Her eyes stung with sweat. She pulled the muzzle away from her mouth and mopped at them. Have two of your men help him. I’ll walk in as they walk him out. When you see me, you’ll tell them to leave him and come back to you. I’ll know if you do.

Hmm, he murmured. Thinking, thinking.

Despair threatened to drown her. What was she doing, buying them minutes at most?

If Michael couldn’t walk, the Deceiver would only take her and then take him again. She wouldn’t even have the brief peace of death.

But she knew that, even if all she gained were minutes, she would do anything to keep from hearing that strained-crystal keening from Michael’s spirit again. Anything.

Her mental voice had turned to rags. Make up your mind. Yes or no.

Silence, both psychic and physical.

She waited another heartbeat then put the muzzle to her mouth again. Michael was right. It did have a kick. She bent over until she was in a ball, bracing both her hands and the butt of the gun against her knees, and angled the gun with care. If she pulled the trigger, she wanted to suicide successfully, not end up brain damaged and trapped in her body.

When the bullet tore through her head, would she know? The brain has no pain receptors, but all around the brain were nerve endings located in the head.

Her breath shook. She said, Three.

All right, the black diamond man said. Congratulations, you have a deal. He showed her a mental image of Michael’s body sagging between two men. She could see both the psychic and the fleshly wounds that scored him. His face was covered in blood. The two men carried him away. She caught sight of his legs moving weakly before the image cut off. They’re leaving with him now, so start walking back.

She pulled the gun out of her mouth and retched. All she brought up was bile. She shuddered and spat, wiping her mouth with the back of a trembling hand.

There, there, cookie, the black diamond man told her. He sounded cheerful. Pull yourself together and get moving, or I’ll tell my men to bring him back.

“I’m coming,” she said out loud, her voice hoarse. She climbed to her feet stiffly, like an old woman. “Keep your goddamn shirt on.”

Edging down the path, still sick with tension, she darted her gaze everywhere in an effort to keep from being surprised by any of the Deceiver’s creatures. The kestrel had disappeared, but Nicholas kept pace with her. When she glanced at him, the ghost shook his head, but he no longer tried to stop her.

She fought to keep in contact with Michael’s energy. Her success was patchy at best, but at least it was enough to confirm that he moved away from the clearing.

The black diamond man wanted her badly enough to gamble on letting Michael go, and that frightened her more than anything. She flashed back to her last life, and the memory of him sprinkling some kind of powder into the crevices of her wound. Dread flooded her body again.

She whispered, “Okay God, if you’re bored and you have a few minutes, now would be a good time to lend us a hand. At least until Michael has a chance to get away.”

She hoped Michael would forgive her. She had done her best to rescue him. Once the Deceiver got hold of her, Michael would have to figure out the next move and rescue her. She knew this was a trap. She knew that the Deceiver wouldn’t let Michael go if he could help it. If they lost this crazy gamble, she was very sorry, but selfishly she hoped she would get to die first.

Up ahead, the cabin appeared through a break in the trees. When she reached the edge of the foliage, she paused to peek into the clearing. Her gaze skittered around, taking in details.

Several bodies littered the ground. Several more guards were alert and positioned at various places through the open area. They all had that queer, smudged quality in their auras. A black limousine parked at a slant across the gravel drive, blocking the way.

A handsome young man leaned back against the limousine, one foot crossed over the other. He was dark-haired with a clever, narrow face and dressed in a tasteful navy blue business suit. He held a handgun in a relaxed grip at his side, the muzzle pointing to the ground.

For a startled moment she felt a happy, relieved incredulity.

Justin hadn’t died in the fire. He was alive.

Then she saw it. The aura surrounding Justin’s body was so black that it shimmered, diamondlike, created from the pressure of an existence that had spanned the ages.

Her world crashed around her, and she clutched at a tree trunk to keep from falling. Horror sank razor-edged teeth into her.

No. No. No.

Oh God. Not Justin.

Justin was truly dead.

She didn’t know she had any more tears left until they poured in burning streaks down her face.

