trying to shut out the reality. The brutality of mankind to do this. Tears welled up for the pain and suffering this creature had endured before his death. She felt responsible. She had been given such special gifts, yet she had been unable to unlock the secrets to the disease that condemned those who suffered as she did.
She took a breath, made herself look. He had been alive when his attackers sealed up the coffin. He had scratched at the wood, eventually working a hole in the side of it. Shea stifled a sob, feeling a kinship for this poor murdered man. His body was covered with a thousand cuts. A wooden stake, as big around as a man's fist, had been driven through his body near the vicinity of his heart. Whoever had done it needed a lesson in anatomy. She sucked in her breath, appalled. What he must have suffered!
His hands and ankles were manacled; rotting, dirty rags lay in strips across his chest like those of a mummy. The doctor in her took over to allow a closer clinical study. It was impossible to tell how long he had been dead. By the condition of the cellar and the coffin, she would have guessed a number of years, but the body had not yet started to decompose. Lines of agony still creased the man's face. His skin was gray and stretched tightly over the bones. The signs of suffering were stamped on that face, harsh and merciless.
And she knew him. He was the man in her dreams.
Although it seemed impossible, there was no mistake; she had seen him enough times. And he was the man in the photograph Don Wallace had shown her. Though it all seemed out of the realm of possibility, she felt linked to him, felt she should have saved him. Grief was welling up, real grief. Shea felt as if a part of her lay dead in the coffin.
Shea touched his dirty, raven-black hair with gentle fingers. He must have had the same rare blood disorder as she had. How many others had been hunted, persecuted, tortured, and murdered for something they were born with? "I'm sorry," she whispered softly, meaning it. "I failed all of us."
A slow hiss of air was her only warning. Eyelids snapped open, and she was staring into eyes blazing with venomous hatred. A burst of strength shattered one rusty manacle, and a hand fastened around her throat with a grip like a vise. He was so strong, he cut off her airway, so it was impossible even to scream. Everything seemed to swirl, black and white rushing to overtake her. She had just enough time to feel regret that she would be unable to help him, to feel searing pain as teeth tore into her exposed throat.
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Let it happen fast. Shea didn't struggle; she knew it was useless. In any case someone owed this tormented creature something, and she had long ago accepted death. She was terrified, of course, but strangely calm. If she could somehow give him a measure of peace, she wanted to do so. Guilt for not finding a cure was uppermost in her mind. And something else, something elemental, as old as time itself.
The need to save him. The knowledge that he must live and that she was willing to offer up her life for his.
Shea woke dizzy and weak. She had a headache, and her throat was so sore that she was afraid to move. She frowned, unable to recognize her surroundings. She heard herself moan. She was lying in the dirt, one arm locked behind her, something tight around her wrist. She tugged to get her arm back, but the band tightened, threatening to crush her fragile bones. Her heart jumped, and with her free hand she touched her throat, remembering. Her neck was swollen and bruised. There was a wound, too, torn and aching. Her mouth felt odd, a faint coppery taste coating her tongue.
She had lost too much blood, she knew immediately. Her head was splintering, fragmenting as the pressure increased. She knew the creature was responsible, attempting to get inside her mind. Moistening her lips carefully, she inched backward, closer to