bishop. Leaving her on all fours with the bishop positioned behind her, he went to the curtain.
“You think I’m stupid?” the bishop whispered to her when he’d left them. “You think I don’t know?”
Jordan froze, looking back at him over a shoulder. “What the hell are you talking about?”
His eyes turned something less than lucid and his features took on a demented twist. “I saw how you made him want you. I saw. You put the idea in my head to share him between us, witch. You would take him from me if I let you.”
“Who are you talking about? Never mind. Whoever he is, keep him. I don’t want him,” Jordan assured him.
Blood suffused the bishop’s face. “You lie—”
Without warning he knelt over her and caught a hand under her midsection. His other hand worked behind her. The point of the syringe poked, then found its way into her rectum. She heard the squeak of metal and a squishing sound as he awkwardly tried to work the brass and tin piston with the use of only one hand and arm.
She tried to wriggle free of the discomfort, knowing that in seconds she would feel the cold chill of water flushing her bowels into the waiting bucket.
The voice at the curtain rose. “I bring a message for the bishop,” it announced. “Regarding the matter we discussed earlier. I come to inform him that his companion has just departed in a group of others.”
The clyster left her and hit the floor with a clatter. The bishop hurried off, forgetting her and his crazy threats. With a twitch of the curtain, he stepped outside it to speak with the interloper. There was a brief conversation to which Salerno and the others listened unabashedly.
This was her chance.
Jordan stumbled upright and managed to stuff her bare feet into her sturdy buckled man’s shoes, which had been set by the door. Salerno’s cloak, lying across the chair back, brushed her arm. She snatched it up to cover her nakedness. All this seemed to occur in slow motion, but when she glanced behind her, no one had moved and she knew only seconds had passed.
Carefully, Jordan opened the back door the disgruntled Englishman had so recently used to exit the theater. The streets here were dangerous. But remaining in the theater posed a danger as well.
Behind her, someone shouted, noticing she was poised for flight. She plunged from the room into the nearly deserted street outside, making a run for it. The door banged behind her, echoing across the piazza. She heard it open again, and then came the sound of pursuit.
The tattoo of her own clunking footsteps on the rain-washed pavement drowned out any further sounds. Any minute she expected Salerno’s hands to grab her. Her breath was strangled with the fear of imminent capture.
But it never came. The cloddish shoes were practical and carried her swiftly away from the theater, along winding brick streets. The root had dulled her reflexes and confused her mind, but the sweet smell of rain-scented air was quickly dispelling its effect.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned into an alley, ducked into a crevice between two buildings, and waited. The steps faltered. Nearby, she heard Salerno’s voice.
“I’m searching for a young—person—wearing a crimson cloak,” he told someone. “And possibly the bauta as well.”
She couldn’t decipher the mumbled response he was given but knew it had displeased him when his sharp curse cut the air. This was quickly followed by the sound of his footsteps veering away.
When they grew faint, Jordan slipped from the alley and ran in the direction opposite from that which he’d gone. The streets twisted and angled, but she knew her way home from here. First, she had to get over the Rialto. Once beyond the bridge, home was only thirty or so turns away by street.
Then it occurred to her that home was out of the question. Salerno would look for her there immediately, claiming she owed him more hours of her time.
Could she find harbor with one of her male
“You think I’m stupid?” the bishop whispered to her when he’d left them. “You think I don’t know?”
Jordan froze, looking back at him over a shoulder. “What the hell are you talking about?”
His eyes turned something less than lucid and his features took on a demented twist. “I saw how you made him want you. I saw. You put the idea in my head to share him between us, witch. You would take him from me if I let you.”
“Who are you talking about? Never mind. Whoever he is, keep him. I don’t want him,” Jordan assured him.
Blood suffused the bishop’s face. “You lie—”
Without warning he knelt over her and caught a hand under her midsection. His other hand worked behind her. The point of the syringe poked, then found its way into her rectum. She heard the squeak of metal and a squishing sound as he awkwardly tried to work the brass and tin piston with the use of only one hand and arm.
She tried to wriggle free of the discomfort, knowing that in seconds she would feel the cold chill of water flushing her bowels into the waiting bucket.
The voice at the curtain rose. “I bring a message for the bishop,” it announced. “Regarding the matter we discussed earlier. I come to inform him that his companion has just departed in a group of others.”
The clyster left her and hit the floor with a clatter. The bishop hurried off, forgetting her and his crazy threats. With a twitch of the curtain, he stepped outside it to speak with the interloper. There was a brief conversation to which Salerno and the others listened unabashedly.
This was her chance.
Jordan stumbled upright and managed to stuff her bare feet into her sturdy buckled man’s shoes, which had been set by the door. Salerno’s cloak, lying across the chair back, brushed her arm. She snatched it up to cover her nakedness. All this seemed to occur in slow motion, but when she glanced behind her, no one had moved and she knew only seconds had passed.
Carefully, Jordan opened the back door the disgruntled Englishman had so recently used to exit the theater. The streets here were dangerous. But remaining in the theater posed a danger as well.
Behind her, someone shouted, noticing she was poised for flight. She plunged from the room into the nearly deserted street outside, making a run for it. The door banged behind her, echoing across the piazza. She heard it open again, and then came the sound of pursuit.
The tattoo of her own clunking footsteps on the rain-washed pavement drowned out any further sounds. Any minute she expected Salerno’s hands to grab her. Her breath was strangled with the fear of imminent capture.
But it never came. The cloddish shoes were practical and carried her swiftly away from the theater, along winding brick streets. The root had dulled her reflexes and confused her mind, but the sweet smell of rain-scented air was quickly dispelling its effect.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned into an alley, ducked into a crevice between two buildings, and waited. The steps faltered. Nearby, she heard Salerno’s voice.
“I’m searching for a young—person—wearing a crimson cloak,” he told someone. “And possibly the bauta as well.”
She couldn’t decipher the mumbled response he was given but knew it had displeased him when his sharp curse cut the air. This was quickly followed by the sound of his footsteps veering away.
When they grew faint, Jordan slipped from the alley and ran in the direction opposite from that which he’d gone. The streets twisted and angled, but she knew her way home from here. First, she had to get over the Rialto. Once beyond the bridge, home was only thirty or so turns away by street.
Then it occurred to her that home was out of the question. Salerno would look for her there immediately, claiming she owed him more hours of her time.
Could she find harbor with one of her male
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