The earth shifted as I dug my heels in, hidden behind the trunk of an old oak tree. Out in front of me, the sun was setting over the tops of trees that surrounded a field, in brilliant oranges and pastel colors. Its light turned the weeds to spun gold, and I watched the four people hiking through the field. I'd been tracking them for a few days, and they were none the wiser. From what I'd gathered, the girl's name was Charlie. The blonde woman and the fat man remained a mystery, but their leader was well known to me.

They settled in the field, starting to build a fire in their tiny camp. Night would be on them in an hour. The way they were headed, an old train rested on abandoned tracks, just barely in my line of sight. A good place to camp for the night. I crept silently through the trees, feet deftly skipping past sticks and rocks; the feet of a hunter, more skilled than any plain soldier alive, and more deadly than a great lioness, stalking her prey.

The train cars were in bad shape. The walls were broken and the ceilings were crumbling in many places. I found an intact one, and slung my pack inside, climbing up. It was open on both sides. Through the trees, I could see the fire flickering.

When I heard the telltale sound of something shuffling closer, through the overrun weeds outside, I shrank back, falling into the shadow in one corner. He stepped into view, and I froze.

It was him.

Miles Matheson. This was my opportunity. My hand crept to the short sword hung at my waste, then started agonizing sliding it out of its sheath. Matheson pulled himself into my train car, and looked around. His eyes landed on the backpack. I only had a second.

I drew my sword and lunged out, but he was fast. In an instant he'd drawn his sword, turned his body, met my swing and already positioned himself in the proper stance for fighting. A pang of fear shot through me. The legendary Miles Matheson.

He cut across faster than I could withdraw my sword, and I could only jump back. I came out from the shadows and hacked down, regaining my composure. He met that, and we exchanged a few simple blows. Then he swept his leg out and knocked me down. I hit the floor hard, and he tried to plunge his sword into me, but I knocked it aside, then tripped him in turn. He hit hard, as well, and we both climbed to our feet, keeping our distance, swords raised.

"You're the one who's been following us. Why?"

I winced. He had noticed me. "You're Miles Matheson. I needed to find you."

"To kill me?" He said it as if it was the most routine thing in the world for him. Like I was delivering a pizza.

"No. You left the militia five years ago, and for that reason, I'll let you live... if you tell me what I need to know."

"Which is?"

I eyed the door, wide open on my side, wondering if I could get out. This hadn't gone how I'd planned it would. He might be too good.

"Ah, ah-," he began, shaking his head, stepping to the side with the kind of grace only a master swordsman could have, making me move into the center to avoid him. "Not so fast. Rethinking things? Like maybe it won't be as easy as you thought, getting me to talk? Just tell me what you want."

My voice trembled. "He can't know I'm looking for him."

His jaw tightened. "Monroe? That's it, isn't it? He sent you? You're working for him? Who are you trying to find?"

I turned, moving to jump out the other side of the train car, but Miles dashed forward, snagging my arm and hauling me back. I whirled, wrenching my arm free and swinging my sword again. He stopped it with deadly speed, then we exchanged another few blows, and he stepped forward, forcing me back. With a quick twist, he sent by blade skittering across the wood of the floor. Matheson sheathed his with a quick movement. His hands snagged my wrists and he slammed me back into the wall. He froze when his hand felt the bumpy scar on my wrist. With only his one hand, he shoved my sleeve down. The scar was circular, but so muddled from me trying to cut out the pattern of the 'M' that it didn't read as anything.

"You're a free agent."

I strained against him, wrists aching with what would be bruises tomorrow, but I was powerless. He was too strong. Finally, I gave up fighting.

"I'm not working for Monroe," I said. "I'm gonna kill him."

A hint of a disbelieving smile touched his lips, as if to say, 'Good luck with that'. Then, he actually did say, "Good luck with that."

"I wanted to get information from you. That's all."

"I don't know. I might have to kill you."

I was panting heavily, from the exertion and the fear. "You gotta do what you gotta do."

This earned a harsh chuckle from him. "You're right there. You're really good with a sword. Too dangerous to let go."

"...Then again," I began nervously, "You're even better, and you're with company. I wouldn't stand a chance. I'm alone."

"Show me a man or a woman alone, and I'll show you a saint."

"Give me two and they'll fall in love," I added. It was one of my favorite quotes, from my favorite book.

Matheson drew back, looking at me funny. Amazed. So few people knew how to read these days. The chances of us finding each other, having read the same enormous book and memorized the same quote.

"That's impossible."

It struck me how handsome he was. Not just handsome. Ruggedly sexy. Skilled with a blade, clever, and he'd read The Stand. I'd always found I'd only considered someone attractive if their personality had appealed to me.

"Just let me go."

"Or..." He shrugged. He slid closer, and I stiffened. His hands were still anchoring my arms to the wall. Matheson slid one leg in between mine, and spread them. He pressed his hips to mine, where I could feel his erection. I gasped, letting out a low moan as he hit a spot that made my insides tighten.

His face was close to mine, brown eyes burning with lust, but not aggression. Silently waiting for my response.

The lights had gone out when I was twelve. I had been taken into the militia when I was seventeen. In the five years between, I'd had one friend, and he was a gay boy named James. I'd never been kissed. I'd never had sex.

It felt good, having a man so close to me. I didn't think it could be so wonderful feeling. The sensation, the heat, the need. I leaned forward and softly shaped my lips to his. He reacted slowly, pushing his tongue into my mouth. It became more passionate, and we were fighting for control. I pushed my hips against him in fluid motions.

