A Candle in the Dark (22 page)

They were at the edge of the village now, and suddenly Ana stopped. Castañeras was there, waiting beside a tree. At his feet were a huge coil of rope and a clay jug. Cain frowned. Where were their supplies? The mules? Where the hell was his flask?

“
Buenos Mas, amigo
.” Castañeras stood there, obscenely cheerful. “
Como estas
?”

“I feel like hell,” Cain croaked.

“You look like hell.”

“Are we waitin’ for something?”

The quick look Ana threw Jiméne made him nervous. “No,” she said softly.

There was something strange about all this, but Cain couldn’t put his finger on it. Hell, couldn’t put his finger on anything, the world was twisting so much before his eyes. “Where’s m’flask?”

“Ana has it.” Castañeras reassured him, holding out his hand. “Do you need my help,
amigo
?”

“No. No.” Cain shook his head, sending blinding, painful flashes of light through his skull. Unsteadily he pushed his hand through his hair and pressed on his temples, trying to ease the pain. “Let’s go.”

“Would you like breakfast first?”

Cain’s stomach lurched. “You must be joking.”

Jiméne smiled. “
Sí
.”

No one moved. Trepidation trickled up Cain’s spine. “Aren’t there—aren’t there supposed to be mules?”

Ana swallowed, avoiding his gaze, and looked pleadingly at Jiméne.

Cain’s wariness increased. He glanced at Jiméne. “What’s going on?”

Jiméne motioned limply to the tree. “If you will just sit down—”

“Hell, no, I won’t sit down. What’s going on?” He glared at Ana.

This time she looked at him calmly. “Sit down, Cain.”

It was the
Cain
that did it. He couldn’t remember her ever using his name before—at least not with such gentle deliberateness. It took the muscle away from him, turned his bones to liquid. Something serious was happening here, something that filled him with dread. He sank down onto the ground, leaning against the tree, and took a deep breath, waiting for their explanations, watching while Castañeras grabbed the coil of rope resting on the ground.

“You understand,” Jiméne began, “we do not have a choice in this.” He walked behind the tree, and Cain twisted around to see.

Ana knelt in front of him. He turned to look at her, the lump in his stomach growing when he realized she wasn’t going to say a word. She simply sat there, her hands convulsively tightening on her heavy wool skirt, her eyes downcast as if she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. He was so busy trying to figure her out that he barely noticed when the rope dropped into his lap.

It wasn’t until it tightened across his chest that he began to struggle.

“Christ! What the hell are you doing?” He looked up at Ana in disbelief. She looked anywhere but at him, and Cain felt a tightening in his chest, a strange terror that made him still. “What is it, Ana?” he asked quietly. “What’s going on here?”

“We have had too much of your drinking,” Jiméne answered quickly. “This is the only way we could think of to end it.”

“To end it?” Cain tried to concentrate, but the words were too unbelievable. He stared at Ana. “Is this true, Ana?” Then, when she looked again at her knotted hands. “Damn it, is it true?”

His anger seemed to affect her. She looked up, and Cain’s heart sank when he saw the cold mask of her face, the emptiness in her eyes. “I’m sorry, D’Alessandro,” she said slowly. “Believe me, I
am
sorry.”

But he didn’t believe anything anymore, not her words or the regret he thought he heard in them. She thought she was sorry now—she would be sorrier when he was sober—when she learned what he had known for years. There was nothing redeemable in his character, nothing worth saving. This was all such a waste of time.

And again, he would be the one to suffer for it.

He shook so hard he couldn’t see, so hard the sweat running from his temples dashed over his cheeks and into his mouth, leaving him with a greater thirst than before—a great, yawning thirst that threatened to suck him dry. But he couldn’t drink. He’d tried the water in the clay pot next to him, and it only made him sick. Christ, the very thought of it sent his stomach spinning. He needed a
drink
, dammit. Something. Anything.

Cain swallowed and glanced at Ana. She stood a short distance away, her back to him, staring back at town. She wouldn’t get anything for him; he knew she wouldn’t because he’d already tried. Need boiled up inside of him so strongly he thought he might die if he didn’t have a sip—just a sip. Just enough to settle his stomach and his vision. Just enough to make this terrible shaking go away.

“Duchess,” he croaked. She didn’t turn around. He tried to swallow the hard lump in his throat, then tried again. “Ana—”

“It’s for your own good,” she said softly, without looking at him.

