, he thought, was all he needed.

That night, the illness that had been growing steadily worse seemed to hit its peak. He fought it as the fever heated his blood and his body shook with chills. He had to wait them out, stay awake until they all slept, hours from now.

But in the end, the fever took control. He fell into a fitful, painful sleep, and he was there again; in the forest near that Gypsy village, following the bright flashes of a woman's colored skirts as she ran through the dark woods.

It took him a moment to get oriented. But he finally realized where he was, what he was doing. It was a shock that his foot didn't throb when he stepped on it, until he remembered that this place wasn't real. He wasn't certain why he was following the woman through the forest, but he knew it was important. Somewhere deep inside, he ached to see her again.

The beauty finally stood still in a small copse of trees, looking around her, as if searching for someone. As if she knew he was coming.

But when he drew nearer, Will realized it was not Sarafina he'd been following but her sister, Katerina.

She had a stench about her that shocked him, but only until he saw the necklace of garlic cloves she wore. That explained the smell. He wasn't sure how to explain the fact that she wore it.

What the h.e.l.l was she doing in the forest, in the dead of night like this? Meeting Andre, he would bet, although the garlic was a baffling touch.

Then he remembered his last, pain-induced visit. There had been a murder. He'd been in and out, but he'd witnessed some of what had happened. He supposed his imagination was about to add a touch of Universal Monster Cla.s.sics to the mix.

"Come out, show yourself!" she called suddenly. "I know you're near. I have something you want!"