Prophecy

'She was only trying to help me. She seems to think…'

'What?'

'That she's not a slave.'

'Ah.' He shook his head. 'But she was wrong to do that.'

'She thought those slaves were being freed. She thought I could leave too. She didn't know she was helping me escape.'

'Layalia was trying to get rid of you, and her actions might have jeopardised my plans.'

She cast him a baleful glance. 'What will you do to her?'

'That remains to be seen.'

'You don't even know if she's the one who helped me.'

'She's the only one who would have a reason to, strange though it is. She's the girl who served us lunch, the one who disliked my attention to you. Don't bother denying it.'

Rayne jerked her arm from his grip as they arrived outside her door. 'If you want to punish someone, punish me. I'm the one who persuaded her to do it. She's a poor deluded creature, living in a fantasy world. Please, Tarke.'

'Very well.' The door opened, and he followed her inside. 'So she told you my name. Stupid girl.'

Rayne turned to face him in the middle of the lounge. 'What will you do to me?'

'Do to you? Oh, punishment, right.' He went to the bar and poured a drink, which he sipped, then chuckled. 'You know, right now she's probably disporting herself naked on my bed, hoping my summoning of her is for that reason. Unfortunately for her, it's not, and her wish will be unfulfilled. That, along with a few choice words of chastisement, will doubtless send her weeping to her room, and will be her punishment. How do you plan to partake in that?'

'That's all? I suppose it's cruel enough, in its way, considering the fantasy she lives in. I thought slave collars were used for punishment.'

He turned to face her, and she sensed a faint flash of pure pain from him. 'They are. They inflict exquisite torture. But this is far too slight an infraction for such drastic measures, don't you think?'

'I think the whole thing is barbaric.'

'Of course you do.' He put down his glass and picked up a dress that was draped across the back of a chair. Its delivery was doubtless how he had discovered her escape. He held it up, displaying a shimmering fall of silver- shot white silk-like material, the thin shoulder straps glittering with gold thread, its uneven hem a marvel of silver filigree lace. Rayne stared at it, entranced by its beauty and repelled by its purpose.

'I want you to wear this for the auction.' His words made her stomach clench.

'No.'

'Come on, it's not as bad as the one Drevina made you wear. This isn't revealing and crass, just beautiful.'

'I won't wear it.'

He lowered the dress. 'Don't be difficult, Rayne.' She shook her head, and he added, 'I don't want to have to get the guards to put it on you, do you?'

'I'll rip it to shreds.'

'And be sold in the nude. You certainly will be tempting like that.' He put down the dress and stepped closer, forcing her to look up at him. 'Do this for me.'

The full force of his devastating charisma made her spine turn to jelly and her knees quiver. She fought it, hating the raw power he exuded, a blatant charm so strong he did not even need a face to wield it. The urge to do as he asked was almost too strong to deny. She was aware that some of the power she sensed was mental; a telepathic coercion mixed with his animal magnetism, but the combination was almost irresistible.

She swallowed hard and stepped back. 'All right, on one condition.'

'What?'

'You take off the mask.'

'No. No deal, I'm afraid. Just wear the dress. It's not much to ask. It's a beautiful gown. I'd like to see you in it.'

Once more the full force of his charm came to bear, and this time he reinforced it by reaching out to stroke her cheek with a gloved hand. The caress was feather light, but her skin tingled and her stomach tried to turn over. With an act of will, she swung away and strode across the room, putting as much distance between them as possible before facing him again.

'No.'

'You're a strong one. Or are you…?' He walked closer, and she forced herself to stand her ground, refusing to let him chase her all over the room. This time she sensed only his natural charm. He stopped and studied her, the mask a blank barrier that she longed to tear off. A slight tingle within her skull warned her, and she gasped, trying to throw up the mental shields she never remembered to keep in place. The tingle of his intrusion stopped, and he turned away.

'So, no wonder that didn't work.'

'What did you try to do? Why didn't it work?'

'I want you to put on the dress, and I really don't want to use force.'

'Take off the mask.'

'No.'

She folded her arms. 'Then you'll have to use force.'

He sighed and sank onto the sofa. 'Why this preoccupation with the mask? Why does it matter to you what I look like, unless you want to tell the Atlanteans?'

'Why would the Atlanteans care?'

'Because whenever they've come close to capturing me, one of my people has donned a copy of my mask and taken my place to save me. So far the Atlanteans have tried and executed six Shrikes. I don't like it, but my forbidding them to take my place means nothing to them, they do it anyway.'

'How loyal of them,' she muttered.

'So, now you know. Apart from that, I have other reasons for not wanting my fellow slavers to know what I look like, very different reasons. If you want to bargain for the dress, name something else.'

Rayne considered. Her position was hopeless; he would get the dress on her one way or another, so she might as well gain some small concession out of this. If he was willing to offer something in return for her co- operation, it was better than nothing. Her gaze wandered over him, then snapped back to the hated mask.

'Show me something then, your skin, at least. I'd like to know whether you're green with purple spots or orange with blue ones.'

He chuckled. 'Neither. I'm Antian. You can look it up in Atlan's databases. My skin is the same colour as yours.'

The name did not ring any bells, and, if his race was extinct, she probably had not encountered it during her studies. 'Prove it,' she said, determined to make him do something to earn her co-operation.

The Shrike hesitated, then sighed and started to pull off one of his gloves. She went over and sat beside him on the couch as he stripped it off one finger at a time. The slender hand that emerged looked human in every respect, except she had never seen such fine, beautiful hands on a man. He held it out for her inspection, but as she reached out to touch it, he withdrew it slightly, then appeared to stop himself with an effort.

It was as if he fought the urge to snatch it away, and she wondered why. Did he think she had some disease? He allowed her to run her fingers over his skin, and she turned his hand over to examine his palm, then back to study his nails. There seemed to be nothing alien about it, other than its refinement. A beautiful voice and beautiful hands. What would his face be like?

'You seem to be very like a human.'

'Antians are – were. Very similar.'

'Do the Atlanteans know you're Antian?'

He shook his head. 'Not for certain, and even if you told them, you have no proof. They tend to arrest anyone in a grey coat and mask.'

'I wouldn't tell them.' The words tripped off her tongue without thought, and she wondered where they came from.