Embrace The Twilight

"Why do we keep him alive? If there were any spies among us, they fled when the Americans declared victory and pulled their troops out of our lands. It is impossible to know who they were, when we have so many men missing, so many dead and left behind in the desert."



The conversation was spoken in yet another dialect, one Will knew, though not as well as some. He was able to make out the words. That the U.S. had pulled out did not surprise him. This had never been meant to be a sustained operation, like the one in Afghanistan. This leg of Operation Enduring Freedom was a simple, short, potent lesson with clear parameters. Infiltrate terrorist cells, then, guided by spies on the inside, launch strikes on their training camps and then get the hell out. It had worked. The cells had been decimated, the survivors scattered, the leadership cut off. This band who'd captured him had unfortunately spotted him as he made his way to the extraction point. He had been within sight of the chopper when he'd realized they were on his tail, and he'd had no choice but to take cover and open fire, holding them off long enough for the chopper full of American soldiers to get clear.



"I say we put a bullet between his eyes and leave him for the vultures."



Fine, he thought. Just do it and get it the hell over with. How long had he been here, now? Weeks? Longer? It was impossible to be sure. The goddamn broken foot and ribs ached so badly he couldn't sleep, and whatever freaking bug he'd picked up had him so weak he spent most of his time lying in the corner, shivering-at least when he wasn't hunched over in the opposite corner throwing up.



He had expected U.S. forces to come after him. Apparently he was presumed dead or they would have by now. Of course he was presumed dead. He hadn't talked. None of the men who had infiltrated the other terrorist cells in the area had been identified. They'd had time to get out. The U.S. would assume he had died a hell of a lot more readily than they would assume he'd withstood weeks of torture without uttering a single name.



The voice of the man who wore the silk turban and diamond pinky ring, apparent right-hand man to the leader of this small pack of jackals, came next. "We will shoot him when Ahkmed says we shoot him. Here." There was a rattle, as if of paper. "Have him hold this and take his photograph."



"You intend to ransom him?" one of the underlings asked.



"They took our men to their Bay of Guantanamo as prisoners. Perhaps we can use the colonel to get some of them back."



"Over my dead fucking body," he muttered. He would have shouted it, but his throat was so raw that muttering was the best he could manage.



The lock of his kennel scraped open, and two men whose faces had become familiar stepped inside. He stayed where he was, huddled in the corner of a metal box that had once been part of a cargo truck. It was his own room within the caves where they were hiding out, though not deeply enough to benefit from the one plus of cave life: a constant temperature. This place was oven hot by day, freezing cold by night. His furniture included a large tin can he used for a toilet and a pitcher of stagnant water he supposed they expected him to drink. Most days it was tough to tell which smelled worse, though when you got thirsty enough the smell of the water didn't make a hell of a lot of difference.



When the light spilled in from the open door, it blinded him, and he covered his eyes with his hands.



"Come out, pig. We are to photograph you."



He lifted his head, squinting at them and made his way forward. Every step on the broken foot was sheer agony, but he had learned cruelly what happened when he hesitated or disobeyed.



They pulled him out when he got close enough so they could grip his arms. He was struggling to see. The caves were lit by floodlights, powered by a generator he could hear running somewhere in the distance. Probably near the entrance.



They slung him into a chair. One held a rifle on him, while the other shoved a newspaper into his hands. He glanced down at it. Jesus, it was in English.



"You hold this up so the date is showing while we take a photo."



He lifted his gaze to meet the speaker's dark brown eyes. "This says the Americans have left the country. Are you trying to give them a reason to come back and kill you all?"



"You should shut up and do as you are told, Colonel Stone. We will trade you for our prisoners. This is your only hope of leaving here alive."



He shook his head slowly and decided to use this to his advantage. His wounds were infected. He needed to clean them. "They won't even recognize me like this," he said, running a hand over his unshaven face. "And if they do, they'll be so angry at what you've done to me that they'll just renew the bombing."



