Wildstar

Her return to consciousness was slow and confused. She first became aware of the pain in her head . . . not too se­vere but dull and throbbing. Next, that her tongue felt dry and thick against the gag that had been stuffed into her mouth . . . highly uncomfortable. Then a smoky, cloying scent . . . sickly sweet and over-powering. Finally the low-volume noise . . . strange gurgling sounds accompanied by moans and sighs.

Wincing, Jess tried to raise a hand to her aching temple, but to her great bewilderment she found she couldn't. There seemed to be a cord around her wrists . . . and her ankles too, if the numb sensation in her feet was any indi­cation.

Disoriented, she opened her eyes. She was lying on some kind of pallet, her head on an Oriental cushion of red-and-black silk. Squinting, she searched the dim, smoke-hazed room. Two dozen other people—mostly men dressed in the rough style of miners—reclined on other pallets and in the tall row of bunks that stood against one wall. A few women, half clad and with painted faces, lay beside the men. All of them were either sprawled in a state of dazed insensibility or occupied in taking long drags from long-stemmed pipes, which sent little clouds of smoke into the air.

This has to be one of the opium dens I've heard about, was Jess's first complete thought. They were smoking opium.

Her initial reaction was curiosity. All her life she had heard about these Chinese dens of iniquity, but she'd never seen one. Nobody she knew frequented these sinful places.

This one was no hovel—but no haven of luxury, either. The room was dark, save for the fitful gleam of the opium lamps. A young Chinese woman who looked much like Mei Lin was moving from pallet to pallet, checking the pipe bowls.

Her second reaction was pity for the young woman. Serving these misguided souls who were lost in the drug­ging influence of the poppy, perhaps giving her young body to their pleasure like Mei Lin had been forced to do, was one of the most horrible fates Jess could imagine.

Her third reaction was anger as she began to realize how she must have come to be here. Hank Purcell, she re­membered witheringly. He had actually hit her, the sneak­ing coward.

Her fourth reaction was unease, bordering on fear. What did he intend to do to her? She had been abducted from her own house, brought here against her will, and now she was bound and nearly naked in an opium den. Her robe was gone and so were her slippers. All she had on was a thin cambric chemise that barely reached her knees—and that, at the moment, was riding up her thighs—and her lace-trimmed underdrawers. With rising panic, she strug­gled to push down the hem of her chemise, then tested the bonds at her wrists. They wouldn't budge.

Ordering herself to stay calm, Jess let her aching head fall back on the cushion. She had to think. How could she get herself out of this fix? She seriously doubted any of the opium-dazed people here would give her any help if she asked for it. Besides, she couldn't even speak with the choking gag crammed in her mouth. Her brain felt so foggy. . . .

The low male chuckle so close beside her startled her. Jerking her head around, Jess looked up to find Hank Purcell grinning down at her.

"Good, you're awake. It'll save me the trouble of bring­ing you around. Come on, now, we're gonna find you a lit­tle more privacy."

Before she could even try to understand what he meant, Purcell had pulled her to her feet and thrown her over his shoulder. The hard bone jammed into her stomach, knock­ing the breath from her body, while the blood rushed to her head, making her even dizzier.

She tried to fight back, but although she herself was no weakling, his lean, work-honed body was as powerful and unbending as steel. All her struggles were useless. When she did manage to drive her fists into the small of his back, he swore foully and brought the flat of his hand down on her bottom in a stinging slap, a warning for her to desist.

She was seeing spots by the time he carried her down a dark hall and through a doorway. From what she could tell in her awkward position, they were in a small room lit by a table lamp.

Purcell kicked the door shut behind him and dumped Jess on a pallet much nicer than the one she had just left. This was softer, for one thing, and was covered with red satin sheets. Unlike the other pallet, however, this low bed was surrounded by four-inch-diameter wooden posts pro­truding from the floor.

Purcell grinned as he began tying her bound wrists to one of the posts above her head. A minute ago, Jess had wondered what they were used for, but it wasn't hard to guess now, or to imagine herself spread-eagled on the pal­let. Filled with real fear now, she resumed her struggles with renewed ferocity, yet the result was just as hopeless. In only a few moments he had trussed her up tight, her arms stretched high over her head, tied to one of the posts above, her ankles lashed to another post below. She could only twist helplessly and pant for breath behind the clammy gag. The only thing she could be grateful for was that her feet were still bound together. Purcell couldn't in­tend to rape her immediately, Jess told herself, or he would have made it easier for himself to get at her.

But if that wasn't why he had brought her here, then what did he want with her?

It seemed he didn't mind telling her. Still grinning, Purcell sat back on his heels and surveyed his efforts. "There, that should do it, Miss Jess. You're gonna be here a while. Nobody's gonna find you for a long time to come. You see, I gave you to Madam Wong. She was right pleased to have a new girl for her crib." He waved his hand at the furnishings. "This is one of Madam's special rooms. And you're gonna get to service all the special cus­tomers."

He had given her away? To a Chinese madam? In order to service all the special customers? Jess stared at him in shock and horror.

To her surprise, he loosened the knots behind her head and pulled the gag down. "Don't bother screamin'. It won't do you a lick of good. Nobody pays any mind to what goes on in an opium joint."

Knowing he was right, Jess bit back the scream that had risen to her throat. There would be little use. Instead she carefully flexed her aching jaw. Her tongue was paper-dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth.

"Why?" she rasped when she could manage to speak. "Why are you doing this?"

"For all the grief you and your pa have caused me."

Jess had never realized just how nasty a smile could be. Purcell looked highly pleased with himself.

"I don't think your pa is gonna be too happy to find you gone. It'll be worse when he learns what's happened to you here."

Wishing she could reach Purcell's smirking face with her nails, she gave a fierce tug on the rope, which made his gaze drop to her scantily clad bosom. A speculative gleam flashed in his brown eyes, just before he reached out to pinch her left nipple.

Jess flinched and tried to shrink away in disgust, but she couldn't move more than an inch or two.

"A week or two in a Chink cribhouse like this and you won't be so prissy," Purcell taunted as he deliberately fon­dled her breast. "Yo

u'll be right grateful for a man who ain't all doped up."