Home Beyond Hell

Chapter One

Vanessa

Look, I like a raging case of dysentery as much as the next girl—Vanessa Brouwer wrapped her arms around the branch to pull herself up—but I’m throwing my rubber underwear at the next amateur cook who gets free rein in our kitchen.

She grunted, swung her leg, and straddled the narrow limb like a seesaw. Its bark—still cool to the touch, thanks to North Holland’s version of late summer—scraped her bare thighs under the skirt, which was skimpy this morning even by her own standards.

I’d like to actually live to see the end of 2066, now that I’ve made it to twenty-two—whoa! She clamped the branch with both hands as she teetered in the tree. Twenty-two years. She sighed. Guess the ladder would have been better.

She looked down at the black-and-white bunny, who sat up on his haunches in the grass and wriggled his nose at her feet dangling a meter and a half above him. His right ear stuck out to the side at a ninety-degree angle from his left, which didn’t help the half-wit appearance his single upper-front tooth gave him, poor guy. But the other residents were wrong: he wasn’t ugly; he was…exotic.

She leaned back against the trunk and strained her fingers toward the wicker basket she’d already nestled in a crook of the apple tree boughs. Anyway—she managed to jerk the basket onto her lap without losing her balance—I only need to gnaw my way through Marien’s casserole surprise at dinner, and then I’ll be leaving the compound for good this time. Tonight. She wagged a finger at the bunny. My only regret is that my garden will be at the mercy of that bottomless pit of yours.

The Havana stared up at her with his big brown eyes, the picture of innocence—though his left eye was fittingly set within a black patch of fur like a little pirate. She swiped at an apple hanging far to her right, and all the fruit in the basket tumbled to one end. She caught herself against the tree trunk as the un-gotten apple went flying into the orchard somewhere. The rabbit’s left white-tipped ear pricked forward, but then he hunkered down in the grass.

I know, I know. She grimaced at him as she tugged up the shoulders of her peasant blouse. Ladder: better.

She squirmed on the branch to scratch an itch on her inner thigh. Okay, and maybe pants.

Today she was decked out in a flouncy-skirted blue ensemble that would highlight her green eyes and blond tresses. She was going for a free spirit kind of look. But admittedly—perched in a tree and unintentionally exhibiting her undies—she probably reinforced the other residents’ image of her as better suited to waitress at the Haarloze Hond bar than to act as chief gardener and kitchen help.

Nearby, the early sunshine danced across the panes of the two greenhouses, wherein her hydroponic experiments and tropical fruit trees cast foggy shadows like a phantom army of flora. A breeze carried the earthy sweet scent of leaves past her as it curled through the branches of the apple trees. It was not a huge orchard, by any means, because there was only so much space inside the old stone compound, but it had always been her favorite part of the garden.

She set the basket on her knee and draped an arm over the branch by her head to scan the surrounding gray walls of the crumbling eighteenth-century Fort Van Doorn, where she and so many other residents had grown up. Honestly, she did love her home, as ridiculously anachronistic as it was. But there was a real world out there to explore, with people who thought nothing of driving a car or surfing the internet.

She hooked an elbow around the basket handle and scooped up one of the red-skinned apple varieties that had ripened earlier than usual.

Unfortunately, that real world also held roving, pillaging gangs that had cropped up ever since the Netherlands had closed its borders and sunk into isolationism like all the nations around it, which had only stoked the growing turmoil. But such marauders preyed on the bigger inhabited villages, where there was more stuff to steal and people to abuse. This was a remote part of the country that used to be crowded with life, but which had been forcibly abandoned by a Dutch population who feared what the new era of governmental corruption would bring to the province. Now, much of this northern area near the coast was vacant, leaving nature to overrun and reclaim what it had once shared. Things were safer here.

Vanessa took a bite of the red prince apple and swung her legs to bump her heels rhythmically against the tree trunk.

