Rayne woke with a start, and sat up to find everything back in focus. Pale walls surrounded her, a thick maroon carpet covered the floor, and some rather ugly images hung on the walls. For a moment she thought she was back on Earth, for the room lacked the Atlantean technology and propensity for flora. The faint but unmistakeable smell of rotten eggs reminded her of where she was, and memories of her recent ordeal rushed back. Thoughts of escape made her rise to examine her prison.
When she discovered that the door would not open and the room lacked any other exit, she went back to the couch and sat down. Several minutes later, a tall, black-clad man entered and paused, as if to gauge her reaction, but she merely stared at him. A grey coat relieved his sable garb, which included gloves with silver emblems on the backs and a strangely designed mask that covered his head and neck. His well-cut suit clung to a whipcord figure with broad shoulders and narrow hips. The suit’s seams were ridged in the Atlantean manner, concealing its fastenings. Nothing hinted at his race other than his form, which appeared to be human, Atlantean, or one of many other races that shared the humanoid physique.
Rayne’s fears multiplied as a dozen unsavoury prospects invaded her still-raw mind. Tension curdled her stomach, and a sour taste crept into her mouth. The Draycon woman’s words shouted from her memory, drawing dark images in her flinching mind. The man broke his immobile stance to clasp his hands behind his back, and his action pushed back his coat to reveal a weapon clipped to his belt. She wondered if this was deliberate.
Rayne licked her lips. “Who are you?” It came out as a croak, and she swallowed to try to alleviate her dry throat. Her fuzzy recollection of the auction supplied the name the auctioneer had given him: the Shrike. It sounded ominous.
The Shrike picked up a suit of clothes from a table by the door and threw them onto the couch beside her, then left. Realising that she still wore the scanty garment in which the Draycons had dressed her, she changed into the black one-piece suit with a silver hawk emblem on the right side of the chest. After throwing the dress into a corner, she sat down again and tried to figure out what she should do now. Perhaps her new captor would listen to reason and return her to Atlan if she offered him a reward.
Whether or not the Council paid it was irrelevant, as long as she got back to Atlan. He unnerved her, and, despite her hopes, she wondered if he would be susceptible to a bribe. His silence, and the Draycon woman’s promise that her new owner would kill her, increased her anxiety. The Draycon woman, however, had no way of knowing who would buy her, and a chance existed that this man was not the sort she had hoped for. Rayne’s stomach rumbled and she cursed it. Now was not the time to think of food.
Rayne jumped when the door opened to admit her captor and a black-uniformed man carrying a tray, which he set down on the table before leaving. She watched the Shrike, wondering if he was going to speak this time.
“Eat something,” he said in fluent, slightly accented Atlantean, his voice deep and attractive. “You must be hungry.”
The steaming food looked like nutri-paste, but she shook her head.
He sat on the chair opposite. “What are you afraid of?”
“You.” She struggled to keep her voice from quivering. He radiated strength and confidence as if it oozed from his pores.
“Why?”
“I don’t know you, but the woman who sold me said you would kill me.”
“Really? Drevina doesn’t know me that well, I assure you. And I’m hardly likely to do that when I just paid a hundred thousand regals for you. Of course, you were too drugged to know anything.”
Not quite, she mused. “So now I’m a slave?” She wished he would take off the mask, it bothered her.
“Legally, yes.”
“I see.” She strived to remain calm. It sounded like someone else spoke.
“Do you?”
“Probably not, but I expect I’m going to find out. So, you’re not a violent pervert who enjoys killing slaves?”
“I flatter myself that I’m not a pervert, and I’m not going to kill you.”
“Then what do you intend to do with me?”
“You’ll find out soon. How were you captured?” His husky voice sent shivers down her spine.
“The Draycons kidnapped me on Atlan. They must have used gas. I woke up on their ship. They might have killed my brother. I don’t know what happened to him.”
“So, the Atlanteans took you from your home world before it died. I wondered what happened to you.”
She frowned. “How do you know my world is dead? You don’t know where I’m from.”
“I do. We’ve met before, in a manner of speaking, although you might not remember such a brief encounter.”
Rayne searched her reeling mind for an explanation, finding a dim memory of a black-clad man in a blind alley, blue laser humming over her as she knelt on a dirty road. “You were there, on Earth. You shot the store guards.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “You needed help. I was there. Why not?”
“Will you help me again? Take me back to Atlan? The Council will reimburse you.”
The Shrike paused, and she hoped he was considering her request. His rescue on Earth did not mean he was a good person, she reflected. If he was a slaver, he might have been planning to capture her then, but the Atlanteans had chased him away. He stood up, and she leapt to her feet, backing away.
His head turned to follow her retreat. “There’s no need to fear me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Rayne wanted to believe him, but her instincts clamoured for caution. She could sense neither friendliness nor hostility from him. He appeared to have no emotions at all. He seemed taller than Rawn, but perhaps it was the coat and mask.
“How can I trust a man who hides his face?” she asked.
“Is that what’s worrying you?”
“Partly.” She moved closer to the wall and leant against it, feigning confidence.
“I’m afraid I can’t take it off.”
“Then I won’t trust you.”
The Shrike shook his head, the mask’s flat planes gleaming. Most of it was dull, but shiny, tinted plasglass covered his eyes, reflecting the light.
“Suit yourself.” He turned and left.
Rayne closed her eyes and slumped, then returned to the couch and ate the meat-flavoured nutri-paste. Considering her situation again, she found no good in it. Her only hope was the fact that he had not refused to return her to Atlan, and perhaps considered it. Common sense howled against this naive fantasy, reminding her that a slaver who had just paid a small fortune for her would not be keen on returning her to Atlan for the sake of getting his money back. She should have offered him a reward to sweeten the deal. Then again, it would be dangerous for him to go near Atlan, since they imprisoned slavers. So she would have to guarantee his safety, too, which she was not sure she could do. There was no reason for him to trust her any more than she trusted him, either. As her thoughts whirled in useless circles, her eyes grew leaden as her full stomach compounded her fatigue, and the room was so quiet that she fell asleep.