Tracking the Tempest
Page 48

Maybe a nahual trying to scare him? And then my brain hit on the obvious. Or a goblin halfling…
“He was even worse than the woman and her pet psycho.”
“Well,” I said soothingly, for Con was getting agitated. And his agitation took the form of tiny fireballs that flew out of him, landing willy-nilly around the room. I swiftly pulled a bit of water out of the air to dampen one that had landed on my jeans. I figured he was talking about people he'd killed while he was escaping, so I said, “You took care of them, right, when you escaped?”
Con looked at me darkly. “No. The woman wasn't there that day and neither was the healer. He was there a lot to begin with, but I think he got promoted.” Con's voice grew even colder to match his eyes. “He was good at his job, after all. Really into pain. He did things…” Conleth fell silent again, and I knew this silence wasn't to be broken.
“He did bad things,” I said, trying to let him off the hook and let him know he didn't have to continue if he didn't want to.
But that's not how Con took it. He looked up sharply, his power flaring in a white-hot burst of flame.
“What the fuck do you know about it, Jane?”
I blinked, confused by his sudden anger. My kidnapper and I had been getting along so well up till then.
“Your life has been a fucking cake walk. What do you know about pain? About humiliation?” Conleth stood up, advancing on me.
“Con, I didn't mean—”
“No, fuck you, Jane. You had a boyfriend die. Your loving mother left you with your loving father. So you did some time in a real hospital, watched over by your family and friends. What the fuck do you know about suffering?” Conleth's voice was steadily rising, as was the heat pulsing off of him.
“You're right,” I said soothingly. “I'm sorry—”
“The shit they did to me toward the end, Jane…” His voice broke and his fire died, revealing shoulders slumped in an agony of recollection. But it was only a momentary lapse, and soon enough his fire sprang back to life and he advanced on me another step.
“I thought we could be friends, Jane, but maybe you can't understand me. Maybe you're just like everyone else. What the fuck do you know?” he repeated, reaching out a flaming hand toward me.
I flinched backward, throwing up a strong shield and pulling some water out of the ocean-laden air that doused his fire as his hand penetrated my hastily erected barrier. I didn't want to piss him off by not letting him touch me, but I also didn't want my cheek barbecued.
“You're right. I'm sorry!” I cried, letting the tears I'd been holding back fall free. “I'm sorry! I can't understand. I have been lucky. But I want to try, Conleth. I want to get to know you.”
His hand gripped my jaw as he searched my eyes, trying to discern whether or not I was lying. Which I was, by the way—like a fucking rug. There had been a minute, early on, when I wondered if I wouldn't be able to get through to him, maybe coax him in to get the help he needed. And to see some justice done.
Now I realized that was a total pipe dream. Yes, he was a victim. But Con was too much of a loose cannon for me to handle. I needed to get the fuck out of Dodge, not attempt to play counselor.
But I didn't let my eyes say any of those things. I just made my already big, black eyes look extra baby seal. He seemed to like what he saw, for he nodded, finally, and took a step back, trying to regain his self-control. What there was of it.
“I'm sorry, Con. Really, I'm so sorry. You're right. I don't know you yet, but give me a chance.”
“You should be sorry.”
“I am, Con. I am. So sorry.”
“What happened to me…” His voice trailed off, as did his power, leaving only sadness in its wake.
“What happened to you was monstrous, Conleth. What you had to endure is beyond horrible.”
Con hung his head, then sat down heavily at my feet. He laid his cheek against my knee. His back shook and, after a stunned moment, I realized he was crying.
“I hoped you'd understand,” he snuffled. “I thought, when I read your writing, that you could know me. Really know me.”
I made soothing noises, all the time using the cover of my still-erect shields to start poking at the knots at my wrists. Con might be a computer whiz, but he obviously had never done any sailing. I was pretty sure he'd tied me up with a bow, double knotted.
“You know what I find most ridiculous, Jane? The word ‘halfling.' I couldn't believe when that woman told me we were called ‘halflings.’” Con snorted after he'd gotten his tears under control. “As if we're ‘half' of anything.” He rubbed his cheek against the outer thigh of my jeans, and I could feel his heat through the material. I pushed harder at the knot, doing my best to maintain both shields and my probing knitting needle of power, despite the fact that Con had shifted around to kneel in front of me and was making very free with the leg touching.