Well, safety was overrated. And safety kept a person from the simple thrill of having choices. And it certainly erased the possibility of finding the elusive soul mate she always read about in her books who made the main character so blissfully happy.

Her smile widened as she chewed, and she bumped her heels harder.

She could brave a little dystopian chaos if it meant a meaningful make-out session with a tall, dark stranger. Considering it had been two years since she’d even dated a guy, her libido might pose more of a threat than any band of pirates out there. And a new life would be exciting. A new life would mean fresh faces and open landscapes, instead of old walls closing in on her with constant reminders that—

That I killed my parents.

She took a shallow bite of the apple, but all the flavor seemed to have drained from it.

They’d brought her here as a child, to keep her safe. To protect her from the people who were hunting them. And it had taken only a few short years for her to betray them. Both Cornelis and Rhetta insisted it wasn’t her fault. They said the man had tricked her into giving her parents away. But it didn’t matter. She’d been angry with her mom and dad at the time because they’d grounded her when they’d caught her doing something reckless. They’d done it to make her learn from her mistakes. So in an infantile snit, she’d pointed him their way, when he’d said he was coming to collect a debt. No one would let her see what the man had done, once he’d found them. No one would tell her about the way he’d torn them apart, slaughtered them—

Don’t, Vanessa.

She swallowed the tasteless fruit. De molen gaat niet om met wind die voorbij is, she mumbled. The windmill doesn’t turn from wind that has already blown by. It was one of the few proverbs she could actually recite in Dutch, because Rhetta had drilled it into her since she was twelve, when it happened: the past is gone, and no one can change it.

She’d opened her mouth to take another bite when something shot past the leaves with the sound of scissors through wrapping paper and slammed into her wicker basket.

The world spun and tilted. Branch after branch whacked her body all the way down until she landed flat on her back. She wheezed and fought for air as if a ten-kilo bag of sand had been dropped on her chest.

Her heart pounded in her ears, and her mind screamed at her. What the hell?

The rabbit—at first spooked by her sudden decision to rejoin him—promptly settled next to her and began to nibble on the apple still clutched in her hand. She struggled up onto one elbow and pushed his face away, gasping for breath. Not…helpful.

She arched her back to feel for anything broken and then flopped onto her stomach in the dew-dipped grass, her lungs burning with the effort. She wheezed again, and goose bumps skipped down her arms. She got to all fours and scrambled backward until she rammed into the tree. She sat up and pressed herself to the slender trunk, finally managing to catch her breath.

The wicker basket sat lopsided on the ground nearby. Juice oozed out around an arrow embedded deep in the basket’s side. Had it struck a few centimeters to the left, it would have pierced her like mutton on a spit.

She shifted against the trunk to peer behind her, but none of the other residents seemed to pay her any attention as they meandered along the covered corridors that encircled the garden’s perimeter. She tugged on her skirt hem as she crouched against the tree. Everyone else wore pants and long-sleeved T-shirts this late in August, while there she was, publicizing her purple panties to any casual observer. But then, she hadn’t planned on diving for cover to avoid becoming a pincushion!

She yanked on her skirt again and swept her eyes along the top of the battlements, where a few of the younger residents usually hung out. But there was no bow-wielding culprit in sight, so the arrow had not come from there. The back field. Had to be from the back field. That would have been the right direction, the way it came tearing through her poor Elstar apple tree.

She tried to flag down some passersby. Hey! Did you see that? she rasped. Hey, listen! When a few of the women stopped and stared at her, she gestured toward her wicker basket. Did any of you see that?

They continued to stare.

She dug her nails into the half-eaten apple she still held. It was attempted homicide! How could you not notice?

Their gazes moved to her legs. Then all of the women exchanged smirks.

Vanessa’s face heated. Really? We’re going to ignore the Arrow of Death but not my fashion choices? But just as she opened her mouth again, they bustled away. Wait, did they just—?

