With her feet free, Fiona stood slowly, using the wall for support. As she did, a wave of nausea struck and threatened to return her to the floor. She placed her face against the cold stone wall. She took a moment to breathe and let her body figure itself out. Once she felt a measure of balance return, she slowly bent down and touched her fingers to her toes. The stretch felt good. She stood tall again and breathed deeply. She felt better, but still quite dizzy and the headache and thirst had yet to diminish.

Moving as quietly as she could, she walked to the cell’s only light source, the long slit in the stone wall. She peered through the slit, expecting to see a guard. But there was no one there.

Why would they guard a cell with no doors? Fiona thought.

The space directly outside the cell was just another stone wall. She moved to the left, angling her view so she could see down the hallway. It opened up ten feet beyond. The light was brightest there.

And there were shadows.

Moving.

And a voice. She listened, but couldn’t understand the quiet words being spoken like a chant. A moment later she heard something she did understand.

“Damnit!” The shout was masculine, deep, and held a supernatural menace—as though the word hadn’t just been spoken by a single man, but by two, out of sync by a fraction of a second.

The chanting started up again. The language was again unknown to her, but bits and pieces struck a chord. Portions of words sounded familiar. Tones. Inflections. Not enough to figure out what was being said, but some part of what the man said was familiar to her. She realized she was hearing fragments of Siletz, a dead language to all but her.

The chant ended in frustration once again with the pound of a fist. She jumped at the sharp noise, but remained quiet. She was intent on hearing anything and everything going on outside her cell.

What she heard next, shook her to the core. “Please, sir,” a man said in a weak, heavily accented voice. “No more. I know nothing. I do not know what you are asking.”

“I’m not asking anything,” the deep voice said. This was followed by an angry shout and the smack of flesh on flesh.

Without seeing what was happening, Fiona could imagine what was going on. There was a man, bound, maybe sitting in a chair. He thought he was being interrogated, but the other man, the one with the deep voice, wasn’t asking questions. Then what was he doing?

She heard one of them spit. She wasn’t sure which one until the captive said, “If I knew what you wanted I would tell you nothing! American pig!” And then he spat again.