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CHAPTER TWO

“ C ome back to us.”

This is the voice of the man I call the Emperor. It’s an order. An instruction. Judging from his voice, and the touch of his hand, he is a ruthless man of power.

His strong hand dwarfs mine, holding me, squeezing. Then he strokes my forehead. And he runs his fingers in my hair. Gentle. Caring. Then twisting.

The Emperor’s voice stirs deeper parts of me. Parts that are far, far back there, through the thick, heavy black curtains. Parts that reach all the way down to when I was a child. A little girl, trying to please her daddy. That feels old.

Inside I’m buzzing. Is it just adrenaline? Am I in a natural state, or is this something that’s medically induced? I know there’s at least one tube in my hand, and there are little buzzes around me. Beeps and chirrups from machines that sound clinical. I don’t hear the sounds of a hospital, though.

No bells or alarms or even voices echo down hallways. No trolleys or gurneys roll or rattle outside, none that I’ve heard.

Here, I feel new. Bright and clean, waiting in the shadows. The me that’s suspended in the darkness here, now; I’m resting. Restoring myself. Getting ready to be unveiled. To wake up and make an entrance.

But I don’t want to come out yet. I’m not ready to rise up, blinking into the light. Now I want to stay here, in the comfortable darkness.

The Emperor wants me to rise up out of this dream or whatever it is. I know.

And I need to do that. Soon.

When the Emperor speaks, I feel warm and safe. He’s here for me. He is not going to let anything bad happen to me. He will protect me. Defend me. Fight to keep me in his possession.

It would be nicer if he slipped in here with me. We wouldn’t ever need to go anywhere or do anything but be close and be together.

Nicer still if it was the Warrior who came. My warrior.

I slip back and drift, softly down. No stress, no worries, no conflict.

“Right now, we can’t have her like this.” The Emperor’s powerful masculine voice issues commands. “We need her up and functioning. There’s got to be something you can do.”

Lying still, in total darkness, I cant’t move or even open my eyes.

Did I slip away and doze again? I don’t remember.

I’m not in pain, but from the top of my head, through my whole body and all the way down to my ankles, distant echoes of pain drift through me. Aches throb like auras over my arm and my side.

A harder, sharper jab in my wrist and what feels like a gash in the side of my leg has the flesh memory of a fading burn.

I feel like I’ve been chained up and dragged behind the hurtling cars of a roller coaster ride, bumped through the twist and turns, dragged up the slopes, and then plunged, bouncing wild down the scream-wrenchingly, eye-stretchingly steep slopes.

A second man speaks. He sounds assured, educated and confident like he expects to be in control. Like people usually do what he says without him having to explain himself. I’m guessing he’s a doctor.

Over the top of me, he says, “Her physical injuries are minor.” Who are they talking about? “With the possible exception of concussion.”

My savage Warrior’s voice rises, next to the Emperor.

“How does that look?”

Something so strong stirs through me, like my body could lift and rise, like I’ll drift toward him, even though I’m completely unable to move. A rush of excitement blows through me. As quickly as it came, it’s gone again. I feel lost and empty without the wind of energy.

The doctor leaves a long, cool pause before he says, “There’s no way to know until she’s conscious and we can examine her properly.”

I don’t trust any of these people. I need to know who they’re talking about. I want to ask. Maybe I should raise my hand.

Big. Booming. Rich and totally alpha male, the Emperor tells him, “You can do scans. Run tests.”

On the other side, the doctor says, “Of course. But when it’s the brain, there’s no substitute for talking to the patient.” He leaves a beat and goes on, “We need her to be conscious for that.” Like he’s explaining it to schoolchildren.

My body is shocked at the sound of a younger man. A low drawl, he speaks up from next to the doctor.

He says, “Don’t worry about the cost.” His voice is easy and confident. Intellectual, but with a live, crackling buzz of dark mischief. It stirs thoughts of illicit, forbidden pleasures. “Whatever it takes.” A devilish genius. A young, evil mastermind.

Whoever he is, I have an urge to get up and wrap myself tight around him and cling to him. Do I just feel that way about all men? No. Not the doctor.

After a moment, the doctor tells him, “Of course there are a thousand scans and tests I can run. I would be happy to take your money but, trust me, there’s nothing to be learned. Nothing we can rely on.”

It’s evident that all three men really care about her. I wish I knew her. I wish I could do something. Whoever it is they’re talking about, that girl is in trouble,.

The younger voice says, “We should know everything.” A demanding man of logic and science. His voice stiffens, like he’s bracing himself. Reason is helpless, faced with a tidal wave of fact. “Don’t hold anything back.”