Vanessa snapped her mouth closed and shoved herself away from the tree to stand up. She flung the apple to the ground and leaned down to wrench the arrow from the side of the basket. She gripped it above her like a club, and her voice echoed off the stone walls. Does anyone care that someone just tried to screw me from behind?

With that, people did pause and look at her again.

She blinked. I mean, skewer. Someone tried to skewer me from behind. From behind the fort, I mean.

A few more residents emerged from the surrounding hallways and stood between the arched columns of the perimeter, glancing at one another.

She shook the arrow at a cluster of elderly women to her right. Damn it, I’m not crazy! If you want proof, just look at my backside! Her cheeks flared, and she squeezed her eyes shut. My basket. I meant basket. It was a sneak attack from the rear…uh, from the back field and right into my…I mean—

Stop. Just stop, Vanessa.

No one else in the garden even paused after that. Big surprise. Her unpredictable yap often made her easy to ignore. But come on, this was different!

A bead of wetness rolled down her right wrist. She lowered the arrow to look at it. Wrapped around the shaft was a piece of paper, soggy from the juice of the pierced apples. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear and unrolled the sticky sheet to detach it. There was big bold writing across the page: Knock, knock!

She shook her head. Had to be one of the kids from the town pulling a prank, especially if it came in from the outside. The people of Achterwaartsstad already thought the compound residents were a bunch of freaks for making their home in a rundown military fort from the seventeen hundreds, so not a shocker if this had been a random joke. Vanessa examined the bright red fletches. The arrow was finely made and was, in fact, too long for a child to handle with any accuracy.

She gave a wry smile. Too bad it hadn’t landed in Caretaker Dijkstra’s scrawny ass. The so-called leader of the compound would make a tempting target for anyone acquainted with the pretentious Dutchman. He was convinced that his knowledge and importance far outweighed his youth, despite the fact that he had the temperament of a candy-fueled toddler.

And then she heard it: that cringeworthy sound of the caretaker’s voice as it whined through one of the perimeter passageways. Vanessa looked over the low wall that ran the length of the orchard to separate it from the rest of the garden. And there was Dijkstra making his way toward the rear entrance, his angular face pinched and covered with sweat. Several members of his personal kiss-ass brigade followed closely on his heels.

People? What do you mean there are people out back? Dijkstra demanded, the v and d sounds in his speech thicker under his overt bad mood so that it came out as "Vut do you mean der are people…" His accent was more pronounced than a lot of the other residents. It was a little jarring, considering her parents had raised her to speak English with more precise articulation.

The caretaker tugged on the collar of his embroidered tunic, while his aide scuttled alongside him. He had obviously deluded himself into thinking he was a feudal lord, out of place in this day and age, but still dressed as if he were a duke lounging in his pajamas. No one else would be caught dead in something that looked like their ancient ancestor’s muumuu. Just because the residents all lived in an archaic dump didn’t mean they had no sense of modern vogue.

Sir, there are a great many of them. The assistant’s hands flailed. Fifty, I think. Maybe even a hundred. They appeared by the back woods ten minutes ago. They do not look friendly.

The several residents who trailed the caretaker bobbed their heads in agreement like a covey of quail.

Vell, vut do dey vahnt?

Vanessa squinted. Whatever was going on, it really had Dijkstra’s tunic in a twist, because she had to work harder at translating. Got it: Well, what do they want?

The caretaker wiped his hands on his chest and left streaks of white powder that had most assuredly come from his interrupted breakfast of oliebollen. His obsession with the fried raisin-stuffed dough balls was notorious. Schiet op! Dijkstra barked at the aide and waved his hands ahead of him.

The aide picked up his pace. We don’t know what they want. They haven’t approached yet so we could ask. The aide snatched Dijkstra’s sleeve. Sir, they’re armed. Every one of them.

Even from far away, the note of hysteria in the assistant’s voice was clear. Something simmering in the back of Vanessa’s brain made her look down at the handwritten message:

Knock, knock!

