Chapter 20
Benton Collins lay flopped across Carrie Quinton’s bed, basking in the afterglow and the wonder of the whole situation. A smart, beautiful woman wanted me. He stared around the canopy at the painted stars ignited by the faint light the torches provided. Hours ago, he would never have believed such a thing could happen. Now, the whole world seemed to have changed.
Quinton made a sound of contentment, which sent a wave of joy thrilling through Collins. He could count the number of times he had made love, now no longer on just one hand; but he still considered himself inexperienced. He had done his best with Quinton, holding out as long as he could, but the whole session had still lasted less than fifteen minutes. It delighted him to think he had satisfied her, too.
A trickle of guilt disrupted his joy, its source uncertain. Marlys remained far from his thoughts. He had assumed their relationship was over before he had even come to Barakhai. The fact that they had not officially broken up had to do only with his inability to contact her. The true wonder was that the relationship had lasted as long as it did. Once he realized that Marlys had nothing to do with the sensation pressing against his conscience, he puzzled over it. Some frail corner of his mind told him he had found his soul mate, and it was not Carrie Quinton.
The thought seemed madness. He and Quinton had everything in common: background, interests, sexual attraction. It seemed almost as if the world had conspired to bring them together.
Quinton sat up, reaching for her clothes. “Penny for your thoughts.”
Collins studied her, the torchlight just right to capture proper details and hide the flaws. Her face held a natural radiance that required no cosmetics. The curls, disheveled from their lovemaking, looked even more attractive tousled. Pale as blue-tinted pearls, her eyes remained striking. Her large breasts, perky with youth, still excited him, even with his manhood freshly spent. Even the antiquated phrasing of her question did not seem strange or nerdish. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
Quinton pulled on her dresslike undergarments, then the actual dress, smoothing the skirting around her hips and thighs. “I’m intelligent, too.”
Collins swallowed, afraid he had just made a fatal mistake. “Well, of course. But that goes without saying.” Uncertain whether he had rescued himself yet, he added, “Ol’ D-Mark insists on the brightest.”
“Including you?”
Choosing humor over modesty, Collins simply said. “Well, of course.” Then, finding a way to use both, he added, “Though he couldn’t be quite as picky after you disappeared. Everyone thought he’d driven you to run.”
“So that’s what happened.” Quinton laughed. “At least no one’s worried about me.” She pulled on the gold chain with the dragon stone.
Collins’ gaze latched onto the crystal, and sudden shame slapped him. He had allowed a tryst to distract him from his mission. “I’d venture to guess your mother’s worried.”
Quinton’s lips pursed tightly. “I don’t have a mother.”
The words seemed nonsensical. “Everyone has a mother.” Collins reached for his own clothing.
Quinton grunted. “Squeezing a child out the birth canal doesn’t make a woman a mother.”
Collins pulled on his loose-fitting trousers and tied them without bothering to look at his hands. “My biology training says you’re wrong.”
“Well my sixteen years in seven foster homes trumps your biology training.”
All humor disappeared. “Oh.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t know.” Properly chastised, Collins reached for his tunic. “I’m sorry.”
“For the first two years of my life, the woman who claimed to be my mother left me crying in a crib for hours while she went out and partied.” A shadow fell over Quinton’s face. “They gave her four years to straighten out her life enough to get me back. Four years. An eternity for a kid. By the time they realized she wouldn’t, I was too old for an adoptive family. In those days, they only wanted babies.”
“I’m sorry,” Collins repeated, wishing he had never raised the subject. It clearly hurt her. “You’ve done amazingly well on your own, given the circumstances you came from.” Suddenly, his own problems did not seem significant at all.
“I realized she was rotten by the time I was three, but it took an army of social workers four years to figure out the same thing.” Quinton finger-combed her tangled locks. “That convinced me I was smart. I always knew I’d make it through college, though without scholarships, jobs, loans, and lab assistanceships, I’d never have made it.”
“You’re incredible,” Collins said as he put on his glasses, meaning it. “Resourceful, determined, intelligent, and beautiful.” He smiled. “And damned good in bed.”
Quinton winced. “I don’t know why I told you that. Since I got off on my own at eighteen, I’ve never told anyone.”
Her confession made Collins feel even closer than their lovemaking had. “I have a confession to make, too.”
Quinton turned him a look of innocent questioning. “What?”
“I can get us home.”
“You can?” Quinton’s tone sounded guarded, not the pure excitement Collins expected.
Nevertheless, he continued. “All I need is the crystal.” He reached out a finger and stroked the smooth stone around her neck.
Quinton did not flinch. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand?” Collins’ voice gained all the excitement Quinton’s lacked. “With the crystal, I can get us back to our own world.”
Quinton shook her head slightly. “Ben, this is my world.”
