Captives (35 page)

The rider thundered into the intersection, wheeling his mount mere feet from Mia. He wore white clothes all the brighter against his tan skin. A rifle was strapped to his saddle.

His brown eyes moved across her, assessing. "Can you ride?"

She nodded, moving to stand. "Please help me."

He vaulted from the saddle, moving to support her. He bent to boost her atop the pungent horse, ensuring she was settled before hopping up behind her. He took up the reins, his stony arms bracing her in place, and raced north from the intersection toward the dead spires of the city.

"Where have you come from?" he called over the racket of his mount.

"South," she said. "Before that—" She gave in to an abrupt coughing fit.

He braced an arm around her, keeping her steady as her ribs pulsed. "Save your strength, ma'am. You're safe now."

She supposed that she was.

He rode down the middle of the street, dust-caked cars parked to both sides, their tires deflated, windows smashed. A series of turns brought them to a curved, glass-faced structure with a wide, covered entrance. He leapt down and helped her dismount. Inside the hospital, he escorted her to a chair and knelt to put his face level with hers.

"I'll only be gone a moment," he said. "There's nothing to fear."

She smiled tightly. He whirled and sprinted back out the doors. Mia sat still, side throbbing. It was starting to look like a lot of blood. It always did, though.

The rider returned with a stout woman carrying a black leather bag. The doctor ran to her on a cloud of rubbing alcohol.

"Your wounds," she said. "Start with the worst."

Mia lifted her shirt, showing the gouge along her side.

The doctor's eyes skipped across her stomach and ribs. She straightened and turned to the rider. "Bring her in as soon as she's ready, Sir Lionheart."

She picked up her bag and jogged down the hall.

"Would you like a wheelchair?" the rider said to Mia. "Or can you walk?"

She pushed herself to her feet. "I'm not ready to lie down yet."

The man grinned and lent her his shoulder. Together, they entered what turned out to be an office; the doctor was swabbing down a conference table with a rag. The room was dizzying with antiseptic. The man offered Mia a hand up on the table, then looked to the doctor.

The woman jerked her chin at the door. "Want to help me? Then get the hell out of my OR."

He departed with a click of the latch. The woman wiped the blood from Mia's side, then set in with the stitches. To Mia's disgust, she passed out.

When she woke, the doctor was finishing up the last of the stitches, the needle piercing hotly, followed by the woozy tug of the thread. Mia clenched her teeth, sweat puddling between her bare back and the table. The doctor finished up, put away her things, then shrugged off her lab coat and flung it at Mia.

"All yours," the woman said. "Unless you'd rather wear that crime scene you call a shirt. I'll put your bill in the mail."

Moving carefully, Mia worked her way into the shirt and began to button it. "Thank you."

The doctor grunted and left. Outside, the rider intercepted her and held a quick conversation. Finished, he entered the room with a grin. "Doc says they're all surface. No more than scratches."

"Would have been far worse if not for you." She shifted on the table to face him. "Is your name really Sir Lionheart?"

"No," he said. "It's Fred Lionheart. When we become Sworn, we're expected to take a new name. The one we believe suits us best."

"You had the option to change your name to anything, and you went with Fred?"

"My mom named me after my grandpa. I didn't have the heart to change it."

"So what are the Sworn? Some kind of knight?"

"Something like that."

"That's a relief. They could use a lot more chivalry where I just came from."

"And where is that?"

"San Pedro," she said. "Do you know them?"

"The Lunatics?" His eyebrows lifted. "Did you spend much time with them?"

"Longer than I should have." She rubbed the scar on the back of her hand, which she'd made less obtrusive through the careful application of foundation. "I was so happy to be out of the wilds, I couldn't admit how strange it was until they attacked me."

He nodded vaguely, wrestling this new information into shape. "I need to leave you now. Only for a short while—an hour, maybe two. And when I return, I'll take you somewhere no one can harm you."

She smiled. "I'd like that."

