and nauseated, she fled as wolf howls chased after her. He had hypnotized her but she’d broken out of it; there was no telling what he’d planned to do to her next. He and that guy with the dreadlocks—Alain—it was like a horror movie, with men in armor slaughtered all around her, and that man raping her….
Tree branches whipped her face. She fell into the mud on her hands and knees, twisting her ankle, and the pain shot up into her hip socket. Grunting, she got back up, losing the robe she’d covered herself with. Now she was completely naked, lost in a swamp that shook and screamed like a living creature. She didn’t know who she was, or where she was, but she knew she had been violated, and she was still in terrible danger.
They called me Isabelle, she thought, but that’s wrong. That’s not my name. My name is…
She couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t she remember her own name? Trauma. From the rape. And whatever else had happened to her. Those two men…what had they been talking about? What had they done to her?
Run for your life. Get out of here, she told herself. You’re all alone, and you don’t know who you are. You’re all alone, and—
No.
She wasn’t alone. Someone had come here to save her.
Suddenly the face of the man she had almost fallen on top of blossomed in her mind. The man with the white-blond hair, so terribly wounded she hadn’t been certain he was alive. He had come here from somewhere else to help her. He wasn’t part of this. He was like her.
And when he smiled the world was brighter, and he made love to her as if she were a goddess.
And he calls me Izzy. That’s my name. Izzy. I’m in love with him. I have to go back for him.
She had to get him away from those rapists and murderers. And the others who were coming. For there were others, searching for her at this very moment. She knew that, too. And they wanted to destroy her.
“Isabelle!” It was the man who had raped her, the one called Jean-Marc. His voice sent a frozen flash fire down her spine, and she whimpered, panicking. He was coming after her.
“This is just a dream,” she whispered aloud. “Just a terrible dream. I’m going to wake up.”
But it was no dream. She was hurt, and cold. She felt the sharp prick of a twig beneath her insole as she staggered forward, searching the wild landscape for an escape route. The trees were dripping with cold water. It had rained. Why couldn’t she remember the rain?
“Isabelle!” Jean-Marc’s voice chased her. Wolf howls rattled her bones. They were raging, shrieking…and they were coming closer.
“Oh God, oh God,” she blurted, grabbing up wild riots of hair away from her face. Her teeth were chattering.
Get it together, she ordered herself. There are dead soldiers everywhere. Get a gun. Blow their heads off and save the blond man.
Izzy thrashed through a wall of vines and tree limbs, arms flailing, legs kicking, until she broke through. Then she skidded to a halt at the horrifying spectacle before her: spread-eagled on a large fallen tree trunk, his arms and legs dangling, a gagged man lay whining like a wounded dog with his eyes wide-open—eyes that were a milky-white, with no color in them, no sight. The tatters of a shredded windbreaker with NOPD—New Orleans Police Department—stitched over the breast fluttered in the night breeze. There was a thick gash across his chest and dried blood on the tree trunk.
She turned and retched. On the ground in front of the tree trunk, another man, this one unnaturally handsome, with short, tawny hair, lay limp in black leather battle armor with a patch on his biceps of a black Chalice decorated with black and red skulls. His eyes were closed. There were some singed books scattered beside him, and some knives, bells, pieces of crystal and what smelled like very foul incense.
And a gun.
It was a wicked black revolver. The grip was ivory, etched with the image of a short-haired young girl in medieval armor, her helmet under her arm. Izzy felt a tug in her mind. The eyes of the girl caught her gaze, held her, and her chest tightened with inexplicable emotion—despair, and loss. Tears welled, but she shook them away. She had to stay focused if she wanted to live…and to save the blond man.
This is my gun, she knew suddenly. It’s called a Medusa.
“Isabelle!” Jean-Marc called, closer still. The other man—Alain—joined him. She heard them crashing through the forest, hunting her. Jean-Marc thundered at Alain in French, and she realized that she could understand him. He was threatening to kill him, kill Alain, and send his soul to hell.
He’s insane, she thought, crouching down behind the tree trunk. She cracked open the gun, and saw that the cylinder was empty.
Ammo. I need ammo.
Laying the gun in her lap, she rooted around, lifting up the books, then gingerly raising the right arm of the dead man. Yes. It was almost as if he had been trying to hide the olive-green box of 9 mm cartridges, but it was hers now. She didn’t know how she knew the caliber of the ammo, or that it would work in the Medusa. Right now, she didn’t care. Moving rapidly, as if she had done it all her life, she loaded six cartridges into the empty chambers with surprisingly steady hands. Then she slipped the cylinder back into the frame with a click and rose to a high crouch, staring into the darkness for the first sign of the madman.
A hand clamped on her shoulder. Without even thinking about it, she windmilled around, breaking contact and fired. The report echoed like a whip crack through the swamp.
Her attacker was a dark-skinned woman with platinum hair; she threw back her head and howled like a wolf as the force of the bullet flung her backward, then slammed her against what appeared to be an enormous conga drum painted with black and red symbols. She landed in a pile of ashes, eyes wide-open, mouth working as blood streamed down her chest. Then she began to whimper and pant like a wounded animal as her eyes rolled back in her head.
“Oh God,” Izzy whispered, nearly dropping the gun.
For a moment she stood transfixed, unable to process what she had just done. Clutching the revolver, she ran to the woman’s side and stared down at her. The woman’s breathing was fluttery and labored. Her face was shiny with perspiration and her dark skin was turning a deep shade of gray. As Izzy looked down on her in the moonlight, she began to jerk as if she were having a seizure.
Whether friend or foe, she needed help. But Izzy debated, worried that her victim might still be able to hypnotize her the way Jean-Marc had done, or hurl a ball of fire.
Cloaked by the forest, howling and shouting made her ears throb and she bolted, grappling with another tangled web of slick vines and twisting tree branches.
The wounded woman’s whimpering grew louder, like a plea for help, panic at being abandoned. Izzy’s heart caught and sank to her feet. She couldn’t let this woman die. No matter the cost to her, the danger…
They’re coming. They’ll take care of her.
But they weren’t here yet, and the woman might not have that much time. She was bleeding badly.
“Damn it,” Izzy whispered, turning around.
She looked at her. The woman was gurgling and gasping. Blood pooled beneath her in the ashes, and her eyelids
