Prince of Time

Then the thrashing grew more violent, racking him with frightening spasms that looked as if they would tear muscles and tendons.

“What should I do?” she begged.

Agony contorted his features. The spasms came hard and fast, one barely ending before the next one began.

His body wrenched, lifting him momentarily off the floor. He screamed, and his heels drummed. It was getting worse. Cassie sensed that whatever was wrong was going to kill him in a matter of minutes.

Swiftly making a decision, she pulled the seal off the bottle he’d been holding. Prying his jaw open with one hand, she tipped the vial to his lips with the other.

With agonizing slowness, the liquid dribbled into his mouth. He grimaced.

“Swallow it. Please swallow it.” She waited tensely, all her senses tuned toward Thorn. Finally, he did.

“Thank you,” she breathed. Now she could only wait and watch for some sign that she’d done the right thing.

His body still shook with spasms. Aching to do something more to help him—anything—she pressed her torso against his and held his arms at his sides, trying to make sure that he didn’t hurt himself. Although he was the patient and she the care giver, the physical contact was strangely comforting. Groping for his hands, she laced her fingers with his, and lay with her eyes closed, willing the viscous liquid to do its work.

She didn’t know him, nor could she fathom what he was doing in this strange place. She couldn’t even hold a meaningful conversation with him, for heaven’s sake. But she felt that some kind of inexplicable bond had formed between them. At least that was the only way she could explain the terror that had overwhelmed her when he’d fallen to the floor.

By slow degrees she realized that the spasms were quieting, and the beat of his heart was growing stronger and more regular. For several more heartbeats, she kept her cheek pressed against his powerful chest. Then she raised her head. The agony on his face was only a shadow of remembered pain.

Cassie hovered over him, one of his large hands still clenched in hers. Finally he sighed and lay quiet like a swimmer who had finally pulled himself onto shore after a long, exhausting race.

“Thank God,” she murmured.

His lids fluttered. His lips moved. And she sensed that he was making a tremendous effort to struggle toward consciousness. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched his face. His lids opened, and those startling blue eyes focused on her. Almost immediately, they registered surprise, then the same vulnerability she’d seen when he first came out of the transparent chamber.

“You’re going to be fine,” she told him, hoping her voice conveyed her meaning.

He tried to say something.

“No. You’re too weak. Just sleep,” she murmured. “We’ll talk later.”

Somehow.

His lids drifted closed. After a few moments, he appeared to sink into a normal sleep. She found blankets of some synthetic material in the supply cabinet and made him a bed.

Then, with an unsettled feeling, she looked down at him. What was it about this stranger that brought out such tender feelings? Usually she kept men at a distance. She’d learned not to get involved because she knew that the minute you let someone get close, you gave them the power to hurt you.

This was only a response to a fellow human being in need, she told herself. But she didn’t really believe that. And the admission was frightening.

Silently, she backed away from Thorn. Now that the emergency was over, she’d better find a way out of this place. Behind the capsule where he’d first been standing were the computers she’d seen when she’d first entered the facility. She squinted at the equipment. The design was sleek and streamlined, obviously highly advanced models, but she’d used a variety of computers—both at the State Department and at the travel agency. Perhaps she could boot one of these. If it was connected to a modem, escape from this place could be as simple as a phone call.

Sitting down in a gray contour chair, she stared at the machine. There was a flat, glassy-looking screen embedded in a raised panel, but no keyboard. Was the system voice activated?

“Computer,” she called out the way the crew did on the starship Enterprise.

Nothing happened, and she felt ridiculous. Maybe the keyboard would light up if she touched the desk.

The moment her hand connected with the machine, a bolt of electricity shot from the surface. It crackled over her skin and zinged like a burst of lightning through her whole body, making her gasp in pain.

Slumping in the chair, she cradled her hand against her chest. After several moments, she was left feeling weak and shaky. Holding out her hand, she stared from her reddened flesh to the desk and back again. So much for communicating with the outside world. She wasn’t going to risk a shock like that again.