The two men blinked and stared at each other. "He could be right. Do you think we should clean him up first?" one asked in his native tongue.



"I...let us ask Ahkmed."



The two of them turned and left him there, alone, in that section of the caves. Granted, there were no weapons in sight, and he couldn't try to escape, since there was only one way out of this section, and they had taken it. But still...



He got to up onto his one good foot and hopped over to the table, where a pitcher of water and a partially eaten loaf of bread were sitting, ignored. Picking up the pitcher, he sniffed it, found the water cleaner than any he'd had in days and drank deeply. He shoved a large piece of the bread into his mouth, chewed, then washed it down with more of the water.



And then he noticed the knife. It was blunt edged, not meant to cut anything. But he took it all the same, along with the rest of the bread, and he hopped across the room to his box, tossing both deep into the shadows inside.



He got back to his chair just as the men returned. One of them carried a large basin of water. The other had a stack of clothes in his hands, a razor and a bar of soap on top.



"Ahkmed says you are to wash up and shave. Then put on these clothes."



The basin was set in front of him. "Make good use of the water, Colonel. You'll get no more."



He nodded, glad they'd taken the bait. Without getting up, he peeled off his torn, bloody shirt. He took the bar of soap, which was the ugly brown-yellow hue of homemade stuff, hard as a rock and, he thought, probably strong enough to burn out his eyes. There was a washrag, too, and he made use of it. God, it felt good to wash some of the filth away.



The men stood back, guns at the ready, watching him. He cleaned the burns and cuts on his chest and arms, even though the soap felt like battery acid when it touched them. Lye soap, it had to be. Jesus.



"It is your face that needs cleaning, Stone. Get on with it."



Nodding, he cleansed all wounds he could reach on his back, fearing he'd missed more than he'd hit, and finally rinsed the cloth in the water and washed his face. Next, he leaned over the water basin, dipping his entire head into it and then scrubbing the soap over his wet hair, dipping it again to rinse. Finally he lifted the razor to his face, but paused when he glimpsed his reflection in the basin of water. The beard was coming in nicely. It would be excellent camouflage if he ever got out of here.



He set the razor down again. "I would like to keep the beard, if I may."



They looked at each other, then at him. "You are an American. You're not worthy to wear a beard. Take it off."



Sighing, he didn't see the value in arguing the point. He shaved the beard with the dull razor, scraping his face raw in the process.



"Now put on the clothes," one of the men ordered.



He braced his hands on the table to push himself up onto his feet, though he kept his weight on the good one. Then he balanced there as he managed to get his pants undone and off. The shorts went, too. He didn't have a single qualm about baring himself, because it meant being relatively clean for the first time in a month. He snatched up the soapy washrag and washed his lower body before they had time to object.



The water was filthy by now, and littered with whiskers floating in the soapscum. It was still valuable to him.



"The clothes, Colonel Stone!"



"Yeah, yeah." He managed to pick up the basin of dirty water and set it on the floor near his chair, as if he were moving it to make room for the clothes.



One of the men set the stack of clothes in the now-empty spot, in between splashes of water. Will cringed when he realized the clothes placed before him were the uniform of an American soldier. Regular Army, by the looks. Not green, but desert camo.



He pulled on the pants. No shorts had been provided. "Where did you get this?"



"Shut up and put it on."



Will shut up and put it on. But first he sat down in the chair, bent to quickly roll up the pant leg and lowered his wounded foot into the basin of water. There was enough of the lye soap floating in it to disinfect the open sores, and the water was ice-cold, so it couldn't hurt the swelling. As he sat, surreptitiously soaking his foot under the table, he pulled on the tank-style undershirt and the long-sleeved sand-colored outer shirt. He buttoned it up slowly, stalling for time, looking at the chest for any sign of the uniform's origins. All the patches and insignia had been torn away, leaving darker spots where they had been.