He bowed and departed. Once he was gone, she lowered herself from the table and found a couch she could lie down on. She'd inflicted the cuts herself—no better way to be welcomed into a foreign land than to pose as a damsel in distress, although she hadn't counted on there being an actual knight to save her—but they still hurt like hell. Despite that, she managed to sleep fleetingly.

A couple hours later, judging by the sun, Fred returned and helped her to her feet. "Your carriage awaits."

He wasn't speaking in metaphor: outside, a black carriage waited at the hospital curb. Sand clung to the rims of its wheels.

She accepted his hand inside. "Where are we going?"

"The Heart of the Stars." He smiled, closed her door, and moved to his horse.

The carriage lurched. She was alone inside it and trying to talk to the driver would be an exercise in futility. She watched through the window, but all she saw was a city succumbing to decay: first the skyscrapers, then the once-shiny offices and malls of Beverly Hills, the Porsche dealerships tucked inside showrooms little bigger than a convenience store. They entered the hills and the city unfolded beneath them just as it did looking down from the heights of Western.

Without warning, the houses stopped and she found herself being delivered to a glen. Trees grew thickly beyond a high wooden fence. The carriage came to a gate. Fred yelled to the watchtower and the gate clanked open. She was taken to a simple wooden building. Several dozen like it claimed the ground between it and a lake shining under the late afternoon sun.

"You'll be allowed to recover here," Fred said. "An assistant will be assigned to you later today. Until she's here, if you need anything, I'll be right outside."

As it turned out, what she needed was sleep. When she woke in the night, she found another woman sleeping on the cot in the entry room. Outside, the air was too humid to be cool. On the pretense of searching for a bathroom or outhouse, she did some wandering, taking in the other homes, the large structure near the lake. Less than 48 hours since she'd made her suggestion to Raina and she was already inside the enemy's fortress. Not bad.

In the morning, Fred came by to check on her, then rode off. Mia meant to do some exploring, limited though it might be under the watchful eye of her "assistant" Brenna, but found she was too tired and sore to do much more than nap.

Late that morning, Brenna rushed into the room and shook her shoulder. There was someone there to see her. He was tall and young, but with frosty gray hair that would have looked wonderful on a TV screen. His smile would have done just as well.

"I'm Anson," he said. "How are you doing there?"

"I'm good," Mia said, sitting up straighter. "It's one of those things that looks worse than it is."

"Like cod cheeks." He pulled a chair to the base of the bed and straddled it. "Fred tells me you came from down south. What happened?"

"It's going to sound crazy."

"Try me. These days, crazy's the norm."

"I think," she said, "they were going to sacrifice me."

"They were going to…
sacrifice
you?"

She nodded. "At a place called the Bones. That's where Raina—their child leader—puts the remains of her enemies, convinced they'll be bound to serve and advise her in death."

"You're right," he said. "That does sound crazy. What'd you do to deserve that?"

"Went somewhere I shouldn't. A man tried to hurt me and I defended myself. They claimed I had endangered the peace."

"They wanted to execute you for protecting your life? Where's the justice in that?"

She shrugged, then winced at the uncomfortable tug of her stitches. "There's not a whole lot that makes sense down there. Then again, that's what happens when the girl running the place is barely old enough to drive."

Anson propped his elbows on the back of the chair, wrists crossed. "She must have something going for her. She's got what, two hundred people following her?"

"Probably, yeah."

He allowed himself a smug smile. "Not bad. You ever hear them talk about us up here? What do they know?"

"Not much. They've been tightening security. Think they had some scuffles with your scouts. Mostly, they only care about running their little market."

"It's a good one. I'd like something like that. Maybe we'll set one up here."

She met his eyes. "Are you these people's leader?"

Anson grinned. "Guilty as charged."

"I'm so sorry, my lord." She bowed her head. "I didn't recognize you."

"'My lord,' huh? I like the sound of that. Might have to send out a memo. Until then, you can stick with Anson."

"I apologize for being so forward, my lord Anson, but have you ever considered… doing something about them?"

"Think we should?"