“Tell me about it,” I improvised. “I'm so tired of having to deal with the purebreds. And the humans.”
Luckily, Conleth stopped staring at my crotch to grin at me.
“I knew it! I knew you didn't mean that stuff you'd written to that investigator. I knew you were just telling him those things so he wouldn't understand how much you really hated him.”
“Erm, yes. Obviously. Totally lied to him,” I agreed, as I probed more desperately at my bindings. I'd have to advise Anyan that double-knotted bows were bizarrely effective as trussing mechanisms.
“That's great, Jane. Great. I'm so glad to hear you say it.”
Con was beaming at me, so I beamed back at him as I changed tactics, trying to remember what I did when I untied my beloved green Converse. I began plucking at my bindings with my power, trying to get the right angle.
“There were a few times I thought you really did love him,” he admitted, as he leaned toward me. Visualizing my power as my favorite kitchen tongs, I had a good grip on the rope at my wrists and I pulled sharply. My bindings slackened and fell, my shields absorbing and camouflaging the surge of power I'd expended. I clasped my hands behind my back to keep from revealing my newfound freedom.
“But I knew you couldn't really be into somebody flashy, like him. I mean, you two have nothing in common…”
I let Con babble at me as I flexed my wrists, trying to get some feeling back into my arms. I had an idea, but I didn't know if it would work or not. And if it did work, it'd probably use up the majority of my stored energy.
I was, however, running out of options. A point driven home by Con's face slowly descending toward mine. He kissed me, his lips wet and surprisingly cold. He moaned in ecstasy, and I only barely controlled my overpowering urge to jerk away from him. When his hands went to my breasts and he started murmuring my name again, I knew that all other options had left the building. I had to act.
I braced myself and started kissing him back, hard. He had to believe that I wanted him, and I needed to distract him so I could gain some leverage. I stood up, but he was so busy with my mouth that all he did was grunt when he felt me stand. Before he could open his eyes, I flicked my tongue over his lips, making him whimper. At the same time, I pulled back with both my fist and with my own elemental force.
I totally hit like a girl, so the punch I threw at Conleth's jaw was hardly impressive. But what was impressive was the burst of energy I channeled through my arm and out of my knuckles. The effect was admirable.
Was it a good long-term strategy to blow my magical wad in one go? Probably not. But as I slid down to plop bonelessly into the chair Con had tied me to, the ifrit halfling was still flying through the air. That was totally worth it. As was the sound of him smashing against the wall. And the feeling I got when I realized he wasn't getting back up?
Priceless.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
My legs were still rubbery, and my need for the ocean was overwhelming. I felt like a tube of toothpaste that had been squeezed dry. Check that: I felt like a dry tube of toothpaste that was trying to run on spaghetti legs.
I had tottered through a series of small rooms into an enormous warehouse. It was full of huge shipping containers, all rusted and empty. They were lying around, higgledy-piggledy, some stacked two or three containers high, making a veritable labyrinth of the large space. I could also feel the ocean directly underneath me. My sluggish brain put together the clues and decided I was in some kind of dockyard.
Having the ocean so close and not be able to reach her was torturous. If the windows weren't ten feet off the ground, I would have just crawled out of one and swum to safety. And if I hadn't been so drained, I would have attempted to blast a hole in the floor. Unfortunately, the only option I had left was my rather unsteady little feet.
I had no idea where I was or where I was going. I hoped I was moving forward; that I wouldn't trap myself; that Con wasn't following. But there was nothing I could do to guarantee any of those things except to keep my numb legs pumping, which went against every instinct I had. My entire being was telling me to find a hole and crawl in it, mostly because I recognized this scene I was currently enacting. Countless novels and untold movies had drilled into me what happens when defenseless women ran through dark, creepy places. None of them were good. Meanwhile, the containers offered enemies a thousand places to hide: hands could erupt from dark corners to grab me or spring out from underneath containers to trip me. What I wanted to do was buck the trend by finding somewhere relatively out of the way and lie down until I heard the credit music rolling.