Prince of Time. Rebecca York
The last observation sent an icy chill sweeping across his skin. Panic threatened to engulf him. Underlying it was a profound sadness. He stifled both emotions with the force of his will.
The woman’s eyes continued to question him. Before he started shouting out answers, he turned and strode toward the grooming alcove. Stepping across the threshold, he slammed the barrier behind him, hoping the mores of her culture would respect his privacy. After using the facilities, he leaned over the washing basin and splashed cold water on his face. His reflection in the three-dimensional mirror mocked him.
He looked sick.
That was the cue for a wave of nausea to rise in his throat. Swaying over the basin, he grasped the cold metal and retched up stomach acid. Grimacing, he opened a compartment and pulled out a tube of mouth refresher.
The spicy flavor swept away the nasty taste and made him feel a little better, but he knew the reprieve might be temporary. He’d been running on adrenaline, reacting from moment to moment since he stepped out of the delta cylinder—and his energy reserves were just about drained.
Dizzy, Thorn gripped the edge of the basin and forced himself to recall his last memories. They were from yesterday evening. Lodar and Darnot arriving at his quarters to continue the argument they’d been having for weeks. He remembered the older man coming up behind him and then a stinging sensation in his shoulder. The rest was a blur. Except for the part where Lodar was leaning over him, his face very close—telling him he was going to get what he deserved.
A cold sweat beaded his forehead. He risked another look in the mirror and saw his skin was the color of moldy mush.
It was the symptom his fuzzy brain had been unconsciously searching for. His system was going into a toxic reaction to the delta capsule. He’d seen it happen a couple of times after inadequate preparation. If he didn’t get some ribenazine in the next few minutes, he was going to be on the floor, kicking and screaming and wishing he were dead. He wouldn’t have long to wait. The next phases were irreversible coma and death.
As he lurched out of the grooming alcove, the woman looked at him in alarm and asked an urgent question he couldn’t comprehend.
Sparing her a quick arm gesture, he commanded himself to stay conscious a few minutes longer as he staggered across the room to the cabinet marked with the symbol for healing. Inside he rummaged through small vials of liquid until his fingers closed around the one he needed. With fingers that felt thick and clumsy, he pulled at the seal. Too late. His formidable will lost the battle with his body and he crumpled to the floor.
Chapter Two
In seconds Cassie was across the room and kneeling beside him.
“Thorn!”
He didn’t answer.
She looked from him to the cupboard. It was filled with small bottles and boxes of various sizes, none of which was familiar.
Frantically she knelt beside him and turned him on his back.
He’d looked ill.... Perhaps he’d been after some medication. But as far as she could see, he’d passed out before he could take anything.
The greenish cast of his skin was frightening. When she touched him, she found his flesh cold and clammy. The pulse in his neck was thready, his breathing labored. And a few minutes ago she’d heard him retching. He needed a doctor, but she was the only help he was going to get.
She’d seen him grab up a small bottle just before he lost consciousness. Lifting his hand, she pried the stiff fingers open and removed a vial of blue liquid. Would the contents cure him? Or kill him?
She shuddered as another disturbing thought struck her. Was this a sudden attack of some contagious illness? Was that why he’d been isolated in this place?
Willing the ungenerous questions out of her mind, she concentrated on Thorn. How was she supposed to know what to do for him?
He’d been lying quietly on the stone floor. All at once his face contorted in pain, and he thrashed his arms and legs like a drowning man. Cassie grimaced at the agony etched into his features.
He cried out—two distinct words she didn’t understand, repeating them several times. “Reah. Januk.”
Then the thrashing grew more violent, racking him with frightening spasms that looked as if they would tear muscles and tendons.
“What should I do?” she begged.
Agony contorted his features. The spasms came hard and fast, one barely ending before the next one began.
His body wrenched, lifting him momentarily off the floor. He screamed, and his heels drummed. It was getting worse. Cassie sensed that whatever was wrong was going to kill him in a matter of minutes.
Swiftly making a decision, she pulled the seal off the bottle he’d been holding. Prying his jaw open with one hand, she tipped the vial to his lips with the other.
With agonizing slowness, the liquid dribbled into his mouth. He grimaced.
“Swallow it. Please swallow it.” She waited tensely, all her senses tuned toward Thorn. Finally, he did.
“Thank you,” she breathed. Now she could only wait and watch for some sign that she’d done the right thing.
His body still shook with spasms. Aching to do something more to help him—anything—she pressed her torso against his and held his arms at his sides, trying to make sure that he didn’t hurt himself. Although he was the patient and she the care giver, the physical contact was strangely comforting. Groping for his hands, she laced her fingers with his, and lay with her eyes closed, willing the viscous liquid to do its work.
She didn’t know him, nor could she fathom what he was doing in this strange place. She couldn’t even hold a meaningful conversation with him, for heaven’s sake. But she felt that some kind of inexplicable bond had formed between them. At least that was the only way she could explain the terror that had overwhelmed her when he’d fallen to the floor.
By slow degrees she realized that the spasms were quieting, and the beat of his heart was growing stronger and more regular. For several more heartbeats, she kept her cheek pressed against his powerful chest. Then she raised her head. The agony on his face was only a shadow of remembered pain.
Cassie hovered over him, one of his large hands still clenched in hers. Finally he sighed and lay quiet like a swimmer who had finally pulled himself onto shore after a long, exhausting race.
“Thank God,” she murmured.
His lids fluttered. His lips moved. And she sensed that he was making a tremendous effort to struggle toward consciousness. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched his face. His lids opened, and those startling blue eyes focused on her. Almost immediately, they registered surprise, then the same vulnerability she’d seen when he first came out of the transparent chamber.
“You’re going to be fine,” she told him, hoping her voice conveyed her meaning.
He tried to say something.
“No. You’re too weak. Just sleep,” she murmured. “We’ll talk later.”
Somehow.
His lids drifted closed. After a few moments, he appeared to sink into a normal sleep. She found blankets of some synthetic material in the supply cabinet and made him a bed.
Then, with an unsettled feeling, she looked down at him. What was it about this stranger that brought out such tender feelings? Usually she kept men at a distance. She’d learned not to get involved because she knew that the minute you let someone get close, you gave them the power to hurt you.
This was only a response to a fellow human being in need, she told herself. But she didn’t really believe that. And the admission was frightening.
Silently, she backed away from