Dark spirits clung to trees, bushes and to some of the men. They rustled and whispered, the oily sound like a toxic sludge pouring along the edges of her mind.

Two men crept toward her through the woods.

She held the gun to her temple and took a step into the clearing. By then she had gone so hoarse she didn’t recognize her own voice. She said, “Two of your ass**les are trying to come at me from behind. Call them off. Order the men with Michael to come back. Do it now.”

Not-Justin turned toward her. He gave her a delighted smile, and he looked so like Justin’s roguish, unrepentant charm she gagged.

He said in Justin’s pleasant, familiar voice, “There’s our princess. Hold on a moment.”

She waited. Her stalkers withdrew. Her mind jumped from the men in the woods to the two transporting Michael. They dropped him and began jogging back.

She reached for Michael telepathically. This was the best I can do. I’m so sorry.

She thought she caught a thread of whisper in reply just before an invisible wall slammed down between them, blocking out all communication.

“Now, cookie,” said not-Justin. “I’m a rather jealous sort. Right now I want all of your attention on me. I’ve kept my part of the bargain. It’s time for you to keep yours.”

She hesitated, remembering Michael’s promise to kill her before he let the Deceiver take her. Her hand clenched on the gun’s grip.

Not-Justin cocked his head. “You know,” he said. “Much as I love Mel Brooks’s sense of humor and his satire on racism, this is not nearly as amusing as that ‘shoot-the-nigger’ scene in Blazing Saddles, when the black man holds himself hostage. Put the gun down or my men go back to Michael. I’ll have them cut off his hands and feet. If he doesn’t bleed to death while I deal with you I can finish him later. I do promise you, cookie, if it comes to that I will be delighted to take my time with him.”

The gun dropped from her nerveless fingers. It hit the ground.

“Excellent,” he said, smiling. He pushed from the limousine and strolled through the bodies toward her. “I guess I’ve made it rather obvious how much I want you.”

“Well, yes. . . .”

He lifted his gun and shot her.

She felt it punch her left shoulder. Her body arced backward as the clearing whirled. Then the ground came up and slammed into her. She thought she heard someone roaring.

Distantly, she got the impression of several men running out of the clearing. The dark spirits lifted from the trees and flapped away.

Two wingtip shoes came sideways into her vision. The Deceiver said, “As you might have gathered from your last life, I might want you alive, but I’m not averse to a little judicious maiming.”

Her mouth opened. She tried to take a breath. One of her hands scrabbled at the grass. Then she spiraled inward in an agonized epiphany.

Red was important to her.

Red filled her mind, a warm, glowing vibrancy like live coals except for one dark torn place. Her awareness flew in that direction, past the pumping heart and the working bellows of her lungs, to the jagged hole that ripped through her body.

The bullet had entered just below her collarbone. It had flattened as it moved through muscle and tissue, creating more damage where it exited than where it had entered. As she followed the damage to the back of her shoulder, she sent commands to her body that would stop the worst of the bleeding.

And just like Michael’s body had when she had commanded it, her body obeyed.

The abused flesh began to knit back together at the microscopic level.

She felt herself lifted and turned. The Deceiver probed curiously at her wound. As she tried to push the hard fingers away, she flashed back to that ancient horror when he had reached into her body and handled organs that were never meant to endure such exposure.

“The bleeding has already starting to slow.” He sounded thrilled. “You are remembering. How delicious.”

Inside, the door to her secret, golden treasure chamber opened, and precious knowledge scrolled out.

She staved off the lethargy of shock and kept her temperature controlled. White blood cells started to locate and destroy foreign bacteria.

Of course. How could she have forgotten?

She had always known she was a healer. This was how she healed.

The Deceiver picked her up and carried her toward the limousine. “You know, in that life when I found you, your family had sheltered you so much you never had a clue how famous you had become,” he said, his tone conversational. “I wanted you from the first moment I’d heard of you. I was sure that you were one of us.”

She only gave him part of her attention. Most of her awareness focused on her internal reality.

