Raffe snorts. “They got a lot friendlier once you showed up. They haven’t offered me food all day.”

“Are they just skittish, or are they really bad guys?”

“Anybody who ties you to a chair at gunpoint is a bad guy. Do I really need to explain this?”

I feel like a little girl who did something stupid.

“So what are you doing here?” he asks. “I risk getting chewed to pieces by a pack of dogs so you can escape, and then you run back here? Your sense of judgment could use a dash of common sense.”

“Sorry, I’ll be sure and never do that again.” I’m beginning to wish they had gagged us.

“That’s the sanest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“So who are these guys?” Raffe’s super hearing has no doubt gained him a lot of information on what they’re up to.

“Why? You planning on enlisting?”

“I’m not much of a joiner.”

Despite his usual handsome features, he looks rather grotesque in the moonlight with all those streaks of dried blood running down his face. For a moment, I envision him as the classic fallen angel out to damn your soul.

But then he asks, “You all right?” His voice is surprisingly gentle.

“I’m fine. You know we need to get out of here by morning, right? They’ll be able to tell by then.” All that blood with no wound. No human heals that fast.

The door opens and the smell of stew almost drives me mad. I haven’t starved since the attacks, but I haven’t exactly been gaining weight either.

The leader pulls up a chair next to mine and lifts the bowl under my nose. My stomach grumbles as soon as the scent of meat and vegetables hits me.

He lifts a heaping spoonful and stops halfway between the bowl and my mouth. I have to suppress a groan of pleasure at the anticipation for decorum’s sake. A pimply-faced soldier pulls up a chair next to Raffe and does the same with his stew.

“What’s your name?” asks the leader. There something intimate about the way he asks me this question as he is about to feed me.

“My friends call me Wrath,” says Raffe. “My enemies call me Please Have Mercy. What’s your name, soldier boy?” Raffe’s mocking tone brings a flush to my cheeks for no reason.

But the leader isn’t flustered. “Obadiah West. You can call me Obi.” The spoon moves away from me just a fraction.

“Obadiah. How biblical.” says Raffe. “Obadiah hid the prophets from persecution.” Raffe stares at his own suspended spoon of stew.

“A Bible expert,” says Obi. “Too bad we already have one.” He looks at me. “And what’s your name?”

“Penryn,” I say quickly before Raffe can open his mouth to say something sarcastic. “Penryn Young.” I’d rather not antagonize our captors, especially if they’re about to feed us.

“Penryn.” He whispers it as though making it his own. I’m somehow embarrassed to have Raffe witness this moment, though I’m not sure why.