“This . . . ?” Collins’ grin vanished. “This—don’t be ridiculous. I can get us home. To Earth.” Doubting they had actually left the planet, he amended, “Back to civilization.”
Quinton clenched her hands in her lap.
Collins studied her in silence for several moments.
Quinton stared at her intertwined hands. “I don’t want to leave”
“But, Carrie—”
“I feel more at home here than I ever did there.” Collins wanted to say something, anything, to rouse Quinton. The idea that she would like Barakhai better than home had never occurred to him. “What if you got appendicitis?”
Carrie pointed to her right hip. “Appendectomy. Age nine.”
“All right. Needed your tonsils out.”
Quinton’s hand went to her throat. “Tonsillectomy. Age six.”
Frustrated, Collins tried something that could happen more than once. “What if you broke your leg?”
Finally, Quinton looked directly at Collins. “They do have healers here, you know. They handle broken bones all the time.”
Collins huffed out a sigh. “Do they handle cancer?”
“No,” Quinton admitted. “But I’d rather take my chances raising the dragons until they can heal me than getting poisoned with chemotherapy and radiation.”
The dragons. Collins had almost forgotten them. Once the king’s adviser/geneticist raised and trained them, King Terrin might as well be invincible.
“Carrie, please. I do want to go home. Can’t you just let me have the stone for me?”
The pallid eyes narrowed to slits, then she dropped her head wearily. “Ben, I have another confession.”
Collins fell silent, not certain he wanted to hear it.
Quinton’s fingers twined like snakes in her lap. “When I first brought you up here, I just wanted to get some information out of you.”
Collins closed his eyes, dreading the rest.
“But I found myself really attracted to you. Then, one thing led to another, and I never did ask any questions and . . .” She broke off suddenly. “Please look at me.”
Liking the turn her admission seemed to be taking, Collins obeyed.
“I want you to stay,” Quinton said with raw sincerity. “King Terrin wants you to stay and advise him. You’d have a life of luxury, the life of a prince.”
Collins shook his head. “I—”
Quinton seized his hand. “I do want you to stay, too. I want to sleep with you every night. I want to bear your babies. I want to be . . . a real mother.”
My babies. This was too much for twenty-three-year-old Benton Collins. From one session of sex to this? Terror ground through him, and the urge to put some physical distance between them became nearly unbearable. He suspected her swift bond with him had something to do with those she’d lacked as a child, yet the understanding did him little good. He found himself hyperventilating. He needed air. Too much too fast. Worried about upsetting her, he reached for the crystal again. “Please, Carrie. Just let me have the stone. I’ll only go to settle some things. To gather some comforts. Then I’ll come back.”
Water glazed Quinton’s blue-white eyes.
“I will. I promise.” The words came out without conscious thought. Collins could not even convince himself he would keep that vow. Spitting on his hand and sugar on top would not work for Carrie Quinton.
She spoke softly, her voice strained and hesitant. “Once we’ve established a life here. A baby. Things I know you won’t abandon. Then, then, you can go back.”
“Carrie.” Collins cupped the crystal in one hand. “I can’t wait that long.”
Quinton jerked backward, then hissed in pain. Clearly the gold chain cut into the back of her neck.
Now that he had a hold on it, Collins closed his hand, unable to let go. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just let me have it.”
“No,” Carrie said, then shouted. “No! Help! Help! I need help!”
Collins knew he had to escape and fast, but he would not leave without the crystal. He wrapped both hands around it and pulled.
Carrie screamed.
The door that led to the other chambers burst open. Three men with swords charged into the room, directly at Collins.
“Shit!” Collins gave one last desperate heave that snapped the links. Momentum hurled him to the floor, the stone clamped in his hands, the broken ends of the chain whipping his fingers. His buttocks struck stone, and agony howled through his spine. Blood splashed his face, and Carrie shrieked again.
Two swords jabbed toward Collins. He recognized their wielders as men who’d been seated at the head table on his first visit to the dining hall. Now, he noticed only that they looked well-muscled and competent with their weapons.
Collins scuttled into retreat as the blades jabbed forward. His back jarred suddenly against cold stone, and he scrambled to a stand, smacking his head on something affixed to the wall. A wash of black-and-white spots swam down on him, stealing his vision. He bulled through it, only to find himself pinned to the wall by two swords at his chest.
“Be still,” said a silk-clad blond who could have been, and probably was, the king’s brother. “We don’t want to kill you.”
Menaced by swords, Collins was not sure he believed the man. The one beside him remained quiet. He stood half a head taller, skin and hair a shade darker than his companion’s. He wore a beard while the other was clean-shaven, and his hairline was receding.
Collins tightened his hold on the crystal. He had come too far to give it up now, yet he saw no way out of this situation. His only advantage came if he believed Carrie Quinton’s claim that the king wanted him alive. He glanced at the geneticist, who returned his look with hate-filled eyes. Her hands clutched at the back of her neck. It surprised Collins to find himself thinking clearly in a life-or-death situation after his utter panic at the gallows. If nothing else had come out of his trip to Barakhai, he had gained composure. Fat lot of good that’ll do me dead.