Cain licked his lips. They felt dry and swollen. “Ana, I swear to you—anything y’want. Anything. I’ll—” He struggled, trying to control the growing fog in his mind. “I’ll pay you—”

“With what?” she asked. “You don’t have any money.”

“I’ll find some.”

Silence. Cain clenched his fists, struggling once again against the ropes looped around his wrists, wishing he could stand long enough to try the ones at his ankles. Dizzily he wondered where Jiméne had learned to tie knots. The man had him leashed out like an animal. He could move about five feet from the tree in only one direction—if he found the strength to move at all.

He yanked against the bindings. They didn’t budge and the effort only made him sweat more. He shook so badly he couldn’t think. Desperately he looked again at Ana. “Tell me what y’want—anything y’want.” He lowered his voice cajolingly. “Please, Ana. God, please.”

“I don’t want anything.” She turned, staring at him with the most emotionless eyes he’d ever seen. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest.

“Please—” Inspiration flashed through him. The burning thirst was so overwhelming he didn’t care what he had to do to make it go away. “I’ll give y’what you want. I’ll leave. Y’can have the tickets.” She hesitated, and sensing victory, he pressed on. “The tickets, the money, everything. Y’can go on, forget about me.” Desperation was so sharp in his mouth he could taste it. “Please. Please.”

“No.” She shook her head slightly. “It’s better this way.”

“For who?” His temper broke, frustration made his voice sharp. “Goddammit, who asked you to help? Who told you I
wanted
it better?”

“Cain—”

“Get me a fucking drink!”

“No!” She stepped toward him, her own eyes flashing. “No.”

Cain wrenched against the ropes. The rough hemp cut into his skin, but he barely felt it. Sweat coursed down his cheeks, he was so tense with frustration he wanted to cry, the gnawing ache inside him was unbearable. Damn her.
Damn her damn her damn her
. He struggled to contain his anger. “All right, Duchess,” he said slowly, every word bitten off. “Get me a drink before I tell everyone in this goddamned city just what you are—a murdering whore.”

“You want a drink?” She stepped forward, barely beyond his reach, and dipped the ladle into the clay pot. “Here’s a drink.” She shoved it at him, into his chest. Cain lashed out. His fingers curled around her wrist. The ladle fell, drenching him with water.

“That’s not what I want and y’know it.” He tried to yank her closer, but he was too weak. Without effort, she pulled away.

“Sobriety would do you good,” she said shortly, in that cold, emotionless voice he hated.

He hated it more now than he ever had. “Who made you God?” he sneered.

“Today, Jiméne did,” she retorted sharply.

“Where the hell is that bastard?”

“Back at the hotel—away from your foul mouth and your nasty temper. I wish I was with him.”

“I’ll bet y’do.” He glared at her. Pure fury flooded him—fury at everything—her, Jiméne, his own weakness—coursed through him. “Why don’t y’just go to him, Duchess? You’ve been hot after him for weeks, anyway—”

“Don’t,” she said, and the cracking in her icy voice surprised him so much he quieted. “Don’t make me—don’t.”

“Then get me a drink.”

She shook her head.

Cain squeezed his eyes shut. The fog spread in his brain, his teeth chattered. His throat seemed to have closed up on him. The need swelled again inside of him, taking over, becoming him. He was burning, shaking…
Please God, don’t let this be happening to me
, he begged silently.
Please
… But when he stopped praying he was still there, tied to a tree and humiliatingly sick and afraid.

“Please, Ana.” He spoke in a whisper that took all the strength he had. “Please, just one drink.”

“I’m sorry.” She touched him then, suddenly, softly, her fingers warm against his cheek, but not warm enough to erase the all-encompassing need.

“Please, you—don’t know.” He begged helplessly now, unable to stop, wanting to cry with frustration and fear. It felt as if his insides were twisting up, ready to erupt through his skin… “I need it. I need it, please…”

Then her hand was gone, and when he opened his eyes again, so was she.

He was dying. Cain stared blankly into the night, seeing the huddled figures of Ana and Jiméne a short distance beyond. They had wanted to kill him from the beginning, he knew that now. Why hadn’t he seen it?

Why hadn’t he realized that all the time they were plotting against him, waiting for the right moment?