An object buzzed by above, and she jerked her head up. A small spidery-looking drone circled briefly and then hovered over the fort. She winced as bright beams of orange light cascaded outward from all sides of the tiny black aircraft and created a burning, crackling dome over the entire compound. All the people who now wandered out from every corner of the fort stopped and stared above them at the glowing vault of light.

She glanced again at the paper note. No, not a prank. A warning.

Vanessa kicked her basket out of the way and hurled herself through one of the openings in the long wall. She wove her way around the fruit and vegetable beds as she headed for the rear gates. Maybe she could make it in time to intercept the caretaker and his entourage now that they had all slowed down to gape at the pulsating orange ceiling.

Caretaker! Wait a minute! She waved the arrow in front of her. Caretaker, hold on! Something’s not—

He didn’t hear her.

Or he’s ignoring me.

She pressed her lips together and ran faster. She was only meters away, close enough to count the number of white pastry-powder handprints on the caretaker’s tunic, when the sound of a low, muffled boom in the distance stopped her in mid-step.

Apprehensive silence gripped the compound.

Then an explosion burst the massive double doors off their hinges.

Chapter Two

Vanessa

The shock wave spun Vanessa so hard that she hit the ground on her knees. Something rough grazed her arm while the repeated thud of falling debris surrounded her. She opened her eyes and felt along her jaw with her fingers, afraid her teeth had rattled out of her skull. She shook her head as a dull ringing grew in her ears.

What the hell? What the hell? What the hell?

Coughing, Vanessa climbed to her feet, her legs wobbly. She turned to look at the rear gates. One of the doors lay flat, split halfway down the center, while the other had crashed against the opposite side of the archway. Jagged splinters of wood and chunks of stone littered the ground and corridor. The quiet that followed seemed unreal, every sound wiped out by that single deafening blast. It was like childhood stories in which a dark predator, so deadly, would enter an area of the forest, and every scratching wood mouse, every songbird, every insect would fall mute as it neared.

Her skin went cold. What kind of monster is making its way toward us?

More residents rushed into the garden to see what the noise was about. They burbled to each other at the sight of the glowing orange dome overhead and the heavy oak gates torn away from the rear entrance. The acrid smell of smoke and dust floated through the air. The caretaker had clambered to his feet but stayed back among the others, as if he too were merely a bystander and not the undaunted hero of the compound that he professed to be.

Vanessa’s breath caught in her throat as a huge hulk of a man stepped through the hazy doorway and eyed the small crowd in the corridor. His thick black mustache and smooth bald head made him a surreal character, like a baleful genie materializing from an old oil lamp. More men filed in, led by a burly brown-bearded stranger wearing a kilt and walking with a mechanical prosthetic leg—the length of it painted red and crisscrossed by green lines—that whirred and clunked with each step. Then a few other armed men in contrasting uniforms trotted by and sprinted up the nearby stairs to position themselves along the battlements above. What a diverse crew they were, like someone had shaken all the countries together in a bowl, grabbed a handful of people, and flung them at the compound. And there was something careful and calculated about how all this was playing out. They had done this before.

Fear, like a finger of ice, traced its way down Vanessa’s spine.

Marauders.

But why would they attack here, in this tiny rural corner of Europe? There was food and money in the fort, but not gobs of either.

What happens when they find out that we don’t even have electricity or creature comforts? What happens when a bunch of bandits get angry?

She stiffened.

And why am I standing so close to all of them?

She was about to back up, when another man appeared through the smoky gateway. He was tall and lean, but well-built. His hair was cropped short and raven-black, the same inky shade as his mustache and goatee. He motioned silently to two men behind him with rifles slung over their shoulders. He nodded toward both ends of the garden, where some of the residents were getting hysterical. The armed men took off and expertly corralled the panicked people who’d tried to flee back into the halls of the fort. Apparently, fifty-some-odd residents were no match for one pair of experienced invaders. These guys knew what they were doing, all right.