"They're dangerous. Unpredictable. You see what they did to me."

"And you're right to be mad. Question is, are they a menace? If so, are they enough of a menace for me to sacrifice my people to combat? If there were a war, people
would
die. I just don't think it would be worth it. Not so long as we each stick to our part of the city. Heaven knows, this place is big enough it'll be generations before we start bumping borders."

"But it only takes days to tear something down."

"Leave those who must to worry about that." He reached forward and patted her foot beneath the blanket. "Sounds like you're on the mend. You're a tough one, huh? We'll have you back on your way in a few days."

"Out there?" she said. Had she pushed too far and too soon? Her story was just that: a tale dragged in from the street, borne by a stranger. It might fool a guy like Fred, particularly in the heat of the moment, but if there was anything to Anson, his radar would ping with anything out of the ordinary. "What if I want to stay?"

"In the Heart?" He smiled regretfully. "I'm afraid that isn't possible. But you're welcome to stay among my people in the city. We take all kinds."

He got up to go. In the other room, Brenna murmured something deferential, then wandered into Mia's room, positively glowing. "What did he have to say?"

"Curious about the southerners. I told him what I could."

"Isn't he something?"

"He was," Mia said, though she hadn't seen anything spectacular about him. But it was a funny thing: the very suggestion had her reappraising the encounter, replaying his words and gestures in her mind to see if there had been more to him.

She had bigger concerns. Like being of any use whatsoever to Raina. When Fred came by with her dinner, she picked at the chicken and beans.

"Dinner okay?" he said.

"It's great. Especially after all the fish I've been eating."

"Then what is it?"

"I was told I have to go," she said. "Once I'm healed."

"I'm sure you can stay in the city if you want. We don't turn people away. That's what makes us different."

She poked at the shreds of chicken. "I was hoping I could stay here."

He frowned at his lap. "That isn't how it works. This place, it's for the Sworn. Their families. A few others."

"Can I join you? The Sworn?"

"You haven't been here nearly long enough for that," he laughed gently. "First, you must swear by deed. Only then are you allowed to swear with words."

"How long does that take?"

"I couldn't say. But if you want it, you can get it."

"Fred, I'm scared." She didn't look up from her plate. "I don't want to go back down there."

"Even if I wanted to help you, it isn't my place to decide."

"What about the others? The ones who aren't Sworn? How do they get here?"

"They have talents. Something valuable enough to be allowed in the Heart as they wait to join the Sworn." He angled his head. "Do you have anything like that? Any special talents?"

"I can fight some," she said.

"So can all of us."

Mia sighed. "I tell stories."

"Stories?"

"Like performances. The way people used to."

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes. "I'm not sure that's what they're looking for."

"You don't think it's valuable?" She set down her fork and nodded across the twilight to the manor by the lake. "That looks a lot like a castle to me. At the very least, a chateau or a Danish mead hall. It's even got a wall. But does it have a jester? A bard? A skald?"

"A what?"

"A person who entertains you while you eat and drink. A person who, if they're good enough, can inspire you to be one of the heroes they tell you about."

He bulged his cheek with his tongue. "Have you done this before?"

"For years."

"Then let's see what you've got."

She gazed at the floor. The boards were scuffed. Worn. Dingy, if you wanted to call them that. But they'd been repurposed from the house they'd been stripped from because they'd been strong enough to endure through the years.

She told him the story of Wandering Ted. A man who, during the plague, had been separated from his wife Marisa. Uncertain whether she'd survived, he journeyed from Missoula all the way to the Great Lakes. There, confronting the fact she couldn't possibly have survived the Panhandler, he gave up hope and took up work as a hand at a communal farm—only for Marisa to find him there two months later.

"He was overjoyed," Mia said. "Privately, he swore he'd never give up hope again. They left the farm to found one for themselves. They talked of children. Grandchildren. They could see what was around them and knew there was no going back, but they knew that, together, they could lay a foundation for their family to build on.

"Then the aliens came. And Marisa was taken."