Christ, he was thirsty. And hot. He pulled again at his shirt, trying to open it, forgetting that he’d long since unfastened it completely. He could no longer feel the breeze against his skin. Couldn’t feel anything except for heat and thirst. Couldn’t even feel the shaking, though he knew he was shaking because earlier he’d seen his hands in the dim twilight.

Why the hell were they trying to kill him? What had he done? What couldn’t he remember?

He couldn’t sleep because of the shaking. Or was it because his eyes wouldn’t close? His eyes were swollen open, everything was swollen. He thought maybe he could close them if he reached up and flipped them down. But he couldn’t lift his hand. It was too heavy, and besides, he was trembling so much he would probably put out his eye—

“Rafael.”

He started, jerking upright and staring wildly into the darkness. The voice was inhuman, eerie, hauntingly familiar. It echoed through the night, seemed to become part of the trees.

“
Rafael
.”

The shadow at the edge of his vision moved, and Cain was struck with such cold terror his shaking stopped. No. No, it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t
let
it be. Desperately he tried to raise his hand, to stop it, but the shadow kept moving, not pausing, closer and closer and closer.

“Rafael.”

“Don’t call me that.” Cain’s breath came harsh and fast. He couldn’t get enough air. “Father, don’t call me that.” He wanted to scream
Go away
! wanted to run, to escape, to hide, but the ropes cut into his skin, holding him fast, keeping him prisoner. Desperately he yanked away, tried to stand and run. The loop around his ankle caught, and he fell, slamming face-first into the ground.

Frantically he got to his knees, spitting dirt. The shadow came closer. A hand reached from the folds of the dark cloak. Long fingers, one crowned with a large gold signet ring, reached for his. Cain tried to crawl away. The ropes stretched taut, his fingers clawed uselessly.

Wild terror made him almost sick. He cringed, unable to move, too afraid to stay. “No.” He finally squeezed out a sound. A gutless whimper, like that of a child. “No, please go away. Don’t punish me. I’ll be good. I—I promise I’ll be good. I’ll pray. Please—I’ll pray.”

“Come with me, Rafael.”

Cain collapsed. Tears started at the corners of his eyes, and he fought them back. Weakness. Christ, not weakness. Not now. The tears coursed down his cheeks. Fear clenched his stomach. “Go away.” Damn them. Damn them for tying him here, for making him a prisoner. Damn them—

“Crying, my son?” The hood of the cloak fell back. Bones shimmered in the moonlight. Bones half covered by peeling, rotting flesh, with hollow sockets for eyes. But it wasn’t his father. Not anymore. The skeleton pitched forward with an unbalanced, one-legged gait…

His scream of horror caught in his throat. He couldn’t move, was paralyzed with dread and terror. He cowered against the tree, whimpering like a frightened animal.

“Do I frighten you, Cain?” John Matson’s rotting face cracked in a wretched, hideous grin. He laughed, and flesh fell away in sickening patches. “Afraid of hell? You cannot escape it, my friend.” Long fingers reached for him. Closer. Closer. “You cannot escape me—”

The fingers touched his shoulder, and Cain exploded.

“Ana!” His scream tore through the night, startling the animals into silence. Ana snapped awake, looking around wildly, throwing off the blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders. Beside her, Jiméne jumped to his feet, sputtering in Spanish.

Hastily she lit the lamp. The area glowed with dim light, enough to see D’Alessandro struggling against his ropes, convulsing against the tree.

“My God.” She turned to Jiméne, fear coiling in her stomach. “Is this… normal?”

He nodded, settling back down, wrapping himself back in his own blanket. “
Sí
. There is nothing we can do.”

Nothing they could do. Ana swallowed, staring at D’Alessandro, twisting and turning, jerking as if trying to get away from something. Sweat glistened on his skin, the cords of his throat were hard ridges, his dark hair trailed and stuck to his face.

Nothing they could do. She licked her lips and looked at Jiméne, who watched grimly. “But I—”

“Aaaaaah!” D’Alessandro’s scream made them both jump. “No! No! Stay away!”

Without letting herself think, Ana ran to Cain. At her approach, he jerked so suddenly his head cracked against the tree.

“Cain,” she whispered. She touched his arm, he lurched away from her touch. For the first time, she saw that his eyes were wide open. Wide and unseeing, staring past her to some horror in the darkness, something he tried to escape even as he called her name.