Sweat dripped down Collins’ forehead, out of proportion to the rest of his body. His scalp felt uncomfortably hot. “Carrie and I were just—” He flushed, finishing lamely. “—talking and . . . and . . . stuff.” Stuff. The new popular euphemism for sex. Abruptly, Collins realized what he must have crashed against that now heated his head. Torch bracket. He needed a distraction. “Tell ’em, Carrie.”
“He stole my necklace,” Quinton hissed. “A traitor.”
The men’s heads swiveled toward her. Seizing the moment, Collins lunged for the torch with his free hand. The bracket tore a line of skin from his thumb, sending pain howling through his hand, but he managed to complete the movement. His fingers wrapped around the warmed wood, and he swung wildly for his captors.
The two men leaped backward, sparing themselves a burning but opening the way for Collins’ escape. The fire flickered dangerously low, then steadied. Collins raced for the door to the stairwell.
“Guards! Guards!” the shorter man shouted.
Collins jerked the panel open, only to find the way down blocked by a seething mass of warriors. “Shit!” Clearly, the king had anticipated that Collins’ allegiances might have shifted. Quinton had known from the start that she had formidable backup. “Shit!” he repeated, louder. He needed a distraction, anything to delay the mob below him. “Storm!” he shrieked the code word to any rebel in earshot. “Storm! Storm!”
When no one responded, Collins hurled his only weapon, the torch, at the horde, then thundered up the stairs. Up is wrong. Up is wrong! It made no sense to corner himself on a rooftop, yet he saw no other way. At least, it might delay the inevitable and place the choice of death or capture back into his own hands. The crystal bit into his palm, and another realization struck him. At least, he might get the object of contention into the right hands. Surely, he would find someone from the rebel forces in the courtyard. At least, my death might not be completely in vain. Though a scant comfort, it proved better than none at all.
Collins charged upward, pausing only to collect another torch from its bracket in the stairwell. A moment later, he reached the next landing, anticipating a flurry of guardsmen from the parapets. None came through the door, and Collins dimly realized that the rebels must have managed to handle those men for him. He continued to run, breaths coming in wild pants, legs pounding upward as if under their own control. Suddenly, he found a square ceiling over his head, and the steps ended at a trapdoor. Praying it would not prove too heavy, he bashed against it with his head and right shoulder.
The panel jolted upward, but the seconds of delay proved his undoing. A hand closed around his ankle, jerking him abruptly backward. Balance and momentum lost, he felt himself falling into someone’s arms. Twisting, he thrust blindly with the torch. The taller royal retreated, beard aflame. He let go of Collins’ leg. Collins threw the torch and launched himself through the trapdoor. He heard Quinton’s scream, high-pitched and fiercely terrified, caught a momentary glimpse of her, flames leaping from her hair, before the trapdoor crashed shut behind him. Guiltily, he hoped her distress would keep the guards busy long enough for him to find a way down. He darted to a crenel and glanced into the courtyard below. Seven stories down, the goats, sheep, pigs, and chickens looked very small. “Shit!” he yelled. “Shit! Shit! SHIT!”
The expletive caught the attention of some of the animals, who looked up at him. Something buzzed in his ear, and he whirled to face a tiny bird, its wings fluttering so fast they seemed invisible. Collins could never have imagined himself so glad to see Ialin. “Here.” He thrust out the crystal. “Take it.”
Dutifully, the hummingbird zipped to Collins and seized the offering in a beak that seemed too small and slender to hold it. Ialin sank almost to the ground, then ponderously, inch by inch, managed to regain altitude. He sailed away.
The trapdoor thumped back open.
Collins dumped the bit of broken gold chain over the parapets, watching it twist through the air. It seemed to take forever to reach the ground. Below him, two goats struggled with a small hay cart. It was over. The rebels had won, but Benton Collins had lost. If he surrendered now, maybe they would not kill him. He thought of what he had done: double-crossed the king, burned royals, including Carrie Quinton, and delivered an artifact into the hands of a gang of thugs who planned to use it to destroy the king. Oh, yeah. He’ll let me live all right.
The man who looked like the king’s brother appeared first, guarding his head and throat as he charged through the opening. Then, Zylas’ rat-head emerged over the battlements, panting around the translation stone. From the direction of his abrupt arrival, he had clearly waited on the roof ramparts, between the two towers, and had climbed the final floor of the tower from the outside. “Jump,” he managed to gasp around the quartz.
Collins looked down. He could never survive a seven-story fall. The goats labored hurriedly beneath him.
“Jump,” Zylas repeated, his voice a harsh wheeze. He clambered wearily onto Collins’ hand, across his wrist, and into a tunic pocket. “It’s our only chance.”
