Free Blood in Her Veins (Nineteen Stories From the World of Jane Yellowrock) by Faith Hunter

numb and swollen. The pustule at his wrist had broken open during the night and re-formed larger and flatter than before. Red streaks ran up his arm nearly to his elbow. The lower arm was hot to the touch. Blood poisoning. Gangrene could follow on its heels. He needed antibiotics or he might lose the arm. He had to get out of here. But Loriann wouldn’t help, and he was more exhausted than he could ever have imagined, his muscles quivering from stress and immobility.
    Sick, aching in ways he had never known a man could hurt, Rick rose and relieved himself in a metal bucket, no longer caring about unimportant things like privacy. Tears smeared through the sweaty, bloody barn dust coating him.
    He accepted the food and water that Loriann brought—soup right from the can, cling peaches in heavy syrup, and two liters of water—knowing it might be drugged, but not having any choice. Telling himself it wasn’t over. He wasn’t dead or blood bound yet. He needed strength to get away, and he had until only eight p.m., when the sun set, to accomplish that goal. Getting drugged from the food was a risk, but no worse than being too drained to attempt an escape if the opportunity presented itself.
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    He spotted his clothes—boxers, jeans, shirt, socks, and boots—piled in a corner, doing him no good. He couldn’t get the pants over the shackle, and he wouldn’t be able to wear a shirt anytime soon, not with the tattoo painful on his left shoulder. He studied Loriann’s work in the pale light but couldn’t make out the picture, not looking down on it. It might have been waves or mountains. Or both.
    Loriann went into the shadows of the barn, and when she came back, she was dragging a hose, held kinked off in one hand. “They used it to cool off horses and wash them.” She indicated the hose. “It’s only cold water, but at least you’ll be clean. If you want,” she said. When he nodded, she pointed to a corner. “The floor’s lower there, and the water will drain.”
    Naked, no longer caring, Rick clanked to the corner and stood, his back to her, his hands up high, supporting himself against the barn wall. The first gush of water felt icy, and he tensed, his skin pebbling as the spray drenched him from head to toe. But he relaxed as the grime and sweat of the night washed away. He turned slowly, facing the water, wondering what he should be feeling in this moment, as the little witch washed him. The water stopped, and he stood as Loriann kinked the hose again and dragged it away. When she returned, she tossed him a towel. He took it and dried off with the rough, coarse terry cloth. She gave him another bottle of water, which he opened and drank, feeling more human. He took the sheet Loriann offered and wrapped it around himself. It would give him some semblance of protection from bug bites. The insects had come in during the night, attracted by blood and sweat and misery.
    â€œSit,” she said softly, pointing at the black stone circle. “I can help you.”
    â€œLike you’ve been helping me all night?” he said.
    She shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
    Too tired to argue, Rick sat on the edge of the stone altar and held his head in his hands. His fingers weren’t working well, and his toes were on fire, aching with the return of blood supply. Prickles of electric pain ran up and down his limbs. Body limp, spirit dejected, he looked through his too-long, lank hair at the barn door, his way out if he could make it that far, before closing his eyes.
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    Loriann put her hands on his shoulders, and a moment later a cool release, like a salve, washed over him, passing through his skin into his muscles and deeper into his bones. He took a breath and let it out. He hated to feel grateful to his torturer, but he did. Grudgingly he said, “Thank you.