The hair on the top of her head prickled as if a secret door had opened to the underworld, and a cold breeze was blowing toward her. Until now, she’d thought of this installation as odd. Strange. A mystery as intriguing as its naked occupant. But the situation had taken another twist. She’d just learned that this hidden place was dangerous as well as strange. And perhaps deadly.

* * *

HALFWAY AROUND the world, Zeke Chambers leaned back in his rickety chair and finished the last of the strong, sweet coffee. His gray eyes scanned the view of unspoiled mountains against a crystal blue sky. The peaceful scene was deceiving. Yesterday at sunset, a small homemade bomb had ripped through the entrance to the cave his international team was excavating, turning the orderly dig site into chaos. Luckily, no one had died, and the structural damage was minimal. But two workers had been sent to the local physician, and the team’s schedule was set back several days until the debris could be cleared.

Like the rest of his colleagues, Zeke had a tent at the site. But last night he’d slept in a real—if somewhat lumpy—bed in the village inn and treated himself to a hot shower. From his table at an outdoor café, he could see men and women making their way with carts and baskets to the market down the street where horse-drawn wagons full of vegetables and wares competed with small European cars for the parking spots along the main street. Had one of the innocent-looking villagers been responsible for the bombing? And why?

Zeke sighed. When Victor Kirkland at the State Department had helped him get this “plum assignment,” the man had neglected to mention it might also be dangerous.

“Zesto café?” a young waitress interrupted his thoughts.

“No, I’m fine,” he answered in her language.

Zeke popped a last bite of nut-and-cinnamon pastry into his mouth and wiped his sticky fingers on a cloth napkin before turning back to his laptop computer.

He could afford his own top-of-the-line equipment. In fact, the trust fund he’d come into three years ago when he’d turned thirty provided enough income for him to take any job he wanted—or not work at all if he chose. After an extended sabbatical last year, he’d found he was as happy backpacking through Europe as teaching anthropological linguistics at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore.

With the hunt-and-peck style he’d developed to accommodate the dozens of foreign-language keyboards and word-processing programs he had to use, Zeke keyed in a few more lines to his log entry from the day before.

“Explosion at cave site under investigation. Could be local protestors who think we’re going to cart off their national treasures. Or grave robbers trying to beat us to the punch. Should resume work by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good morning, Professor Chambers. May I join you?” a deferential voice inquired.

Zeke glanced up to see Dr. Feydor Lenov standing beside the table. The bearded Russian archeologist, a late addition to the team, had flown in several days before.

“Have a seat.” Zeke saved his file, then popped the black disk from the laptop onto the tablecloth.

The Russian heaved his considerable bulk into a chair, and Zeke waited to see if it would take his weight. It did. He’d heard the man had been a competitive weight lifter in his youth.

After ordering coffee, Lenov leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Heard anything more about the bombing?”

“Not much, except we can get back to work tomorrow.”

“Well, I should hope so. I didn’t come here to twiddle my thumbs. Montague will be hopping mad about the delay.”

Zeke raised an eyebrow. “You’ve met our sponsor?”

“Once, several years ago at an exhibit in Paris, we exchanged a few words. He likes antiquities better than people.” Lenov’s accent sounded midwestern.

Zeke wondered if he’d learned his English in the States or in a KGB training class. “Looking for something particular at the site?”

The Russian’s answer was drowned out by the sound of an altercation at a neighboring table. Scraping his chair on the stone floor, he moved closer to Zeke and away from the ruckus.

The men who’d been arguing suddenly began trading punches. A table overturned, and customers scattered like frightened mice. Zeke grabbed his computer and jumped out of the way. For a large man, Lenov moved just as fast, dodging as one of the combatants fell across their table. With an angry look, the fighter pulled himself up. But his assailant had hightailed it down the street. Shouting insults, the injured party followed.