Healer's Choice (50 page)

Rebekka’s attention jerked to the ceiling. Cameras were mounted there, sickening her, reminding her of the maze and the gambling clubs that profited from those running in it.

Cold, evil laughter made her look at the masked figure once again. “Your face is so expressive. I can tell you’re thinking about Anton’s little venture. It might amuse you to know that for a while he served as the family priest for several of our members.

“In some ways this is similar to his sadly defunct operation. But in all the ways that count, it’s different. Only those among the crème of Oakland society are invited to run in our houses and join the elite who make up our membership. To be accepted they must do one thing, prove they really do enjoy the combination of murder and sex.”

He waved at the cameras. “If the prospect loses his nerve, this little film catching him in the act of rape buys his silence. It unfortunately doesn’t buy your freedom, or save your life, unless you’re able to capitalize on your visitor’s weakness and get the key—which by club rule must be worn around a guest’s neck—and leave the house. If you accomplish that, then you will be given money enough to start a new life elsewhere.

“You will be escorted to that new life by men in our employ. Any whisper of what took place here will end in a death meted out by a professional in such matters.

“If, despite the lack of nerve and initiative to end things with a kill, your guest manages to keep the key in his possession and prevent you from escaping, it merely buys you time to regain your strength so you’ll provide at least somewhat of a challenge to your next visitor.”

He touched the key. “Somehow I don’t think you’ll get a second run, not unless you’re willing to sacrifice your gift for your life. I suspect that’s why Allende offered you to me, because in some way, your talent for healing has become a problem to him. Would you care to satisfy my curiosity on the matter?”

When she didn’t answer, he shrugged and returned to the staircase. He climbed the few steps necessary to untie the rope serving as a leash.

“We’ll forgo a tour of the upstairs, I think. There are several rooms with beds and a few with assorted clutter to add excitement to the chase. There are even a couple of them with doors that close and lock from the inside, though you’ve got to reach them first.”

He paused to study the staircase. Cold chills went through Rebekka when he said, “A lot of very satisfying, dramatic scenes have concluded with a desperate attempt to get to the second floor. But now it’s time for a quick tour of the downstairs before getting you prepared for your visitor.”

He led her through the house, jerking the leash if she didn’t follow quickly enough to suit him. Living room, dining room, bathroom, except for the cameras, they appeared perfectly normal, like a house owned by a merchant, comfortable but not luxurious.

In the kitchen, skillets hung from the wall but the cabinets and pantries were bare. The drawers were empty, save for the long, sharp knife he extracted from one of them.

“In the usual situation you’d be allowed some time to prepare your defense. You’d simply be set free in the house and left with the knowledge that at some point there would be an ‘intruder’ if that was the particular fantasy being played out, or perhaps an angry husband returning home to deal with an unfaithful wife, or—”

With a laugh he interrupted himself. “My apologies for giving you needless things to consider. As the House Master and Director of Scenes for this particular dwelling, I tend toward enthusiasm when it comes to all the delightful possibilities. To be a bit more succinct, normally you’d be set free and left to your own devices. But since this is essentially an initiation into our club, we don’t want to make things too challenging for our prospective member. And yet at the same time, our rules
do
require you have a chance to save yourself.”

He flipped the knife into the air and caught it, repeating the action as he tugged her into the room at the end of the hallway. It was a bedroom.

Rebekka fought him again when he looped his end of the rope through a metal ring set into the wall next to the door. Her wrists began bleeding but she didn’t stop until her arms were once again forced into position above her head and the rope secured to a second loop several feet below and to the right of the first.

The man shook his head and tsked. “A waste of effort on your part, though I suppose it doesn’t really matter. As I said a moment ago, we
want
our candidate to succeed.”

He moved closer and touched the knife to her throat, making small, imaginary cuts there before slowly unbuttoning her shirt with his free hand. Instinctively she tried to drive him away with her knee. He backhanded her hard enough her ears rang and for a moment she was dizzy.

“You’re safe enough from me, unless you continue to be difficult,” he said, leaning in so the leather of his mask touched her cheek. “But persist and I promise you I will have you before the prospect gets his chance to. It’s not against our rules for the House Master to enjoy the fruits of his labor before a scene runs.”

She shuddered. Forced herself to remain passive as he used the knife to strip away her clothing and leave them in useless pieces on the floor at her feet.

He touched the tip of the blade to the tattoo, traced the black circle and the red
P
. “This is unexpected.” His voice was heavy with displeasure. “It makes me wonder if you’re a discarded whore instead of a gifted healer as Allende claimed. Tell me, did he lie?”

Rebekka hesitated, trying to work out which answer might be more to her advantage. He backhanded her again, hard enough to split her lip.

“The truth,” he said. “There’s time enough for me to make a few discreet inquires, and time after I do it to teach you a lesson, even if it’s a short-lived one.”

“I’m one of the gifted.”

“Good. See how easy that was?” He was breathing fast again, excited by hitting her while she was naked and defenseless.

She trembled, and his eyes seemed to glitter. The tip of the knife left the tattoo, snaking upward in a slow, sinuous journey that made her skin crawl.

It finally stopped at the leather cord attached to the amulet. “I’m tempted to leave this as decoration but I’m afraid it might be an unfair advantage since it’s obviously witch-crafted.”

He slid the knife underneath and cut, catching the amulet and tucking it into a pocket rather than letting it fall to the floor.

“Perhaps I’d better make sure I didn’t miss anything,” he said, crouching down and quickly going through her clothing, finding the Wainwright token. “Ah, good thing I checked.”