The raven-haired man stopped to survey the garden, but then his gaze rested on her. Again, she was standing way too close, because she could clearly make out the color of those eyes that now riveted her in place: deep bluish gray, like a storm darkening the North Sea sky.

Then behind the raven-haired man appeared a strange apparition. Vanessa stared at the newcomer as one of the resident women nearby emitted a frightened God allemachtig! The hooded figure seemed to be male and was dressed in a long robe of impenetrable blackness. Like an unholy monk, come to damn them all. Though he did wear a long-sleeved shirt beneath it, the robe itself had no sleeves, and so the black grip of a gun poked into view at his left hip. Maybe the open-sided robe gave him the freedom to draw his weapon at a moment’s notice. And blow someone’s head off. That thought made her shoulders go rigid.

Damn, why was she still standing there? If ever there was a time to belt out a healthy scream and run for the hills, it was then.

Don’t notice me. Please don’t notice me.

He didn’t. He focused instead on Dijkstra, who cowered with his followers. The robed man stopped in front of the caretaker and tugged on the bottom of each of his black gloves. Since the sleeveless robe gave visibility to the long-sleeved black shirt beneath it, it highlighted how much the muscles on the stranger’s arms stretched the shirt’s fabric when he moved. Okay. Evil druid guy. But a very buff evil druid guy who could probably hold his own in hand-to-hand combat. She scanned him from his black boots to the top of his hooded head. And very tall. An uber-druid.

She gripped the arrow tighter and wrapped her arms around herself as she debated again about the best way to back up without drawing attention to herself. She glanced away from the towering hooded figure, but her stomach clenched when she saw that the raven-haired man still watched her.

Are you in charge? the robed man asked Dijkstra.

Finally, he speaks.

Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Violent was evidently a fan of huge dramatic pauses, considering how long they had all been staring at each other. The caretaker, however, couldn’t stop staring. His aide nudged him in the back, and Dijkstra jumped. Then he inched forward.

I am Caretaker Dijkstra. He glanced around at all the residents, who watched him expectantly. He held his chin higher and injected a tone of arrogance into his words…though not enough to hide the tremor in his voice. I demand to know who you are and why you have attacked us!

The tall figure pushed back his hood. His head was completely covered by a black cloth, with openings only for his eyes and mouth. He glanced once to the side, away from her, showing that the cloth had been crudely pinned together in the back. He had apparently spared every expense on a decent mask.

If we had actually attacked you, Caretaker, then you wouldn’t be alive to have this conversation. Uber-Druid had no discernible accent, but there was a certain subtle cadence to the rhythm of his speech that was oddly compelling. The quiet menace in his voice, however, cut through the hope that he would be tolerant of anyone who stood in his way. Don’t make me change my mind. I don’t have time to drag all your corpses out of my new base.

The caretaker’s mouth dropped open. New base?

Vanessa’s mouth dropped open in turn. That’s the part he was worried about? Had he totally missed the word corpses?

N-no, Dijkstra said. No, you can’t do this. I-I won’t allow it.

Then we’ll have to get rid of you. The masked intruder’s voice was low, the rumble of it seeming to ripple the air around him. You choose: in the head or in the chest.

A distinct click came from the other side of the robed figure, where the giant bald genie stood. The caretaker paled as the mustached strongman pointed a long, brightly chromed pistol at him.

But I’m the one who holds this compound together. Sweat began to flow in sheets down Dijkstra’s neck. It can’t function without me.

Head or chest? the robed man asked more firmly.

Vanessa’s eyes jumped between the stony faces that hovered near the strange leader.

Uber-Druid held back his shoulders. Morgan!

With one smooth step, the raven-haired man stood silently at his commander’s side.

Flip a coin.

Please, wait! Caretaker Dijkstra held up his palms and then clasped them in front of himself. There doesn’t need to be bloodshed. We’ll open our home to you. I’m sure we can find a way to accommodate all your men. We’ll share whatever we have!

