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to show how tentative I was. How confused and scared.

"Jo?" He sounded grim. "Whoever took you... did they--ah, dammit. I'm just going to ask it, all right? Were you raped?"

Had I been? The word made me feel sick and dizzy, and I had no idea how to reply. I didn't remember my clothes coming off. I must have fought, right? I must have tried to get away. I wouldn't have just ended up out here, naked and dying in the cold, without some kind of a reason.

Abducted and raped and left for dead. I tried it on as an explanation for the panic I felt inside.

He was waiting for an answer. I didn't look up at him. "I don't--I don't know." My voice sounded shockingly cracked and small. "I can't remember," I whispered. "Can't remember anything." Tears suddenly boiled up hot in my eyes, and I couldn't get words out past the constriction in my throat. The panic hammering in my chest.

Abducted and raped and left for dead.

I felt so cold. If I kept shaking like this, pieces were going to start flying off.

"You're in shock," he said. "Look, I'm going to touch you, all right? We need to get these cuts closed up, and this frostbite taken care of, and I can tell if there's... anything else wrong. Just--hold on. Don't fight me." He reached out, very carefully.

I flinched. I couldn't help it. I got hold of myself, somehow, and held still as his hands closed around both of mine. He moved to get on one knee in front of me.

"I have to--I have to get closer," he said. "I need you to lie down." Lie down. Lie down on this freezing ground.

Lie down, at his mercy.

Not easy, not at all. I kept telling myself that if he could heal me--however he was doing it--then I should let him. I needed to be healthy. I needed to be able to run.

I slowly let myself sink back, holding his hands, until I was flat on my back. The coat didn't go very far down. The backs of my thighs felt instantly ice-cold, in contact with the damp leaves, and although the fire was casting some warmth, I could barely feel it. My shaking was getting worse, not better.

"Easy," he murmured, as if I were some wild thing he was out to tame. "Try to relax."

Yeah, sure. Relax. I couldn't watch what he was doing, and the darkness behind my eyelids was too frightening, too much of a reminder of everything I'd already lost. I looked up instead, at the clouds, and saw a ghost-image of a vast wind flowing like a river, separated into layers. Every little eddy and swirl was suddenly visible to me. I stared, puzzled, entranced, and then gasped as I felt Lewis start in on me.

It hurt. Live-wire-on-the-tongue kind of hurt, every nerve in my body sensitizing and responding and burning, and I made a moan of protest and tried to yank free, but he held on, leaning closer, on his knees in front of me with his head bent. It looked like prayer. It felt like torture.

Oh God... he was inside me. Not in a sexual way, although there was something in it that resonated along those nerves, inside those aching spaces; no, this was more invasive than that. I could feel him moving through every part of me, climbing the ladders of my nerve endings, searching...

Out. Get out! I was aware that I was panting, groaning, and trying to pull my hands free of his. Let GO! I was writhing on the ground, squirming, trying to suppress the terrible feelings welling up in me.

LET GO!

I got my wish, with a vengeance, as a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and threw Lewis across the clearing to smash against a tree trunk. Lewis yelled and flopped, rolled over and came to his hands and knees, then slammed face down into the leaves before getting up again, more slowly. His face was dirty-gray with shock and rage.

"You asshole," Lewis said shakily. "I was trying to help her."

I looked up at my rescuer.

For a moment, my mind just didn't want to acknowledge what it was seeing, because... he wasn't human. Not at all. No man had skin like that, like living metal--flickering copper and bronze, cooling into something that was more like flesh, but still too burnished for anything outside of a special effect. His hair was longish, like Lewis's, a barely subdued blazing auburn, and although he was dressed like a regular guy, in blue jeans and a checked shirt, I had no sense of him being anything like... me. Like Lewis. Like anyone human.

His eyes were illuminated. Backlit, the way a cat's can be in beamed light. A rich, scary color like melting pennies.

He was staring straight down at me, riveted.

Expressionless. Lewis spat blood, and climbed painfully to his feet. "Make up your mind, David. Do you want her to freeze to death? Or can I get back to healing her?"

David--should I know the name? Or was he a complete stranger? I couldn't tell, because he had absolutely no clues in his expression, in those crazy inhuman eyes, or in the tense, still set of his body.

Lewis must have taken his silence for assent, because he was coming back. He elbowed David aside and reached for my hands again. I yanked them free.

"No!"

"Don't be stupid. You've got frostbite. I'm restoring circulation." Lewis made a frustrated sound and grabbed my wrists, hard, when I tried to pull away again. "Dammit, quit fighting me!"

"Let her go," David said, very quietly. "She doesn't know you."

"What?"

"I can't see her," he said. "She's not on the aetheric."

Lewis frowned at him and rocked back on his heels. "That's impossible."

"Look."

Lewis turned the frown toward me, and his eyes unfocused. For a long few seconds, nothing happened, and then a very odd expression overtook his irritation, smoothed it out, and made it into a blank mask. "Oh, shit," he breathed. "What the hell--?"

"I can't see her past," David said. "Someone's taken it from her."

About the Author

Rachel Caine is the author of more than fifteen novels, including the Weather Warden series. She was born at White Sands Missile Range, which people who know her say explains a lot. She has been an accountant, a professional musician, and an insurance investigator, and still carries on a secret identity in the corporate world. She and her husband, fantasy artist R. Cat Conrad, live in Texas with their iguanas, Popeye and Darwin, a mali uromastyx named (appropriately) O'Malley, and a leopard tortoise named Shelley (for the poet, of course). Visit her Web site at www.rachelcaine.com.