Polished golden rock stretched to the sky and surfaced the floor. Wind and sun dove through the arched open rafters. The apex of the main tower.
Outside my cage, the doctor sat in padmasana, a posture I’d seen used in Buddhist mediation. Ass on the floor, back of hands on bent knees, ankles on opposing thighs, eyes closed. Another man paced behind him. The pilot maybe?
Beside me, a tray sat on a table laden with bandages, ointments and papers. All useless. Bar the scissors. They didn’t know I was awake. If I moved fast enough…
I lunged for the scissors and heaved them full spin at the pacing man. They slipped between the bars of my cage and plunged his throat.
He pawed at them, his mouth working for air against the blood pooling out. Then he dislodged them, stared at them. He staggered, grabbed the back of a couch. The scissors clattered to the floor. So did he.
The doctor didn’t move, but his eyes bored into mine. I fumbled through the items on the tray, gripped a pen with metal casing.
Heart thumping, I concealed it lengthwise along my arm and approached the open gate. He remained motionless, his eyes never leaving mine.
Ten feet. I straightened my arm toward his chest with a snap. The pen slipped from my grasp and sped down the invisible horizontal level.
His body bleared, rolled and collided with mine.
I skidded across the floor in a tangle of gauzy skirts. He stood over me, arms to his side, face blank.
Mother fucker. I shook my hand as if something were amiss. “Where’s the priest?”
He stalked to the man heaped on the floor. “Not here yet.”
I pushed off the floor, launched to his side. “Touch Roark and I’ll turn your putrefied heart into a pincushion for your needle collection.”
Silky black hair fell over his brow as he examined the unconscious man.
I slammed a fist toward his head. He snapped out his arm and redirected my hit inches from his face.
My pulse raced. I faked the same punch then sent a full speed kick to his groin. He flicked his wrist, intercepted my leg and used it to throw my balance. My ass hit the ground.
Fuck. I released a heavy breath and shoved the goddamn skirt out of the way.
The doctor looked up from checking the other man’s vitals. “Are you done?”
I scrambled to my feet. “Not quite. Where. Is. The. Priest?”
The air shifted a half-breath before he did. His palm hit my chest, knocked me back down. The gesture was slight, as if swatting a pesky gnat. Yet it left me wheezing on my knees.
He sat seiza-style before me and tilted his head. “Are you done?”
I took to my feet again and lobbed an arcing punch to his jaw. He floated up and caught my punch. With a twist of hips, he shot out a foot and swooped me to my butt. Agony jarred my joints.
He hovered inches from my face. “Are you done?”
I angled to the side and found my footing. Feet spread, toes pointed in the same direction, I poised my power hand at my jaw.
His arms lolled at his side, legs relaxed hip-width apart. His reflexes paralleled a martial artist but didn’t demonstrate a specific style. And his eyes, caught between shades of black and more black, divulged nothing. His loose cotton pants and shirt couldn’t conceal his strapping physique. His attractiveness made me despise him more.
We stared at each other in a suspended moment. I acknowledged the Lakota for teaching me to appreciate tense silence.
Then he was on me. Arm under my neck, I gasped for air as he dragged me to the cell. The more I clawed, the more pressure he applied. White spots dappled my vision. My arms dropped.
He released me in the cell and locked the gate between us. Then he squatted next to the man. “You have questions. I have questions.” He hiked the body over his shoulder and turned to me. “So we’ll trade answers. Fair?”
No. My freedom would be fair, but I nodded, heat burning through my face. “Is that man dead?”
“Yes.” He opened the door. A staircase descended on the other side. An aphid bared its feral mouth from its guard position. The doctor dodged the snapping jaws and slammed the door.
I didn’t feel bad about killing that man. I planned to kill them all.
The doctor returned minutes later. He crossed his arms and leaned against the bars. “Who taught you to fight?”
A swallow lodged in my throat. Would that answer be used against me? I didn’t think so. “My husband.”
“Your priest is on a ship. About a day out. Guarded by men, not aphids. He will not be released. Do not ask it. But he will not be harmed as long as you cooperate.” A pause. “Where is your husband now?”