It had been five years since I left Jack on New Mecca with the Holy Man. She was no longer the tall and lanky 13 year old girl I remembered—she had grown up.
When I first caught a glimpse of her, she was coiling a length of chain that she had used as a whip on one of my would-be attackers. I could have dispatched him easily enough, which she knew, but she wanted to make an impression, which she had.
She stood on a rock ledge covered in grime with her hair hanging in damp curls around her face. There was something very different about her, almost feral. She had changed, and I could sense somethingthat I had never noticed before—her primitive side, her animal side. I was drawn to it. No, I was drawn to her. She was lethal, she was all woman, and she was beautiful.
I was glad to see her, but never having been one to let my emotions show, I kept my face expressionless—a talent she had yet to develop. I knew from the look in her eyes that she hadn't forgiven me for leaving her. No matter—I did what I thought was best for everyone involved—especially her.
I broke eye contact with her when I heard the voice of one of the inmates. When I looked back, I was disappointed to find that she had disappeared between the rock walls. Oh well, it was only a matter of time before we met again—she was the reason I was on Crematoria, and there was no way I was leaving without her this time.
Our meeting happened much sooner than I had expected, and I was amused at her attempt to sneak up on me. Despite her apparent stealth and agility, she had a long way to go before she could get the drop on me. Besides, even if I hadn't heard her drop to the ground behind me or heard her barely audible footfall, I could sense her, and in spite of the sulfurous stench of the place, I could smell her.
She was definitely angry with me for leaving, and even if I had mistaken her glare from the rock ledge, there was no mistaking the bite of the sharp object pressed into my back. Yep, she was still pissed. What's the saying? Hell hath no fury…
I wasn't surprised by her weapon of choice, although in a slam you don't have much choice. If she was anything like me, and she was, she would appreciate the proximity to the victim that a knife necessitates. Killing your enemy with a knife is much more personal—much more satisfying.
I was willing to humor her for only so long before I let her know who was really in command of the situation. In a flash, I whipped around, caught her upper arm, spun her around and slammed her into the bars of the cell. As I caught her hands in a vice grip above her head, I pressed the length of my body against hers.
Nothing had ever felt so right.