Page 93 of Dark Lover

Ian realized that he might know more about where she was if he could change his focus and get outside the stone chamber. Ian breathed hard. Sweat poured down his body as he stared past her at the window. The sound of the horn bugling became louder—closer. Suddenly he saw the white stone steps outside the entrance of a magnificent cathedral, where a pair of liveried musicians were playing their horns. A coach had arrived. Four bay horses pulled it. A cleric stepped forward from the front steps, red and gold robes flowing, huge gold cross glinting. The bishop turned to his secretary, who carried a scroll and a quill. The coach doors were opened by two liveried servants.

No! He wanted to see that scroll.

Suddenly he saw the crooked red nose on the secretary’s pinched face. Then he saw the hunched shoulders of the bishop, from behind. He zoomed back. The secretary was writing.

And he saw the scripted Latin on the page.

No! He cursed, tried again.

At the top of the page, in the right-hand corner, he saw the date. August 9, 1527.

Ian stared at the date, mesmerized. It blazed now, as if on fire.

“Ian?”

He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, his eyes wide and searching. “Ye found her! We will come with ye!” Aidan exclaimed.

Ian didn’t hear him—he was already gone.

“I WONDER HOW WELL you will be able to tolerate pain?” the monk asked softly.

She didn’t know what they meant to do with that knife, but she could imagine. Sam smiled, somehow. “I’ve been shot, stabbed, cut with a razor and hurled upside down across cars. Gee, I’ve been hurled the distance of football fields by you guys. And then there’s the leap through time. I can handle a stab wound or two.”

“My dogs are hungry,” he said. “And they like raw meat.”

She made a sound, unable to help herself. That’s what they meant to do?

“I think we will start with your fingers. Are you finally afraid?”

There was finally some horror.

If she lost her fingers, even a true Healer like Allie wouldn’t be able to help her.

Sam looked at the wooden table, with its shackles at all corners. Then she glanced at Hemmer, who was impassive. She didn’t think torture was his big thing.

But he didn’t seem interested in helping her out, either. She reminded herself that this was nothing compared to what they’d done to Ian. As she thought that, his image shifted before her in the center of the room.

Sam went still.

He was as transparent as a ghost, but clad as she’d last seen him, in jeans and a T-shirt. His image shimmered; he was saying something.

But she didn’t hear a thing.

The surgeon said something now. Sam didn’t have to understand German, the language he spoke, to know that he was ready to begin.

Ian’s image remained. He was speaking urgently now.

I can’t hear you! She thought desperately.

“Don’t unshackle her, but put her on the table,” the monk said. He turned to Hemmer. “This will be interesting.”

“I want her first,” Hemmer said softly. “Before she’s in bloody pieces.”

Sam looked at Ian. His image began to fade. “No!”

The thug pushed her hard against the table.

Sam didn’t think twice. She jammed the boniest part of her knee in his groin, while using her knuckles in both temples. To her shock, as she moved with lightning speed, the shackle fell off her wrist and the guard merely grunted and paused.