And inside I’m screaming, NO! Hold back the bad news! Not yet! Only give us the hopeful, positive options and outcomes. I don’t want to hear the worst!

The Warrior says, “There’s got to be something.”

The doctor switches to a professional, reassuring tone. A smooth change, an expert gear-shift. “When she comes back to consciousness, there will be plenty for us to do.”

A bedside manner, low in the register. The subtext is, We’re doing all we can . When I hear that, I tense. I know that means there is bad news and I don’t want to hear the bad news.

“Until then,” he says, “it’s best to keep her steady and comfortable and wait.”

The Emperor says. “Do the tests.”

As the doctor leans forward to speak, a shocking idea starts to seep around the edges of my mind.

Is it me? I can be so dumb sometimes. Are they talking about me?

Patiently, the doctor explains, “We can’t do them here. Moving her around, carting her on a gurney in elevators and in ambulances, shoving her through all the big machines — that can all be distressing, even for someone who is perfectly well. And it’s really not going to tell us anything we can act on. There’s no way we can tell what shape she’s in while she’s locked away in there. Believe me, I know that the uncertainty is hard, but it’s best for the patient if we keep her quiet and resting.”

Not ME. It can’t be me.

The Warrior says, “But she is going to be okay. Right? Doc?”

“There’s likely to be some effects from shock. Prepare yourselves for PTSD. She will very likely be disoriented. Until she wakes up, though, it’s impossible to say how deep or severe, or long-lasting the effects will be. She may just wake up bleary, like she slept in too long. At this stage, we just hope for the best. And prepare yourselves. the road to recovery may be long. There really is nothing better we can do for her now, other than to keep her as safe and as well as we can. You’re all doing the right thing.”

In the quiet, he adds, “If prayer is a part of your life, then now is the time to pray.”

The Mastermind asks, “And if it’s not?”

“Honestly? Then now would be a good time to consider taking it up.”

The Warrior says, “It’s serious.”

“It’s very serious.” The doctor’s tone is level and even. He’s saying things he’s said a hundred times about a hundred people. “This is possibly the most critical time.”

A reflex kicks in and before I can stop myself, I shout, wild. Where are those hundred people now? What happened to them? I know my body does not make the slightest movement or sound.

The Mastermind, the youngest of the voices says, “Did she move? Did anyone else see that?”

“Maybe just a nerve spasm or a reflex.” The doctor has on his soothing voice of understanding. “You have to be patient. Nature takes her own sweet time.”

Even as I was yelling, I knew that no sound came out.

I could be dead.

Am I dead? Could I be hearing all this and thinking if I was dead?

Perhaps all of this is just a nightmare. Maybe I’m just dreaming this whole thing. If it is then I wish I could wake up.

I can’t stand hearing people all around me, talking about me, discussing me. Making decisions about me.

And I can’t make a sound or even raise a finger.

“Okay. Thanks, Doc.” The Emperor lets a sharp edge slip into his voice.

The power in the room has shifted. Tilted. The Doc was the voice of command, the master of the situation. Now it seems like his power was only borrowed. Or lent.

Now, he is a servant. His task, for now, is delivered. He is an advisor who’s analysis has been needed, though unwelcome, but it has been heard. His presence is no longer required.

The Emperor, the Warrior and the Mastermind have all changed and lowered their tone.

The Warrior says, “We’ll take the doc back.”

Striding to the door, the young Mastermind says, “We don’t want you to be late home for your dinner.” He could be talking to a puppy. “Come on, Doc.” Or a slave.

The change in their manner was instinctive. Habitual. But it was no accident.

These men are ruthless. All three of them. Maybe I couldn’t hear it before or I shut it out but now I hear it. They are all accustomed to taking what they want. They don’t let anyone stand in their way.

They all reminded the doctor of their power, and of his position. They are the masters here, and he had better not forget it.

I wonder what they have over him.

I’ve been kidnapped, and I’m being held by these three ruthless men.

When the door closes, the Emperor is still by my bedside. Musing to himself, he whispers, “So, Principessa . What are we going to do with you?”

Is that me? Is that who I am? A moll who’s drawn to the bad guys? I hope that at least it means that I’m one of the good girls.

Are these the kinds of men that I know? A merciless Emperor, a savage Warrior, and a dark, devilish Mastermind?

These are not your regular bad boys. Not the Saturday night rowdies, talking dirty, drinking and kicking up a noise types. The tailgating, year-round mini-spring breakers that chase after dancers and cocktail waitresses.

These men are more like feared and highly sought after super-villains. Cold killers with souls hammered out of the steelworks of Hell Central.

So what kind of woman am I?