LITMIR.BIZ

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      He set the razor down again. “I would like to keep the beard, if I may.”

      They looked at each other, then at him. “You are an American. You’re not worthy to wear a beard. Take it off.”

      Sighing, he didn’t see the value in arguing the point. He shaved the beard with the dull razor, scraping his face raw in the process.

      “Now put on the clothes,” one of the men ordered.

      He braced his hands on the table to push himself up onto his feet, though he kept his weight on the good one. Then he balanced there as he managed to get his pants undone and off. The shorts went, too. He didn’t have a single qualm about baring himself, because it meant being relatively clean for the first time in a month. He snatched up the soapy washrag and washed his lower body before they had time to object.

      The water was filthy by now, and littered with whiskers floating in the soapscum. It was still valuable to him.

      “The clothes, Colonel Stone!”

      “Yeah, yeah.” He managed to pick up the basin of dirty water and set it on the floor near his chair, as if he were moving it to make room for the clothes.

      One of the men set the stack of clothes in the now-empty spot, in between splashes of water. Will cringed when he realized the clothes placed before him were the uniform of an American soldier. Regular Army, by the looks. Not green, but desert camo.

      He pulled on the pants. No shorts had been provided. “Where did you get this?”

      “Shut up and put it on.”

      Will shut up and put it on. But first he sat down in the chair, bent to quickly roll up the pant leg and lowered his wounded foot into the basin of water. There was enough of the lye soap floating in it to disinfect the open sores, and the water was ice-cold, so it couldn’t hurt the swelling. As he sat, surreptitiously soaking his foot under the table, he pulled on the tank-style undershirt and the long-sleeved sand-colored outer shirt. He buttoned it up slowly, stalling for time, looking at the chest for any sign of the uniform’s origins. All the patches and insignia had been torn away, leaving darker spots where they had been.

      “I guess I’m ready.” He pushed his hand through his wet hair, finger-combing it.

      The two nodded, brought the newspaper to him.

      He held it in his hands obediently as they took his photo with a Polaroid One-Step camera that seemed completely out of place here.

      Then they examined the resulting photo while it developed, finally nodding in approval. One left the room, presumably to show the photo to Ahkmed, The Brainless One, while the other stayed to watch him. So far neither had noticed his aching foot, soaking in the water under the table, or, if they had, they didn’t care.

      Will’s left foot throbbed constantly. It was an interesting mix of colors-purple, black and blue. A little green here and there around the edges of the purple. It was swollen to twice its size and shaped rather oddly.

      One of their methods of questioning him had been to place the foot in a vise and tighten it each time they repeated the question.

      It hadn’t worked. He didn’t take much credit for courage in the face of torture. Frankly, part of his motivation in keeping silent had been knowing he would be shot in the head the minute he gave them the information they wanted so badly. Part of it had been the knowledge that other men, some good friends of his among them, would die if he talked. But the rest had come from anger. They’d pissed him off. He would be damned before he helped their cause.

      “Ahkmed says the photo is good,” said the one who had left, as he came back into the room. “Come, back to your cell now.”

      Nodding, he took his feet out of the basin, rising on one leg, turning to begin the hobble back.

      One of the men muttered to the other in their own language, “By the wings of Allah, the foot has worsened.”

      “Let it rot and fall off. He’s an American.”

      The first looked more worried, though. Will deliberately stumbled, and the man with the microscopic trace of decency came beside him to help him to the metal box. Leaning close, Will whispered, “I will tell my people who was kind to me and who was cruel when they make the trade, so that when they come back here again, they’ll know who to kill and who to spare.”

      The man glanced behind them nervously, but his comrade hadn’t heard. He had remained several yards away. As he helped Will into the box that was his cell, the younger one said, “Take this.” He handed Will the white sash that had been wrapped around his waist. “Use it to bandage your foot.”

      “Thank you.”

      The man nodded, quickly closing the metal door. Will braced his back against the door as the man pulled the chain as tight as he could and snapped the padlock through it. He waited until his captor had walked away to let off the pressure, then he turned and saw that the chain was lax. He could push the door open a couple of inches.

      And that, he thought, was all he needed.

      That night, the illness that had been growing steadily worse seemed to hit its peak. He fought it as the fever heated his blood and his body shook with chills. He had to wait them out, stay awake until they all slept, hours from now.

      But in the end, the fever took control. He fell into a fitful, painful sleep, and he was there again; in the forest near that Gypsy village, following the bright flashes of a woman’s colored skirts as she ran through the dark woods.

      It took him a moment to get oriented. But he finally realized where he was, what he was doing. It was a shock that his foot didn’t throb when he stepped on it, until he remembered that this place wasn’t real. He wasn’t certain why he was following the woman through the forest, but he knew it was important. Somewhere deep inside, he ached to see her again.

      The beauty finally stood still in a small copse of trees, looking around her, as if searching for someone. As if she knew he was coming.

      But when he drew nearer, Will realized it was not Sarafina he’d been following but her sister, Katerina.

      She had a stench about her that shocked him, but only until he saw the necklace of garlic cloves she wore. That explained the smell. He wasn’t sure how to explain the fact that she wore it. What the hell was she doing in the forest, in the dead of night like this? Meeting Andre, he would bet, although the garlic was a baffling touch.

      Then he remembered his last, pain-induced visit. There had been a murder. He’d been in and out, but he’d witnessed some of what had happened. He supposed his imagination was about to add a touch of Universal Monster Classics to the mix.

      “Come out, show yourself!” she called suddenly. “I know you’re near. I have something you want!”

      He was startled at first, wondering if she were speaking to him.

      “Come, I haven’t much time. I’m supposed to be sitting vigil at the side of your latest victim.”

      So Sarafina’s sister had not remained at the grave of Belinda as she had said she would. She had begged off with some excuse and instead had wandered into the forest. In search of Belinda’s murderer?

      Fingering a pouch at her side, she wandered a few more steps. “Creature! Vampire! Come, make yourself known. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

      Will sensed something, some dark presence, behind her. He tried to shout a warning, but of course the woman couldn’t hear him. A man emerged from the shadows-or at least, he looked like a man, a very large man who was exceedingly pale and moved without making a sound. He crept quietly up behind Katerina, leaned close and whispered in her ear, “ I’ve nothing to fear from you? Do you want to be my next meal, Gypsy girl?”

      She jumped at the first words he spoke, whirling to face him, one hand pressing to her chest.

      “By the Gods, you reek of garlic,” the

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