Matheson pulled back. He obviously didn't trust me, because he pushed both my arms over my head to hold them with one hand. With his free hand, he reached for my shirt. It was a button-down, blue plaid.

"Don't-," I called.

He paused, then tugged my shirt open. The bra I wore was light blue cotton, cupping my small breasts nicely. My ribs showed a little at my stomach, but who wasn't starving these days? What really concerned me were the dozens of long, jagged scars the disrupted the milky skin of my chest, following no pattern. They were ugly and horrible to look at. I turned my head away, shutting my eyes, waiting for rejection.

Matheson pressed his lips to the top of my right breast, his hand moving to touch the other. His fingertips found their way under the bra, gently rolling my nipple between them. I focused on breathing, feeling wetness pool in between my thighs.

For a moment, he contemplated what to do. He let my hands go. Then his hand was working at shoving my jeans down. They got stuck on my boots, and he swore under his breath. He suddenly ducked under them, coming up in between my legs, then working to undo his own. He grabbed my hips and lifted me. I draped my arms over his shoulders, clenching my fists as he pushed his erection into me. I gasped. Matheson froze. He could tell it was my first time. I wasn't sure if you could tell. He waited, agonizingly still. His eyes were dark brown, questioning. I nodded vigorously for him to keep going.

He moved his hips, pulling out, then sliding back in. I ached, but I'd had so much pain in my life that this was easily ignored. I lifted my hips to meet his movements, keeping slow at first. It was hard to adjust to the stretching sensation. There was suddenly space where there hadn't been before. Lots of nerve endings that hadn't been active were now subject to sensation.

Matheson was large. He took a few minutes of slow, shallow movements before he pushed further, and fit his entire length inside me.

It felt so good that I marveled that I'd lived twenty five years without it. He started thrusting into me more harshly, breath coming in ragged gasps. He twisted a hand in my hair and tugged. I dropped my head back and he kissed my neck. I tried to move my hips in a circular motion. (I'd read that in a romance novel, and it seemed like it would be pleasurable.) Matheson let out a groan, continuing to push into me. He changed his angle suddenly, so the head of his erection was hitting a spot that made each thrust feel like an entirely new sensation.

One hand reached down. His slender fingers slid through the wetness at my center, and found my clit. I pushed into his hand. With a few more of his thrusts, a high-pitched cry burst out of me and all my muscles clenched. He continued to thrust until I was all played out, feeling like rubber. He pulled out and eased my legs to the ground, keeping one arm around me because I was in danger of collapsing. For a second he closed his eyes. His jaw clenched, and then he sighed.

I touched the prickly side of his face as he kissed me once more, softly. Once on the lips, then on the forehead, brushing brown hair out of my blue eyes. A rare tender moment in the long stretch of cruelty that had been my life.

"Your name?" he rasped.

"Syracuse."

He nodded, rolling his eyes. "Right. Not your real name, I take it?"

"As real as any, Mr. Matheson," I said, pulling my pants up and buttoning them. "So. What now? Are you going to tell me what I need to know about Sebastian Monroe?"

He sized me up for a moment. Outside, the sky had faded to twilight. Stars were beginning to come out. The faint outline of the moon was visible, a full moon.

"No. But only because you'd get yourself killed if you went after him."

"I'm going after him either way. It would help if you told me who he loves. What his habits are. How skilled he is with a sword."

"Better than me."

The statement chilled me. I changed the subject.

"What are you doing out here? You've been off the radar for years, hiding out in that tavern of yours. -Yes, I know about your tavern," I added when he shot me a look.

He was silent. I guess he went with his gut and decided he'd trust me for the moment. "The militia killed my brother and took my nephew. I'm gonna get him back."

"Is he with Monroe?"

"No. Tom Neville."

That peaked my interest. "He's on my list." I grabbed my bag, hoisting it up on my shoulder. "Alright. I'm in."

"In? No, no, no. I don't believe I invited you."

I shrugged. "Too bad."

He couldn't hide a tiny smile, following as I jumped down, starting toward the ground. It was dark by the time we reached them. They had a roaring fire. The young girl jumped up when she saw me, her hand going to her dagger. But she looked as dangerous as a fawn, so I kept going. Matheson followed.

"She's okay."

"Hi." I waved. "You're Charlie. I know, because I've been following you for a while."

"Who is she?" the British woman asked.

"Her name is Syracuse. She's a Free Agent."

"A Free Agent?" The fat man gawked. "An actual Free Agent?"

Charlie looked between us. "What's a Free Agent?"

"It means I was trained by the militia to be a soldier. But I didn't fall for the brainwashing, and I went AWOL." I showed her my wrist. "I'm gonna help you get your brother back. Matheson invited me."

"I did not," he argued.

"Sh." I waved him away. Charlie smiled.

She addressed him. "What do you think? Is she okay?"

He deliberated a minute. "Yeah. She's okay." His eyes bored into mine, telling me silently that if I tried to hurt any of them, he would kill me. I nodded, accepting. "Alright then. That's Aaron, and Maggie." They nodded to me, a little standoffish.

"Is she an old friend of yours, or-?" Aaron seemed a little nervous. He didn't seem the brave type.

"No."

"Actually, we have met before," I contradicted. "You wouldn't remember. It was years ago."

The conversation ended there. The others ate, then settled in to bed. I spread out my bed roll, stretching out. When the others had been asleep a while, I was still staring up at the stars. Matheson asked softly, "You okay?"

"A little sore," I snapped playfully. He chuckled. "You think that's funny?"

"A little, yeah."

"You're a sadist. You're laughing at my pain."

This just made him chuckle again.