A guard appeared beside the royal, and Collins could hear more clambering behind them. They approached him with slow caution, swords drawn. He had only two choices, and they knew it: leap to his death or surrender.
“Trust me,” Zylas said.
Famous last words. Collins realized that, whatever his fate, at least Zylas was brave enough to share it. Closing his eyes, he jumped.
“Hey!” the guard yelled. “Hey!”
Air whooshed past Collins. His hair and clothing whipped around him in a savage tangle, and sheer terror scattered his wits. He screamed, utterly helpless, incapable of opening his eyes. Then, stems jabbed and shattered beneath him, slivering into his flesh like a thousand needles. The hay wagon, he realized before velocity carried him through the piled hay to the wooden slats of the wagon. Agony beyond thought thundered through him, and he knew no more.
Benton Collins awakened to a rush of pain that drove an involuntary groan through his lips. He opened his eyes to a whitewashed ceiling and a repetitive beeping sound that perfectly matched the rhythm of his heart. He tried to speak, but only a croak emerged from his parched lips.
A woman in a white dress with a pink stethoscope around her neck and scissors poking from her breast pocket peered at him. “Are you awake, Benton?”
Collins licked his lips and nodded weakly. “What happened?” He mouthed more than spoke the words, but apparently the nurse understood.
“You tell me.”
Collins shook his head, wondering if his experiences in Barakhai were all some sort of hallucination induced by the pain drugs they had obviously given him.
“Last thing I remember, I was taking care of rat experiments in Daubert Labs.”
“That’s where they found you this morning.” The nurse turned, clattering some objects on a metal tray. “In an old storage room. Your mom’s on her way. Couldn’t locate your dad.”
“He’s in Europe with his girlfriend.” Collins glanced around, still trying to sort real from imagined. “Am I going to be okay?”
The nurse returned to his bedside, smoothed his pillow, and rearranged the covers. “You broke your pelvis, your left leg, both arms, some ribs, and you’ve got a small skull fracture.”
The list sounded terrible. “Gosh.”
The nurse apparently was not finished. She picked up a spiral-bound chart from a bedside table. “Ruptured spleen, which seems to be healing on its own. Kidney contusion—you’ll have some blood in the urine for a while, but that should heal. Pneumothorax.”
The last word eluded Collins. Pneumo, he knew, meant air. “What?”
The nurse set the chart aside. “Lung deflated. They put a tube in your chest to reexpand it.”
“Did someone beat me up?” Collins tried to smile.
The nurse shrugged. “Only logical explanation. Looks more like you took a bad fall, but that doesn’t make any sense where they found you.” She lowered her head, and strands of dark hair slipped from beneath her hairpinned hat. “You’re lucky that professor found you when he did. Said a very persistent dog led him to you.”
“A dog?” Collins swallowed. Is it possible? “Where is this dog?”
“In the pound,” the nurse said.
“The pound?” Collins tried to sit up, but pain and wires held him down. “What if they—”
The nurse put out a hand to stay him. “Don’t worry. No one’s going to hurt the hero of Daubert Labs. If you don’t want him, there’re about thirty others in line to adopt him. I think he’s getting filet mignon for every meal.”
Collins had to know. “Gangly hound with floppy ears. Brown and white.”
“That’s the one.”
“I want him.”
“I’ll let them know.”
“He’s . . . my dog. Can you hand me the phone?” The nurse gave Collins a stern look. “I said I’d call. I’ll call as soon as we’re done here.”
“Thank you.” Collins felt very sleepy, but curiosity won out over fatigue. “His name is Korfius.”
“Korfius?”
Collins nodded.
“I’ll tell them.” She started out the door, then stopped and turned back. These are your things, if you want them. It’s everything you had when they found you. I’m afraid they had to cut off your jeans.” She smiled. “I don’t think you would have wanted them anyway. Dirty and bloody. You must have taken off your sweatshirt before . . . whatever happened. It needs washing, but it’s salvageable.”
Jeans? Sweatshirt? “Thank you,” Collins said, accepting the plastic bag. As the nurse left, he poured out the contents: his cell phone, his watch, its face irreparably smashed, and a piece of paper torn from a scratch pad advertising a laboratory supply company. Scrawled across it in wobbly lettering were the words:
Ben—
Thanks from all. Me okay. Fall on you. You me pillow. Ha ha. You hurt too bad for Lady. Put old clothes and bring here. They fix, we hope. Korfius stay. Not send back. He want you.
It was signed only with a tiny paw print.
Collins lay back, imagining the effort it must have taken for the rebels to drag him, in animal form, even as far as they had. Korfius was lesariat, he remembered. He had gotten his wish to remain a dog forever, and now Collins had gained the smartest, longest-lived pet in the world. My world. He smiled through the pain.