He tossed the garments from the room then stood. “Now then, here’s the scene I’ve arranged for you. In a moment I will escort you to the bed and retie you there, leaving enough slack in the rope to allow movement on your part. I will then place the knife at the end of the mattress.

“If you’re careful, and even remotely coordinated, rather than kick it off the bed you should be able to use your feet and body to work it upward, toward your hands. How you approach cutting through the bindings at your wrists, I’ll leave up to you.

“If you work quickly, you should be free before your visitor arrives. If not . . . well the failure is yours. Our rules were honored and you were given a chance to save yourself.”

This time Rebekka didn’t fight him. She went docilely, lying down as directed and trying to blank her mind to his presence, to the possibility he’d rape her before he left.

When he was finished arranging the scene to his liking, he caressed her cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “I’m looking forward to seeing just what your choice will be. Your gift. Or your life. Assuming of course, you free yourself first and manage to maneuver into a position where you can use the knife against your guest.”

Icy numbness replaced a terror that couldn’t be sustained any longer. But it didn’t suppress Rebekka’s will to live. Even as he left the room, his footsteps sounding in the hallway, she was working the knife upward, losing all track of time as she raced to free herself.

Slashes soon marked her forearms where she’d cut herself on the knife’s blade. And by the time the bloodstained rope fell away from her wrists, her skin was slick with sweat.

Rebekka rushed from the room, anxious to get away from the bed, though she knew it didn’t matter. A lifetime of witnessing how closely knit violence and sexual satisfaction were for some had demonstrated how unimportant comfort was when it came to sating those needs.

The shredded remains of her clothing no longer lay in the hallway. Like cold, merciless eyes, she was aware of the cameras capturing her nakedness, her every movement, and what might be the last minutes and hours of her life—all for the twisted, sick entertainment of others.

She considered returning to the kitchen and taking a skillet but discarded the idea. Effectively wielding it in one hand and the knife in the other would be impossible.

Her throat closed on the icy horror of the choice confronting her. When it came to what it would cost her, there would be no difference between injuring the man coming here or killing him.

Tears formed, unwanted but unstoppable. They fell as she heard the Bear ancestor’s voice in her mind, saying as long as her gift remained untainted, she had the power to fully restore Were souls.

Was it better to die than live without being able to use her gift? For so long, it was how she’d defined herself.

The final scene with Aryck played out in her mind, the choice she’d made then, sacrificing the role of mother and mate for that of healer.

I can have that kind of life with someone else
, she told herself, though a part of her doubted she could ever trust another man enough to open her heart to him.

She brushed away the tears and steeled herself against shedding more of them. First she had to survive long enough to escape.

The door was locked, as she expected it to be. From there she moved into the living room to look out the window.

She tried to think as her attacker would. To consider what he would expect, how his own nervousness and excitement and fear might be used to her advantage.

Would he be told she was one of the gifted? Would he expect pleading and discount the potential for violence?

A hot wash of bile crawled up her throat as she imagined his thoughts, his feelings, his desire to rape a woman then kill her afterward. Her heart felt as though it would leap out of her chest when she heard the sound of a motorcycle.

Through the window she saw it approach, the masked man driving while another, younger and barefaced, rode in the sidecar. They slowed to a stop, though the driver didn’t turn off the engine or dismount.

The club prospect got out of the sidecar. He stood next to it, body vibrating with excitement as he listened to the other man give final instructions, or remind him of the rules.

Rebekka’s mind raced, panic getting the better of her, freezing her at the window until she saw the driver lift his arms and remove the velvet ribbon with the key on it, passing it to the younger man.

She hurried to the stairs then, climbed just far enough to gain momentum, knowing she couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t falter. Surprise was her greatest weapon. Her only chance lay in a quick, unexpected strike, one deep enough to sever an artery.

Outside the sound of the motorcycle engine grew fainter as it drove away. Her would-be rapist and murderer entered the house cautiously, as she’d expected him to.

He reached the foot of the staircase, eyes going to the knife, her grip on it so tight her fingers paled against the dark hilt. There was no need to feign fear, to force it into her voice. “Please don’t do this,” she said, taking a step back as if she intended retreat. “I’m a healer.”

A sneer formed when his gaze moved to the tattoo. His body telegraphed his intention to charge a heartbeat before he did it.

Rebekka leapt forward with only one thought, one emotion. To do whatever it took to survive.

They collided. The knife held low, already thrusting forward between his thighs, her knowledge of anatomy making her accurate.

His expression went from surprise to shock to terrified understanding in the instant before he grabbed her, pushing her away from him instead of to the ground beneath him. Blood already soaking his pants.

He tried desperately to staunch the flow. But it pulsed through his fingers with the pounding of his heart.

“Please, help me,” he begged. “Please. My family has money. They can make you rich.”

Rebekka stood motionless, watching in frozen, sickened horror as he bled out, his panic growing and his pleading little more than sobbing at the end.

Despite knowing there was no other choice, that he intended far worse for her, she threw up when he ceased breathing. Continued to retch until the instinct for survival kicked in, urging her to get out of the house, to get as far away from it as quickly as possible, before the man wearing the mask arrived.

She liberated the key. A shudder went through her at the thought of wearing the dead man’s shirt, but without it she’d be naked.

It took effort to get it off him. She was panting, hearing the phantom approach of a motorcycle by the time she escaped the house and ran for the forest, seeking refuge in the thick press of trees so anyone who pursued her would have to be on foot.