Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) by Genevieve Graham Read Free Book Online

easily. Now let me see what you have for me.
    Soquili’s new brother collapsed to his knees at the blow, but he shot a defiant glare over his shoulder at the warrior.
Oh yeah? You sure you’re ready?
    We were about twenty feet away from the war party when Soquili called out. “Cut his ropes.” He spat to the side, critical eyes narrowed at Dustu. “Only a coward would fight a bound man.”
    All heads turned at Soquili’s voice, now they glanced back at the prisoner. The white man had no idea what had been said, but he watched warily, sensing something was about to happen. His attention focused on one of the other men as he advanced, knife extended before him. I saw the whites of the captive’s eyes, the flaring of his nostrils as he drew back, sensing approaching danger, but at the last minute the Indian stopped and laughed. He shook his head, still grinning, and muttered something I couldn’t hear. He held up his own hands, which he’d connected at the wrists as if he were mimicking the prisoner, then made a sawing gesture with his knife. The white man glanced from him to Dustu, trying to read their thoughts, then held out his hands.
    The captive kept his eyes trained on Dustu while the bindings were cut from his wrists. When they fell away, I saw the torn skin, bleeding where the rope had burned his flesh when he’d fought against it. He didn’t touch his hands for comfort, as I surely would have, but dropped them to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists to get the blood pumping through them again. He and Dustu began to circle one another, reading each other’s body language, and I saw something white flash across the prisoner’s dirty face. With shock, I realized the man was smiling. I would never understand men.
    Dustu had it easy. Hidden under a mask of filth, the white man could have been any colour, had it not been for the light, mussed hair and the English curses shooting from his mouth. He had obviously fought hard before they’d arrived, and had a long cut down one thigh, which looked deep. His torn trousers were stained with blood, and though he tried to hide it, he limped slightly. Another slice cut across his chest, small and shallow, but nevertheless staining the worn fibres of his shirt around the edges. His face had received its own share of violence. One eye was swollen almost completely shut, the sneering upper lip split at one side.
    Dustu planted his knife in his leg holster and held his hands open in front of him, making it clear he had no intention of using it. Then he grinned maniacally and opened his eyes wide, rocking back and forth in a hunched fighting stance. I was used to the warriors fighting among themselves. It was practice for them, usually. But this was unfair. The prisoner was injured and obviously exhausted. The warriors formed a circle around the fighters, clapping and laughing, spitting at the white man’s feet. While they clearly saw this as entertainment, I saw hate and intent in Dustu’s eyes.
    Soquili looked at me, sensing my discomfort. “This man is a warrior,” he explained, “but he must be taught how to use this power. Today he will have his first lesson.”
    Dustu started it, lunging across the small space so he bowled the prisoner over, then loomed above the man on all fours. He grabbed the white man’s throat, then pounded the back of his opponent’s head against the ground, over and over, until I saw the eyelids of the prisoner flutter.
    “Dustu’s going to kill him. It’s not a fair fight,” I said.
    “He will be fine,” Soquili said, looking strangely confident. “Watch.”
    As if he’d heard, the white man suddenly grabbed Dustu’s wrists and shoved them apart so Dustu collapsed flat on his chest and was flung aside. The prisoner got to his feet and bent over, breathing hard, fists at the ready.
    “You call that a fight?” he said hoarsely. “You fight like one of your toothless squaws. That all you got?”
    Dustu knew a fair amount