"I guess I'm ready." He pushed his hand through his wet hair, finger-combing it.



The two nodded, brought the newspaper to him.



He held it in his hands obediently as they took his photo with a Polaroid One-Step camera that seemed completely out of place here.



Then they examined the resulting photo while it developed, finally nodding in approval. One left the room, presumably to show the photo to Ahkmed, The Brainless One, while the other stayed to watch him. So far neither had noticed his aching foot, soaking in the water under the table, or, if they had, they didn't care.



Will's left foot throbbed constantly. It was an interesting mix of colors-purple, black and blue. A little green here and there around the edges of the purple. It was swollen to twice its size and shaped rather oddly.



One of their methods of questioning him had been to place the foot in a vise and tighten it each time they repeated the question.



It hadn't worked. He didn't take much credit for courage in the face of torture. Frankly, part of his motivation in keeping silent had been knowing he would be shot in the head the minute he gave them the information they wanted so badly. Part of it had been the knowledge that other men, some good friends of his among them, would die if he talked. But the rest had come from anger. They'd pissed him off. He would be damned before he helped their cause.



"Ahkmed says the photo is good," said the one who had left, as he came back into the room. "Come, back to your cell now."



Nodding, he took his feet out of the basin, rising on one leg, turning to begin the hobble back.



One of the men muttered to the other in their own language, "By the wings of Allah, the foot has worsened."



"Let it rot and fall off. He's an American."



The first looked more worried, though. Will deliberately stumbled, and the man with the microscopic trace of decency came beside him to help him to the metal box. Leaning close, Will whispered, "I will tell my people who was kind to me and who was cruel when they make the trade, so that when they come back here again, they'll know who to kill and who to spare."



The man glanced behind them nervously, but his comrade hadn't heard. He had remained several yards away. As he helped Will into the box that was his cell, the younger one said, "Take this." He handed Will the white sash that had been wrapped around his waist. "Use it to bandage your foot."



"Thank you."



The man nodded, quickly closing the metal door. Will braced his back against the door as the man pulled the chain as tight as he could and snapped the padlock through it. He waited until his captor had walked away to let off the pressure, then he turned and saw that the chain was lax. He could push the door open a couple of inches. And that, he thought, was all he needed.



That night, the illness that had been growing steadily worse seemed to hit its peak. He fought it as the fever heated his blood and his body shook with chills. He had to wait them out, stay awake until they all slept, hours from now.



But in the end, the fever took control. He fell into a fitful, painful sleep, and he was there again; in the forest near that Gypsy village, following the bright flashes of a woman's colored skirts as she ran through the dark woods.



It took him a moment to get oriented. But he finally realized where he was, what he was doing. It was a shock that his foot didn't throb when he stepped on it, until he remembered that this place wasn't real. He wasn't certain why he was following the woman through the forest, but he knew it was important. Somewhere deep inside, he ached to see her again.



The beauty finally stood still in a small copse of trees, looking around her, as if searching for someone. As if she knew he was coming.



But when he drew nearer, Will realized it was not Sarafina he'd been following but her sister, Katerina.



She had a stench about her that shocked him, but only until he saw the necklace of garlic cloves she wore. That explained the smell. He wasn't sure how to explain the fact that she wore it. What the hell was she doing in the forest, in the dead of night like this? Meeting Andre, he would bet, although the garlic was a baffling touch.



Then he remembered his last, pain-induced visit. There had been a murder. He'd been in and out, but he'd witnessed some of what had happened. He supposed his imagination was about to add a touch of Universal Monster Classics to the mix.



"Come out, show yourself!" she called suddenly. "I know you're near. I have something you want!"



He was startled at first, wondering if she were speaking to him.



"Come, I haven't much time. I'm supposed to be sitting vigil at the side of your latest victim."



So Sarafina's sister had not remained at the grave of Belinda as she had said she would. She had begged off with some excuse and instead had wandered into the forest. In search of Belinda's murderer?