This compound became mine when we blew your doors to shit, Uber-Druid said sharply. We don’t need your permission or your hospitality.

At that, the man named Morgan nodded at the shaven-headed stranger still pointing the chromed gun. The huge man stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of his weapon to the caretaker’s temple.

Vanessa stumbled forward. He’s a giant pain in the ass, but he’s not worth killing!

All heads turned in her direction.

The edges of the crumpled note cut into her palm, and her heartbeat pounded in her throat. Oh no. Why did I do that?

She couldn’t even blink. Everyone’s focus was on her. Some men’s gazes traveled the length of her body with more than mere curiosity, and her face roasted under the inspection. But the breath rushed from her lungs when Uber-Druid fixed his gaze on her.

His eyes. So green, they couldn’t be real. Bright and burning. A tiger’s stare from the depths of wooded shadows. She locked her knees.

And now I have the beast’s attention.

The robed man spoke directly to her then, and there was a clear growl in his voice. Maybe you’d like to take his place instead.

Her legs grew numb. Morgan stared steadily at her and then gave a subtle shake of his head. A warning to keep quiet. But it didn’t work.

It wouldn’t matter anyway, she said, her voice shaking. It would still be a mistake you can’t fix.

The back of her neck tingled painfully, and she squeezed her eyes shut. What is wrong with you, Vanessa?

At last, as the ensuing silence closed around her like a vise, she pried open one eye. The robed man watched her for a few seconds longer. Then her knees weakened in relief when he turned back to Dijkstra.

Well, Caretaker Pain-in-the-Ass, evidently you have one advocate. The man paused, and he must have shifted his gaze to the people behind Dijkstra by the way they all flinched. Unless someone else wants to vouch for you.

The caretaker’s tongue flashed, lizard-like, across his lips. He looked around, but not even the brownnosers behind him made a sound.

Looks like you’re taking a trip. Sergeant Maxwell—Uber-Druid signaled the man in the kilt forward—if you don’t mind…

Aye, Captain! The bearded man seized the caretaker so hard that the brawny sergeant’s long, braided ponytail whipped up over one shoulder. He held a basket-handled broadsword in his other fist, like he’d been extracted mid-charge from some battle in the dreary Scottish moors. His mechanical leg clunked with each footfall as he half-walked, half-dragged Dijkstra toward the rear archway, which still smoked from whatever explosive the marauders had used. The Scotsman shoved the caretaker out through the opening.

The captain stood in the gateway while Dijkstra regained his balance. The volume of the captain’s voice rose just enough that it carried. "Show your face here again, or contact the town authorities, and I’ll decide where to put the bullet. And I’ll make sure you bleed out slowly."

The caretaker turned and visibly trembled at the mass of men—maybe thirty to forty soldiers who seemed to be of all races and nationalities. Some reclined against military-type cars dotting the expansive back field, and others hung out from what looked like a huge brown-camouflaged transport vehicle. But all of them silently awaited orders from their robed leader.

One tall and heavily muscled Black man with a clean-shaven head stood in the front of the group and leaned on a gun with a revolving canister in the middle of it. It did not seem to be a normal kind of weapon, like the hunting rifle her father had owned when she was a kid. This thing looked like it could lob small bombs with each trigger pull. Judging by the markings on the man’s sleeve, he was some kind of high-ranking officer. He scratched his chin and flipped the weapon up to rest on his shoulder as he chewed his gum. He was probably the one responsible for the well-aimed strike to the old doors, since he maneuvered the mammoth gun as effortlessly as she handled a garden trowel. But what kind of marauders went to the trouble of smashing their way in, when they could have just taken one look around the decrepit fort and walked through the gaping hole already in the east wall? These guys were either impetuous or unobservant.

Caretaker Dijkstra whirled, and his mouth swung open and closed a few times like a dumbfounded marionette. He spread his hands wordlessly toward his former sycophants, who were huddled far back from the strangers. Then, with one last glance at the captain, Dijkstra seemed to wither inside his lordly tunic before he trudged out of sight. He was no doubt making his way toward the front of the compound, since the small town to the south seemed the only logical refuge.

