The Cuban lowers the torch's flaming end to the touch hole and the roar of the cannon penetrates the house, reverberating in my cell.

Rage alternates with sorrow. I know my bride is dead. For the first time since our marriage, I can't find her touch. I have no sense of her. It's as if I've lost my sight, or my hearing. I am truly alone now, without hope, my future shattered.

Jorge Santos is to blame. I imagine making him die slowly, in great agony.

I yank on my chains but still they resist me. The manacles cut into my wrists and I welcome the pain.

Tears come again and I welcome them too. I understand now how Father felt when Mother died. Like him, I've lost my life's companion. And my child before he's ever known the world. I want to howl and tear my hair. Damn Jorge Santos!

And yet I can't blame the man completely. I am the murderer of his sister. I have been his captor. His woman, if she isn't dead, lies dying on the veranda of my house, mortally wounded by my wife. If anyone has good reason to kill, it is Santos.

And I have no doubt he intends to kill me. I know the man. I calculate how long it will take him to come for me.

As he does when he plays chess, he'll hesitate before he proceeds, fret that his position might be insufficient. With me imprisoned, he'll think he has the time to take every precaution.

First he'll make sure at least two rail guns are loaded. He won't bother with more, the guns are too large, and more of them would burden him too much.

Besides he has Chen and Tindall as his allies. Though Tindall, I'm sure, will prove worthless. He'll lag behind, argue for caution. As a miliary man, Chen will urge a quick assault. He'll feel safe enough to proceed as long as he holds a loaded machine gun.

But Santos will insist only he knows the house. I'm sure he'll feel the need for further protection before he ventures inside. He'll tarry long enough to load a few pistols too, stick them in his belt. Only then will he search the upper floors for Elizabeth. Only when he doesn't find her, will he come for me.

In truth I'm tempted to let him. My wife and child are gone. I sigh and lie down on my cot. The thought of life alone on my island fills me with dread. Santos, at least, has a mother to return to. I have no one.

I let the dark envelop me. I become nothing lost in nothingness, air floating within air, time lost for all time. I would float away if my chains didn't weigh me down. I would sink if the cot wasn't underneath me. This, I think, must be how it feels to die.

Perhaps I will.

My breathing irritates me. I hate the sound of my heart beating. I want complete silence. I try to still myself, achieve total calm. And still, the quieter I become, the less I move, the more something tweaks at my consciousness. A lingering thought? An emotion my subconscious refuses to stop feeling?

No matter how I try to dampen my senses, it intrudes. Finally, unable to ignore it, I concentrate on identifying it, disregard everything else. The sensations I receive frustrate me with their vagueness. It's almost like mindspeaking but not quite-as if it's slightly merged with the type of closeness Elizabeth and I shared. No words, no images, just feelings-fleeting impressions of occasional movement, occasionally restricted by something soft (a wall?), sometimes flashes of content, always the overwhelming sensation of moist warmth.

Elizabeth must be dead. I know it. I feel it. Yet my heart races at the thought that some remnant of her consciousness may be left, that some possibility may remain for her resurrection. I reach out for her, mindspeak, "Elizabeth?"

The answer stuns me. No words to it, no thoughts, just the feather-light touch of another presence brushing against my mind-not my wife but my unborn son.

Henri! My child may yet be saved. The realization changes everything. If I fail, if I permit Santos and the others to win, not only do I die but so does my son. Time, which meant nothing a few moments ago, means everything now.

I curse myself for wallowing in self-pity rather than recognizing the possibility of saving more than myself. By now they must be searching the floors above me. I must take action immediately. I turn my attention back to my surroundings, see nothing. Outside, at least, stars or a partial moon usually give me enough light to see through the darkness. But here in the cell with no lights on anywhere, blackness engulfs me.

The chains that bind me remain too strong to break, but for a creature who can change shape at will that hardly matters. I test whether the effects of the Dragon's Tear have abated enough, concentrate on narrowing my right hand and wrist.

My body seems almost indifferent to my wishes. It conforms to my shapechanging ever so slowly. I concentrate, ignore the pain the change requires and pray Santos's search of the house takes longer than my escape.

Finally, I'm able to slip my hand out of the right manacle.

My left hand and wrist go easier and I escape that fetter too, turn my attention to my ankles and feet. Only the slave collar remains. That proves the most difficult, as I elongate and narrow my head enough to slip free. I stand as soon as I throw the last chain off and almost topple back-the sudden rush of rising, coupled with the remaining effects of the Dragon's Tear wine and the total dark looming around me disorient and confuse me. I weave in place a few moments, focus my thoughts on where the cell door may be.

When I reach it, I find barely three inches of space exist between each thick iron bar. I almost cry when I think how difficult slipping my body out will be. Surely, I think, it can be done, but I've never attempted such a thing. I back up, pace a few steps. Taking deep breaths, steeling myself for the attempt, I pace a few steps more and walk headfirst into a wall that I didn't expect to encounter.

Then I remember Casey's insistence on putting me in a smaller cell. I grin, shake my head, take more deep breaths to clear my mind, then test my assumption by putting my back to the wall and walking forward until I touch the opposite wall. Just five steps! I almost laugh out loud. Santos will be so confused when he arrives to find the locked cell empty. I grab the end of the cot and yank on it, raising it, opening the passageway to the treasure room below and the door to the dock beyond it.

In their desire to place me in the smallest, least comfortable cell, Santos and Morton, who had no knowledge of the secret passage, unwittingly assured my escape.

Once on the stairs, I close the passageway behind me, take the steps two and three at a time. I waste no time turning on lights. I know the way. Rushing through the corridor, ripping my clothes off, I reach the door to the outside and throw it open. I wrinkle my nose at the stink of sulfur the expended gunpowder has left on the evening air, and change shape.

I leap toward the sky and travel from the dock to the veranda in a few wingbeats. My poor defiled Elizabeth lies broken and lifeless against the parapet. Casey Morton still lies a few yards away, amazingly still alive, gasping weak, ragged breaths.

Looking out to sea, I grin at the Grand Banks, pitching and bobbing at anchor, a quarter mile off shore. I knew Tindall wouldn't dare risk bringing it any closer.

I search for Santos and the others, make sure they're not lurking somewhere waiting to ambush me. But that is just caution. I'm sure they're still busy inside. Finding me gone will make them expect an attack behind every doorway.

My child remains my primary concern. I open my mind to him and thank the fates when I sense his presence. His mother's body has cooled and that change in his environment has sent the first tendrils of fear into his awareness.