There was a bright moon out, but the woods were thick and only broken shafts of moonlight could penetrate the dense canopies of the trees, leaving large areas of forest floor hidden in thick shadow. Riddick smashed his way through unseen branches and ripped through briars that tore little chunks of flesh from his arms and legs; once he stumbled headlong into a shallow ravine that unexpectedly dropped away beneath his feet. But each time he fell he struggled to his feet again and kept moving forward; he couldn’t afford to slow down now—his life depended on it.

He kept thinking about Victoria and what she was probably doing right now—holding Johnny Boy’s hand and stroking his bruised ego, doing her level best to convince him that trailer trash from the backwoods of Virginia could make just as good a wife as a blue blood with a seat on the Mayflower. And she’ll pull it off, he thought, because that’s what she does best—twist men like pretzels until they take on any shape she wants.

He stopped for a few seconds to catch his breath. He doubled over with his hands on his knees, panting and spitting and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He imagined Vic’s response when the authorities told her what he had done—how he had kidnapped some poor woman and tried to kill her, but had escaped at the last moment and was still at large. She won’t even bat an eyelash, Riddick thought. She’s good at that too. And he knew exactly what she would do then: She would deny all knowledge of his actions or intent; she would pin the whole thing on him; she would claim that it was his own insane desire to defend her or to protect her reputation—and then she would call down on him all the wrath and holy indignation of the self-righteous Bradens until she looked even better than she did before. And in a way she would be telling the truth: The whole thing was his fault, because she never actually asked him to do a thing. The whole thing was his idea—exactly as she intended.

Riddick shook his head—all this, just for the chance to be with her one more time. But that was the bargain Victoria always struck with men: not the promise that they would be with her, just the suggestion that they might. That was all she ever needed; that was always enough to get her whatever she desired.

He heard a sound in the trees behind him and looked up; an ugly little dog suddenly popped out of the brush and took a stand in front of him, throwing out its bony chest and yapping at the top of its lungs.

“Shut up!” he whispered, swinging at the dog with his foot—but the dog easily sidestepped the blow and continued to sound the alarm.