The captain pulled his hood back up and rotated to face her. Even from afar, his green eyes glowed in the gloom of the cowl. She held her breath. But then he pivoted again, and his polished black boots sent his footfalls ricocheting off the corridor walls as he strode away.

His men did not follow but instead exited the compound, where Morgan shouted instructions to the assembled marauders in a surprisingly refined English accent. She turned her head when a new voice echoed through the garden.

Hey, me cocks, luh! A welcome basket! A young man with a wild nest of dishwater-blond hair—like a scarecrow wearing a messy wig—stood in the orchard and hefted her basket high to show his comrades. Then he caught sight of Vanessa and bounded toward her with a broad smile. Is this from you, ducky? he called out. That was a right thoughtful thing! By his accent, he obviously wasn’t Dutch either.

He sauntered to meet her as he adjusted the old-timey curvy bow that was slung over his shoulder. He pulled a long red-fletched arrow out of the quiver on his back and halted in front of her.

We don’t usually be gettin’ presents, eh? He stabbed the arrow’s head into one of the green-skinned apples in her basket and took a bite from the speared fruit. I’m Thomas Mercer, best point man booze can buy. A fleck of apple flew past her head as he forced the garbled words out. Who do you belong to?

She shifted her weight to one foot. Uh…

He pointed the impaled apple at the paper still clutched in her hand and spoke as he chewed. I sees you got our message: knock, knock! Pretty good joke, wha’? He swung the apple around to point it at the mustached man who now made his way across the garden. That was Frank’s idea. Russian sense o’ humor. He’s a real comedian!

Well, that was unlikely. Tucking his chrome-barreled gun in his waistband, the bald giant glowered at every person he passed, as if they had woken him from a sound sleep and made him come down off his beanstalk.

Thomas clamped the apple-ended arrow between his jaws and pulled the message arrow through her fist. Thanks for keepin’ this warm, trout, he said through his teeth as he slipped it into the quiver behind him. He spat the apple-arrow into his hand and shoved the wicker basket at her. She grabbed the handle as she tottered back a step. Thomas caught her arm and tossed a grin toward the orchard. Ay b’y, you got any other of those kinds of apples over there? Like McIntosh or Gravenstein? Used to have them ones back home in Newfoundland.

Ay b’y? What does that even mean?

Once more, intelligent speech escaped her. Uh…

He took another bite from his fruit-on-a-stick and talked around his mouthful. Loves to score me a couple fresh off the tree, I would. Have a right good scoff, some quick. I’d have ’em back to me room…wherever that ends up being. He stopped chewing, and his face lit up. Hey, maybe we’ll gets to be roomies!

When she didn’t move, Thomas jiggled her arm and nodded at the orchard. Still hugging the basket against her chest like a child with a teddy bear, she led him toward the center of the garden.

Well, congratulations, Vanessa. You got your adventure.

Because now this place was anything but safe.

Chapter Three

Ethan

Like we’re stuck in a goddamn time warp.

Captain Ethan Evans pulled his robe’s hood forward to block the late-afternoon light that flashed at him through a rough-cut window as he turned down another dank hallway. The layout of the stronghold was unusual, but his gut told him this was the way back to the central area of the compound where the spacious garden lay. It was only day one of his occupation, but he had an affinity for learning his environment quickly. Adaptability was key to survival. He had already located the caretaker’s quarters and chucked his well-worn rucksack onto the bed. The temptation to collapse beside it and close his eyes for a few minutes had been hard as hell to resist. But he needed to keep moving so he could evaluate their surroundings.

Next on the agenda was to assess the size of the armory. It would probably be located near the garden for easy access. Most likely, the room would not be big enough to accommodate his army’s heavier artillery. But this was the first time he had ever commandeered a fort—or any structure built for battle, ancient though it was—so it might surprise him. Regardless, it was a lesser concern than the many vulnerabilities inherent in a decaying building full of potential dissidents. Above all, he needed to keep the flock in check.

