Samurai Game (GhostWalkers #10)(29)
Author: Christine Feehan

Thorn found she didn’t want to leave Sam, which made no sense. His life was in Lily’s hands, and Thorn’s presence would have no impact on whether he lived or died. Yet, still, she didn’t want to leave. Her reluctance bothered her because it was so deep, almost elemental. She pressed her lips together, grateful for her father’s teachings. Her face was composed, even serene. Her hands weren’t even shaking, although deep inside, her mind was crumbling into pieces and her body felt shattered. Her childhood was far too close. She shook her head, uncaring what he thought. She wasn’t leaving, not yet. Her legs were rubber anyway, so she wasn’t at all positive she could leave.

Father. The child called to the one man who had steadied her, thought her worthy enough to save. Help me. I’m lost again. Help me. But he was no longer alive to hear her call even if she yelled at the top of her lungs. She was alone and left with no protection in place.

Her eight-year-old heart still echoed in her ears, that shuddering thud that had lost its rhythm as she lay in the box, her nails digging into the lid, breaking off in an effort to get out. Had she been buried alive? No, she could hear voices. She was so cold—ice cold—for so long and finding it nearly impossible to breathe. She was suffocating in that tiny box, curled up on her side, desperate to know if she would ever get out.

Darkness. A car ride through a strange city with strangers. The car had slowed, her door opened, and she’d been shoved out, hitting the ground so hard she was certain every bone was smashed. She was afraid to lift her head, to look around. The scent of garbage and urine was strong. Small red eyes glowed at her from the darkness. She had never been out of the compound where Whitney conducted his experiments, and this place was almost more frightening.

She heard heavy footsteps, smelled a sweet, overpowering odor, increasing her terror. She closed her eyes tightly. Someone toed her with a boot. Hard hands moved over her body, and the man said something in a language she didn’t understand. A man laughed. She smelled the other—the man she would come to know as her father. The man who saved her. She would always recognize that wonderful scent.

He arrived with no sound, like an avenging angel, complete with sword and fierce eyes, so alive, so warm, and he made her feel safe and warm and worth something. And now he was gone. Father. I’m lost in this nightmare. I can’t close the door. Where are you?

The danger in this mission had always been those nightmare memories that often were more vivid than reality. Daiki had warned her that her memories would surface and try to consume her, but she hadn’t considered that they would be so strong that mere memories could affect her physically. She wanted to wrap her arms around her middle and hold herself very still until the earthquake passed.

Azami?

Thorn stepped back, looking wildly around. Her name had sounded soft, and slurred, but very distinct in her mind. Her father? Back from the dead? She tried to fit the sound with her father’s distinct voice. The accent was off. No matter how hard she tried to make her name sound as if her father reached out to comfort her—she couldn’t make the accent right.

The soldier named Tucker stood a few feet from her, watching her closely, the curiosity in his eyes telling her she was not keeping her countenance as serene as she should. Just to her right lounged the silent redheaded soldier she was certain had been appointed to guard her. She was about to lose reality right in front of these people. She would disgrace herself—live in shame for all time. Her father had taught her to overcome such things. Her mind and body could be divided if need be. She would dishonor her father if she couldn’t pull herself back together.

“Ms. Yoshiie?” Tucker stepped closer.

The scent of blood was overpowering. It was so difficult to breathe, but she made herself stay still. “Please call me Azami.” Thank God her voice didn’t shake as her insides were. She could feel sweat trickling down the valley between her br**sts. “My brothers and I have adopted a more Western approach than some of our fellow countrymen. It doesn’t offend me to have you use my given name.”

“I’m Tucker then, ma’am,” the large man replied.

Like Sam, he was dark-skinned and brown-eyed. He looked like the kind of man you wanted at your back in a fight. He flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Although he didn’t appear to be watchful or suspicious, she knew that he was every bit as alert as the soldier in the background. Every bit as alert and on guard as she was.

Thorn needed a few minutes of solitude to push back the memories of a child’s terror. She glanced into the tent and knew the moment she’d done so that it was a mistake. Bright lights shone down on Sam. She could smell blood. She could see a bloody scalpel in Lily’s blood-covered glove. The lights blinded her eyes until all she saw was that terrible sharp blade coming toward her chest, slicing through her skin, muscle, and tissue, digging for her heart.

She was cold. So cold. Ice had invaded her veins. Everywhere she looked the lights stung her eyes and exaggerated the monstrous features of the masked figures bending over her. The doctor, with his reptilian-cold eyes, reached for a shiny metal instrument with two handles connected by a bar in the middle.

It is nothing to fear, Thorn. Simply an instrument to spread your bones to get to your weakened heart. Surely you want me to fix it for you.

He moved the paddles closer together and leaned over her. She bit back a scream, sweat pouring from her body, her heart hammering so loud it echoed through that cold, sterile room.

Azami. The voice was more slurred than ever. Male. Brushing over the memories of a terrifled child. Soothing. Warmth pouring through all that terrible ice-cold.

Thorn stiffened, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. Father? Oh, God, she was truly losing her mind. She couldn’t pull back and there was nowhere to run and hide, to be alone in order to gather herself and push those memories back behind that steel door she kept closed in her mind.

“What’s wrong with you, Kyle?” Lily’s voice snapped out. Imperious. Demanding. “Keep him under. Do you think I can do this when he’s awake? We’re going to lose him to shock if he doesn’t die from blood loss.”

“He’s fighting it,” a man answered. “I swear, I’m afraid to give him more. He might not come back. He won’t go under. I’ve never had a patient react like this before.”

Through the netting, Thorn saw Lily bend over Sam. “Don’t fight it, Sam. Go to sleep and let me take care of you. Don’t fight me.”