Fingering a pouch at her side, she wandered a few more steps. "Creature! Vampire! Come, make yourself known. You've nothing to fear from me."



Will sensed something, some dark presence, behind her. He tried to shout a warning, but of course the woman couldn't hear him. A man emerged from the shadows-or at least, he looked like a man, a very large man who was exceedingly pale and moved without making a sound. He crept quietly up behind Katerina, leaned close and whispered in her ear, "I've nothing to fear from you? Do you want to be my next meal, Gypsy girl?"



She jumped at the first words he spoke, whirling to face him, one hand pressing to her chest.



"By the Gods, you reek of garlic," the vampire said, grimacing in a way that provided the merest glimpse of his elongated incisors. Then the grimace turned into a smile. "You're amusing to me. Garlic is indeed a powerful root. It can clear a room of negative energy, purify a human body, and banish demons and malicious spirits. That you expect it to keep you safe from me means that you equate me with those things. Poisons, impurity, demons. Is that what you think I am?"



She held up her little pouch, backing away a few steps. "Keep your distance, vampire!" she shouted, shaking the pouch at him like a weapon.



The vampire sniffed the air, then shook his head. "Wolf's bane? Well, that might work, were you dealing with a lycanthrope. But you are not."



"I called you here to talk. Only to talk."



"Then you are a fool. I don't talk to mortals, I feed on them. I am going to drain you dry in a moment, and there is not one thing you can do to prevent it."



Will saw the fear in her face, in her eyes, and he knew the man-the vampire, if that were what he was-saw it, too. He seemed pleased by it. But Katerina tried to hide it, lifted her chin and forced herself to speak. "I can give you Sarafina," she said.



"No!" Will shouted the word but who would hear?



The vampire went very still, frowning at her. She had his full attention now. "She is my sister," she said. "And I know she is the reason you follow our band and prey on us."



The vampire rolled his eyes, smiling. "You know nothing, mortal. I take only those who need killing. And I follow only to protect."



"To protect her?" she asked. "Nonsense, you want to kill her, as you did Belinda."



He said nothing, but he licked his lips, and his gaze returned to her throat.



"The others are beginning to question Sarafina's link to you now," Katerina said, speaking quickly, one hand pressing to her throat, as if it were a protective collar. "They've seen her behavior. She isn't well. Something...weakens her."



"It is always the way," the vampire whispered.



Will frowned. What on earth was that supposed to mean?



"What are you talking about?" Katerina asked, echoing Will's own thoughts.



"Nothing. Tell me, why would you hand your own sister over to a creature you believe would kill her?"



She shrugged. "That's none of your concern."



"I watch your tribe, Katerina," he said. And she gasped, surprised, perhaps, that he knew her name. "I know about you and the man-Andre. And I know your burning jealousy. It blackens your soul and clings to you like a foul stench, more powerful, even, than the garlic you thought would repel me."



She jerked backward as if he had struck her a blow, but she caught herself quickly. ' 'Do you want her or not?"



"I want her," he said. "But I want her alive and unharmed."



She nodded. "There is a cave, that way, with a tiny stream at the far back. Do you know it?"



God, not another cave, Will thought. He'd had his fill of them.



The vampire nodded. "I know it."



"She will be there waiting for you tomorrow night. Midnight." Katerina started to turn away.



The vampire stopped her, a massive, pale hand clasping her arm.



She went stiff. "If you kill me, you won't have her. Your chance will be gone."



"I'll have her either way," he said. "On my terms, and in my time. So tell me now, how will you do it?"



She blinked in fear. "Nothing harmful, I promise you. Only a sleeping powder. I'll put it into her evening meal tomorrow. By midnight its effects will begin to wear off. She will be awake and alert for you to use as you wish."