That busty blond girl from this morning required a little further scrutiny, though. He could read the unrest in many of the others’ faces, but she had been the only one to attempt defiance—even if her words had been halfhearted. The caretaker didn’t strike him as a man that people gave two real shits about. But the fact that she’d been able to stay Ethan’s hand and defend the incompetent fuck showed she had more backbone than the rest of them. And that could make her useful.

He could certainly make use of those long legs of hers, were circumstances different. His success rate with women had always been gratifyingly high, back when he had the benefit of his old face. But even if he had any inclination to bed someone in his present condition, he’d had his fill of floozies who were interested only in ingratiating themselves with a man in power. And she was probably the same breed of bimbo.

He pushed the robe’s hood back off his head and smoothed his mask with a hand. He returned the salutes of two of his soldiers but disregarded the timid looks he received from the residents he swept past. They were a low-grade threat compared to the hostiles who had been dogging his steps for the past two years.

The Ukrainians were still out there, nipping at his army’s heels. Though they had not shown themselves in months, their absence proved nothing. At any point, one of their runners could start baying at Ethan’s back and alert the larger enemy contingent. The runner would no doubt be a carbon copy of the first one Ethan’s men had ever captured, back in Belarus: vindictive, single-minded, and righteous. In that initial encounter—before the bastard even finished choking down the poison pill hidden in his teeth—he’d delivered with a sneer the same English-memorized message that would later be uttered by every runner to follow. It was directed at Ethan alone and each time worded exactly: You cannot burn us. You cannot kill us. We will bury you screaming beneath the bodies of your men.

Ethan’s army was then left with a useless carcass and no way to find the implanted tracking device so they could cut it out and silence the signal. Cracking open a can of gas and tossing a match on the dead fucker worked well enough. Turned out they still could burn after all. But the flames that ate away those bodies were probably nothing compared with the fate his pursuers were planning for him, if they ever got their hands on him. Because he’d gone too far, reached too deep inside his well of rage so that he’d drowned himself in it. What he’d done to them in Ukraine wasn’t his only sin in life, by far. But it was the one that he might not survive.

The light was brighter up ahead. He was finally closer to the garden. But he paused at a door left partially open. He nudged the heavy slab of oak, and it swung inward with a slow creak. He scanned the room.

It was obviously a resident’s cubbyhole. There was a bed covered with a checkered quilt, a small soot-filled fireplace, and personal effects strewn about. He frowned at a faint whiff of lavender from an air freshener. This, like so many other rooms he’d passed, was evidently once part of the original barracks that had been partitioned into separate quarters. Every room against the outside of the compound also boasted a glass window that could be unlatched and opened to the cool autumn breezes. But exterior windows were a weakness and therefore uncommon in historic military forts. Just one more item on his list of things that were wrong with this place. It was strange that these people had decided to make their home in a ramshackle fortress, but maybe they were more concerned with living under the radar than living in comfort.

At least that’s one thing we all have in common.

He continued toward the end of the hallway. But as he emerged and turned to walk along one of the garden’s perimeter corridors, he missed a step and did a double-take. In the middle of the garden, a pair of his soldiers, Liam and Thomas, huddled together. They were intent on something in the grass in front of them. Thomas—his blond hair, as usual, in the same disarray as a mongrel puppy—was bent over with his hands on his knees. Liam squatted on the ground and extended his arm with something white in his hand. There was movement in front of them, where a small, furry, black-and-white creature sat nestled amid the green blades. The animal rose up on its haunches as Liam waved the chunk of white at it.

Ethan ground his teeth. Perfect. Now he was running an army and a petting zoo.

What the hell are you two doing? Ethan said as he stalked across the garden toward them.

The rabbit took off in a dead run, and the men groaned.

"Aw,