This was how she knew how close Michael had come to cardiac arrest, yesterday in the bathroom.

This was why she had poured so much energy into him, how she had calmed his heart. He had sunk so deeply into the memories of his own death he had almost killed himself again.

His heart. The blood, the arteries, and the rhythmic pumping of his heart, all normally so strong.

“You should have heard the names they called you in the city.” The Deceiver jerked his head at one of his soldiers, who sprang forward to open the back door. “Blessed of Allah, Daughter of Heaven. You were a legend before you were twenty. They said you had a face like an angel and a touch like Jesus. It looks like you still do, Mary, Mary.”

Quite contrary.

Before the intention had formed properly in her mind, she slapped a hand flat on his breastbone. She sent her awareness through that touch, thrusting into him like a scalpel.

And if she had the nerve to wield a scalpel, she could shoot this gun.

Justin’s heart was wonderfully healthy, thirty years old and strong as an ox. He should have lived to be a wisecracking, mischievous old man.

She tangled her awareness in veins and arteries. She gripped the rhythmic pumping muscle with her mind like a fist then she—

Yanked.

Shock bolted across his face. His arms loosened. She fell hard and awkwardly. She cried out as the impact shot burning pain through her left shoulder and lung. Pushing against the ground, she managed to turn onto her back. She looked up.

He hunched over, clutching at his chest. The normal healthy tan of Justin’s complexion turned purplish. His features contorted with astonishment, pain and rage.

DAMN YOU! he roared in her head like a cyclone. GODDAMN YOU!

Wheezing, he fell to one knee. His eyes turned toward her, and they were black diamond eyes, as vast as twin black holes, and they were filled with her destruction. He reached an unsteady hand toward her.

Oh God. She couldn’t let him touch her.

She rolled away and kept rolling as he lunged after her. How long before his hemorrhaging heart brought him to immobility, unconsciousness? Would it be soon enough?

He sprawled full length, his grasping fingers scant inches from her ankle. She glanced back at him. He fought to get his knees underneath him again.

Gunfire exploded nearby. She realized she’d been hearing gunfire in the background for a few minutes now.

The Deceiver grabbed for her ankle again. His fingers brushed the cuff of her jeans and hooked underneath the hem.

“WHY DON’T YOU JUST DIE!” she screamed at him.

She kicked him in the face. His head snapped back, and blood sprayed from his nose. Jackknifing away, she got to her hands and knees. The weight made her injured shoulder pulse with agony. She curled her left arm around her torso and scuttled away like a wounded crab.

After five feet, she sent a terrified glance over her shoulder.

He had to be close to death. He had to be.

He had abandoned his pursuit of her. He lay curled on his side, his psychic presence as malignant and as powerful as ever. The soldier that had opened the limousine door for him walked toward him. The man’s aura was smudged and dark, his expression blank.

The soldier bent over the dying man with the stiff disjointedness of a marionette puppet. Not-Justin grabbed the soldier’s hand. The soldier convulsed then collapsed on top of him.

She didn’t dare wait to see any more. Instead she pushed to her feet and lurched down the gravel driveway in a stumbling run, supporting her injured arm with the other.

Ahead of her, Michael lunged around the bend in the gravel drive. He was limping badly, sweating profusely and bleeding from several wounds. In one hand, he held an automatic weapon. In the other, he gripped a foot-long knife that dripped ruby liquid. The savage expression on his hard face made her sob.

She tripped and almost went down. He limped up to her, slung the gun onto his shoulder and sheathed the knife. Then, with as much care as if she were made of spun glass, he put his arms around her. She dropped her forehead to his collarbone. Heat poured off of him in waves.

“Thank you, God,” she whispered.

“Where is he?” His voice was gravel. His chest heaved.

“Back there.” She pointed with her good hand toward the clearing as she leaned against him, hungrily soaking in the sensation of his strong body next to hers.

He held her away from him. “Christ, you’re covered with blood.” His voice shook. “How bad is it?”