He released her quickly and wiped his hand on his trousers. "You are a poor excuse for a sister, Katerina. I will likely kill you after this is done, despite the fact that I imagine your blood will taste bitter as bile."



"I shall not be an easy target, vampire," she told him.



"No doubt your garlic and wolfs bane will be a challenge for me. Go on. Go back to your pathetic band before I decide to do mortal man a favor by killing you now."



Something, some urgent sense, told Will he had to withdraw from this place in the depths of his mind. But he didn't want to obey. He had to see this through. He found himself following Katerina as she hurried back through the forest. Eventually she slowed her pace, and he soon saw why.



The old woman sat there still, her head bowed low, as she rocked slightly beside the still, waxen body of her daughter.



The words of the vampire floated through Will's mind again. "I take only those who need killing."



What had the young Belinda done that made her "need killing," according to that creature's twisted logic?



Katerina stepped quietly out of the trees and settled herself on the ground. The other woman gave no sign of even noticing that she had been gone.



Will drew his focus away from them. Where was Sarafina? He had to find her, to warn her-somehow.



He looked around him but couldn't tell which way to go. Finally he simply put her image in his mind, thought of her face, her eyes, the sound of her laughter, which had kept him alive for weeks now. Through torture, starvation, the very darkest nights of his soul, she had been there. He had always been able to find her. Surely he could find her now.



He thought of her, saw clearly her face, her eyes... and suddenly he was there. Instantly, magically, he was standing inside her wagon tent, looking down at her as she slept.



Beautiful. He wanted so badly to touch her. Trembling, he reached out his hand to stroke her hair, but his hand wasn't solid. Or maybe she was the one who was made of something unreal. But whatever the reason, his hand moved through her. He couldn't touch her. He tried to speak to her, both aloud and with his mind, but neither method stirred any reaction in the sleeping woman.



God, he was tired. More tired than he could remember ever being. And cold, shivering with cold. He knew he should go, that something urgent was awaiting him back in the real world. But he couldn't bring himself to leave her, not when she was in danger this way. He had to stay with her. He had to warn her that her sister was going to drug her food and hand her over to that monster in the forest.



Gently, Will lay down beside her on the sleeping pallet. It didn't move in response to his weight. The blanket didn't move. He lay so close to her that parts of his body melded with parts of hers, but he couldn't feel her. He moved closer, until his body occupied the same space hers did. He was inside her and around her at once.



In her mind, dreams spun. She dreamed of staring into her crystal ball and seeing...him.



She was staring into his eyes and he into hers.



"I'm here," he whispered to her, putting all the force he could behind the words. "Don't trust your sister. Don't trust her. She'll betray you. Listen to me. Hear me, Sarafina."



Sighing, the beautiful woman let his image fade and sank more deeply into sleep. But as soon as she fell into slumber, she saw him again. Inside her mind, inside her dreams.



He was lying beside her in her humble bed of straw-stuffed cloth. She met his eyes there, and she smiled. "I knew you would come."



"I've been with you here the whole time." He whispered the words, never imagining she would hear, but she did.



"I know," she said. "I felt you with me."



"You mustn't trust your sister," he told her. "She's plotting against you."



She shook her head slowly. "She is jealous and cruel. But she is my sister. She wouldn't do me any harm."



"I think she would."



The pain that trembled through her was almost unbearable-he felt it. But she pushed it away and said instead, "Kiss me, spirit."



So he did. He kissed her, and her dream blossomed and grew. His voice no longer mattered. His warnings were forgotten as he let himself surrender to the dream-her dream or his, he was no longer certain. It no longer mattered.



He touched her freely, intimately. He explored her body, every scent and taste and sound she made was so real-and the answering sensations in him were real, too. Physical and visceral, and yet tender and deep. He made love to her there in her vardo, and she clung to him and told him he was her secret love- the only one she knew for certain would never leave her.



And then, holding him in her warm embrace, she sank into sleep. Almost against his will, he sank into her, and he slept, too.