"Don't get any closer," Marguerite said, her voice breathlessly croaking from her parched throat. She'd been awake all of five minutes. "I've got a gun! Stay back!" Waving her small automatic pistol for emphasis, Marguerite tried to sit up and discovered two things: first that she was extremely stiff, with countless tender spots along her left side; and second, that under this soft pile of supple furs, she wore only her parents' locket and a bandage tightly wound around her lower ribs. Nothing else. In arising she'd uncovered her breasts. She slid back under the furs.
Her caveman captor had looked unimpressed by the gun, but when she exposed her bosom he stood up and stepped away.
Grabbing a fur, Marguerite tried again to sit up. A blaze of pain sent her back down. She groaned a "Damn!" That had felt like a cracked rib, maybe two.
Marguerite vaguely remembered a dark night and being dragged behind a moving mountain. That explained the ribs. This unmistakably male caveman was enough to explain her lost clothes. He'd probably leered his fill while she was out … although he wouldn't look at her now.
Nothing but a lengthy bout of insanity or Xan's magic medallion could explain how she'd popped out of the Louvre and into a primitive cave in the middle of God knows where.
Damn that conniving bastard Xan! Why hadn't he told her to keep hands off his prize? Maybe he'd been trying to get rid of her.
Holding a simple wooden cup, the caveman squatted down beside Marguerite, the movement pulling his simple loincloth impressively snug. His tanned thighs bulged. A long beard and a thick twist of black hair hid heavily muscled shoulders. He looked more concerned about her than frightened; and instead of backing away, he held out his cup, gently pushing aside her pistol barrel. He grunted an invitation to drink. Marguerite heard water slosh.
Quickly she jerked clear the little automatic. "Stay back," she husked and licked her lips. The water might be poisoned or drugged.
Her mouth felt like an Arabian sand dune.
The caveman pulled back his cup but stayed put. Perhaps he didn't understand about guns. He didn't seem frightened.
When Marguerite had come to five minutes ago, she'd first seen a low fire a few feet away. In its flickering light, distorted outlines of men and fantastic lizards ran across a roughly rounded ceiling and down walls that had no corners. Marguerite's bag, Xan's medallion, and bits and pieces of her clothing had lain on the floor by her bed. A little to her right a muscular brute of a man had been working on a hanging carcass, his bare backside wagging in the firelight, a steel knife glinting in his hand.
A steel knife meant contact with civilization, even if it was third or fourth hand. The caveman could get her home. She must make friends. Without lowering her gun, Marguerite took a stab at conviviality. "Hi. My name's Marguerite Smith. I'm your friend." The caveman watched her and smiled. "I'm your friend if you'll take me where you got that knife." Silence. "Speakee English?" A yet more impassive silence. Marguerite tried the same thing in French and Spanish. No response.
Apparently growing tired of Marguerite's language lessons, the caveman put down his cup and slowly extended an empty hand.
"I'll shoot!" Marguerite warned him.
The caveman didn't stop. He began to click his tongue as though Marguerite were a cornered animal or a frightened child. He continued to reach for her gun. He was going to take it from her. Marguerite would have to kill him and pray to God she could find some other help.
The caveman's bearded face was only inches from Marguerite, the pistol barrel rested on his unprotected stomach. She pulled the trigger.
Instead of the comforting kick of a bullet, the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. A gentle tug from the caveman, and Marguerite was disarmed. Horrified, Marguerite shrank down under the furs. Too weak to struggle or run, she was now completely at the caveman's mercy.
After rummaging a moment in the small pile of belongings by Marguerite's bed, the caveman produced a bullet clip. He expertly inserted it, pulled the slide to chamber a bullet, and handed the pistol back to Marguerite, grip first.
"I think you'll find it works better now, Miss Smith," the caveman said. He spoke English with boarding-school perfect pronunciation. "And my name is John." Pausing, John chuckled at some private joke. "Welcome to Hell."
"Hell?" Marguerite gasped. Where had Xan's horrible medallion taken her?
John grunted. Picking up the water cup, with a gesture he offered to help her drink. "My hell anyway. You must be thirsty. I couldn't get you to drink much while you were unconscious. You kept mumbling something about poison."
Marguerite only looked at the cup in John's large, square hand. Her head ached. Her throat ached. Her ribs ached. She ached everywhere.
John frowned. "I swear it's just plain water, Miss Smith."
With a quiet sigh Marguerite passed out.