Angelfall

I freeze. Then I walk over to the last door and put my ear against it. Was that my imagination, or did that sound like, “Run, Penryn?”

I crack open the door.

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” Raffe asks quietly.

I slip in and close the door. “You’re welcome for rescuing you.”

“You’re not rescuing me, you’re getting yourself caught.” Raffe sits in the middle of the room, tied to a chair. There’s a lot of dried blood on his face, streaking from a wound on his forehead.

“They’re asleep.” I run over to his chair and put my knife to the rope around his wrists.

“No, they’re not.” The conviction in his voice trips alarms in my head. But before I can think of the word “trap,” a flashlight beam blinds me.

CHAPTER 16

“I can’t let you cut that,” says a deep voice behind the flashlight. “We have a limited supply of rope.”

Someone grabs my knife out of my hand and shoves me roughly into a chair. The flashlight turns off and it takes several blinks for me to adjust my vision again to the dim moonlight. By the time I can see again, someone is tying my hands behind my back.

There are three of them. One checks Raffe’s ropes, while the remaining one leans against the doorway as though here for just a casual visit. I tense up my muscles to try to get the rope to be as loose as possible as the guy behind me ties me up. My captor grips my wrists so hard that I’m half convinced that they will snap.

“You’ll have to excuse the lack of light,” says the guy leaning against the doorjamb. “We’re trying to avoid unwanted visitors.” Everything about him—from his commanding voice to his casual stance—makes it clear he’s the leader.

“Am I really that clumsy?” I ask.

The leader leans down toward me so that we’re eye to eye. “Actually, no. Our guards didn’t see you, and they were under orders to be on the lookout for you. Not bad, overall.” There’s approval in his voice.

Raffe makes a low sound in his throat that reminds me of a dog’s growl.

“You knew I was here?” I ask.

The guy stands straight again. The moonlight isn’t bright enough to show me details of what he looks like, but he’s tall and broad-shouldered. His hair is military short, making Raffe’s hair look ragged and disreputable by comparison. His profile is clean, the lines of his face sharp and defined.

He nods. “We didn’t know for sure, but the gear in his bag looked like half the supplies that a pair might carry. He has a camping stove but no matches, no pots or pans. He has two bowls, two spoons. Stuff like that. We figured someone else was carrying the matching half of the supplies. Although, frankly, I wasn’t expecting a rescue attempt. And certainly not from a girl. No offense meant. I’ve always been a modern guy.” He shrugs. “But times have changed. And we are a camp full of men.” He shrugs again. “That takes guts. Or desperation.”

“You forgot lack of brains,” growls Raffe. “I’m your target here, not her.”

“How do you figure?” asks the leader.

“You need men like me as soldiers,” says Raffe. “Not a ski

The leader leans back with his arms crossed. “What makes you think we’re looking for soldiers?”

“You used five men and a pack of dogs to catch one guy,” says Raffe. “At that rate, you’re going to need three armies to get done whatever it is you’re trying to do here.”

The leader nods. “You obviously have prior military experience.” I raise my brows at this, wondering what happened when they captured him.

“You didn’t bat an eye when we pointed the guns at you,” says the leader.

“So maybe he’s not as good he thinks he is if he’s been captured before,” says Raffe’s guard. Raffe doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Or maybe he’s special ops, trained for the worst situations,” says the leader. He pauses, waiting for Raffe to confirm or deny. The moonlight filtering through the window is bright enough to show the leader watching Raffe with the intensity of a wolf watching a rabbit. Or maybe it’s like a rabbit watching a wolf. But Raffe says nothing.

The leader turns to me. “You hungry?”

My stomach picks that moment to growl loudly. It would have been fu

“Let’s get these folks some di

I test my ropes around my wrists. “Tall, dark and friendly. What more could a girl ask for?”

Raffe snorts. “They got a lot friendlier once you showed up. They haven’t offered me food all day.”

“Are they just skittish, or are they really bad guys?”

“Anybody who ties you to a chair at gunpoint is a bad guy. Do I really need to explain this?”

I feel like a little girl who did something stupid.

“So what are you doing here?” he asks. “I risk getting chewed to pieces by a pack of dogs so you can escape, and then you run back here? Your sense of judgment could use a dash of common sense.”

“Sorry, I’ll be sure and never do that again.” I’m begi

“That’s the sanest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“So who are these guys?” Raffe’s super hearing has no doubt gained him a lot of information on what they’re up to.

“Why? You pla

“I’m not much of a joiner.”

Despite his usual handsome features, he looks rather grotesque in the moonlight with all those streaks of dried blood ru

But then he asks, “You all right?” His voice is surprisingly gentle.

“I’m fine. You know we need to get out of here by morning, right? They’ll be able to tell by then.” All that blood with no wound. No human heals that fast.

The door opens and the smell of stew almost drives me mad. I haven’t starved since the attacks, but I haven’t exactly been gaining weight either.

The leader pulls up a chair next to mine and lifts the bowl under my nose. My stomach grumbles as soon as the scent of meat and vegetables hits me.

He lifts a heaping spoonful and stops halfway between the bowl and my mouth. I have to suppress a groan of pleasure at the anticipation for decorum’s sake. A pimply-faced soldier pulls up a chair next to Raffe and does the same with his stew.

“What’s your name?” asks the leader. There something intimate about the way he asks me this question as he is about to feed me.

“My friends call me Wrath,” says Raffe. “My enemies call me Please Have Mercy. What’s your name, soldier boy?” Raffe’s mocking tone brings a flush to my cheeks for no reason.

But the leader isn’t flustered. “Obadiah West. You can call me Obi.” The spoon moves away from me just a fraction.

“Obadiah. How biblical.” says Raffe. “Obadiah hid the prophets from persecution.” Raffe stares at his own suspended spoon of stew.

“A Bible expert,” says Obi. “Too bad we already have one.” He looks at me. “And what’s your name?”

“Penryn,” I say quickly before Raffe can open his mouth to say something sarcastic. “Penryn Young.” I’d rather not antagonize our captors, especially if they’re about to feed us.

“Penryn.” He whispers it as though making it his own. I’m somehow embarrassed to have Raffe witness this moment, though I’m not sure why.

“When was the last time you had a real meal, Penryn?” asks Obi. He holds the spoon just out of reach of my mouth. I swallow the saliva before answering.

“It’s been awhile.” I give him an encouraging smile, wondering if he’ll let me have that bite. He moves the spoon to his own mouth and I watch him eat it. My stomach grumbles in protest.

“Tell me, Obi,” says Raffe. “Just what kind of meat is this?”

I look back and forth between the soldiers, suddenly unsure if I’m hungry.