Chains of Fire by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online Page A

or found an infant abandoned and still, she cried. They all cried.
    A light burned in a black limo parked by the door.
    She whipped the four-wheeler around to face outward, ready for escape. She cut the motor, donned the fur, and slid the pistol into the capacious pocket, then stepped gingerly through the snow and ice toward the door. As Samuel promised, it was unlocked. She opened it little by little.
    Deep in the dim interior, she heard Samuel’s rumble, the low, warm, comforting voice he used only when he dealt with old ladies and small children, and certainly never to her. She followed the light to a main-floor bedroom.
    There, in the corridor, a tall man with a big belly lay dead, shot through the heart.
    Samuel had been busy.
    Without concern, Isabelle stepped over the body.
    Whoever he was, if he had been holding a child hostage, he deserved death and more.
    Where his soul was going, she hoped he got exactly what he deserved.
    Inside the bedroom, she found Samuel, coat and hat flung off, easing a thin, tense seven-year-old back on the pillows.
    She would have sworn that she hadn’t made a sound, but in French that sounded almost native, Samuel said, “Mathis, here’s Isabelle. She’s the lady I told you would come and take away the pain.”
    The child mewled like a hurt kitten.
    Isabelle hurried to the bed and smiled down at the boy. He was so thin his bones poked at his chalky skin. He coughed, his body racked by agony, and flecks of blood gathered at the corners of his mouth.
    Her gaze flicked to the wheelchair in the corner. It listed to one side; a wheel had been broken. But it bore the imprint of the child’s body. The child suffered from some cruel wasting disease; she could hope to cure only the immediate damage.
    Samuel carefully covered the child with the blankets.
    Mathis’s arm rested on the covers, his hand at an awkward angle to the upper arm; the kidnappers had twisted until they broke the radius and the ulna, those bones between the wrist and the elbow.
    Her eyes filled with tears, for him and for her.
    He suffered horribly now: from his arm, and from his internal injuries.
    She would suffer horribly as she took the injuries into herself to heal him. That was the price she paid for her gift.
    Samuel knew it, and he hated it. Hated it even as he understood it was necessary. He pulled a chair up to the bed, helped her out of her coat. He scowled heavily, but he continued his lighthearted French conversation. “Guess what. That man in the corridor? I didn’t shoot him.”
    “You didn’t?” She wasn’t really listening. She was looking into the child’s eyes, nodding and smiling, preparing him for the moment she would touch him.
    “Mathis did it.” Samuel helped her into the seat.
    That got her attention. The boy was so ill, so hurt . . . yet he had killed his captor? “Really?”
    “I’m not sorry, either,” Mathis said defiantly.
    “How brave!” She smiled at him. “How smart you are!”
    “What a good shot!” Samuel heaped on the praise.
    Isabelle remembered the hole in the middle of the man’s chest. “A very good shot.”
    “Papa taught me to shoot. He said I should know because we are important people and the scum of the world . . . they would try to destroy us. Because we are wealthy. And important.” Mathis half closed his eyes, breathing hard, fighting for air. Fighting the pain. “These scum . . . thought they could leave me alone with one man because they hurt me. They said I was a cripple.”
    “They are stupid, cruel people,” Isabelle answered.
    “Yes.” Mathis’s head fell back on the pillow. If possible, he grew even paler, and he said again, “I’m not sorry.”
    “Who is your papa?” Samuel asked. “Do you know his name?”
    “Papa . . .” A tear slipped down the boy’s cheek.
    “I asked him once before.” Samuel leaned close and spoke in her ear. “He doesn’t seem to remember.”
    “He’s in shock,” Isabelle whispered back. For the first