All right then, I’m alone. Hot panic simmers in my chest. I can’t be stranded here. I don’t have my purse, or money, or even a fucking bra. I don’t have shoes. I don’t have the faintest idea of where the hell I am or how I got here. I want to press my hands to my forehead and cry. I want to collapse, but I know all of that won’t do any good. So I take a deep, shuddering breath, straighten my shoulders, and try to figure out where I am. If I got dumped here, it stands to reason someone will know how to put me back. I just have to find that person.

Somewhat calmer, I put my hands on my hips and gaze around me, trying to figure out my next move. The music continues somewhere nearby, low and urgent, and I decide I might as well follow it. Seems about as good an idea as any other idea.

I head forward through the dusty streets of…wherever I am. One thing I've learned about people thanks to five years in a corporate environment is that if you look confident, people will assume you know what you're doing and where you're going. So I put confidence in my step and stroll forward like this is all part of my master plan.

Fake it until you make it and all that.

The stone walls snake around, and I follow them until they fork, splitting in opposite directions. One way seems more crowded than the other, so I pick the less crowded path.

Almost immediately, I regret it. It opens up into what looks like a big open area in the city, and here there are rows and rows of tents like something out of an old war movie. There are more land-hippos and more men. Armored men. To a one, they're all dressed in an overcoat of a dark red over armor. It makes them look alarmingly badass.

And they’re all looking at me.

I get that uncomfortable prickle along my spine. Clearly, I'm not supposed to be here…wherever here is.

Clearly, this is very, very bad. I’ve stumbled out of a marketplace in the slums and into a war encampment. I turn on my heel, moving back toward the walls I've just—stupidly—wandered out of.

A hand grabs my shoulder. “What have we got here?”

A man in armor gazes down at me. His face is craggy and rough, unshaven, and he stinks of sweat. He eyes me like I would a new flavor of cheesecake.

I try to feign a smile.

“You look like you’re lost.”

Boy he has no idea just how lost I am. I gesture back where I came. “Sorry. I didn’t see the sign that said ‘no girls allowed.’ I’ll be heading out now.”

His hand just tightens on my shoulder and his eyes narrow at me. “Who’s your overlord?”

“Pardon?” I try to slide out from under the grip of his gloved hand, but he yanks on my arm instead.

“Your overlord,” he says, leering at the front of my pajamas. “If you’re from Aventine, you’ll have an overlord and a house symbol showing your allegiance. Wanna flash those for me?”

“Oooh, they’re in my other pants,” I say brightly. “But if you’ll just let me go—”

He clamps down tighter on my shoulder. “We’ve got ourselves a runaway slave,” he bellows. “Rodrick!”

A man starts running toward us. “Yes, Commander?”

“I’m not a slave,” I protest, jerking at the man’s grip. “Let me go!”

The commander backhands me and I go flying to the ground. “Rodrick” hauls me to my feet as I stare at the men in shock.

Someone just hit me. I touch my face in stunned surprise.

The commander just gives me an icy look, then focuses on Rodrick. “You know what we do to those who have no allegiance, don’t you?”

“The slave pens, Commander?”

The man nods. “Make sure she brings a fair coin. She’s got all her teeth.”

I’m the unluckiest woman ever.

I push my face between the metal bars of the slave cage that’s been my home for two days, trying to see the man that’s just walked up. He gives me a look, and I try to smile prettily at the man in front of me, since I’ve learned that no one listens to a pissy slave. “Hi there. Are you from around here? Because I’m not and I really, really need to get out of here.”

“Shut up, tart,” the man says, barely glancing over at me.

Rude, I think, but I’m not surprised. No one in this place has even heard of the word “manners.” I’m now two days into this new world, though, and I’m determined to find a way home. I’m long past hysterics, long past tears, and have ended up in the grim-resignation end of things. I’m here in this shithole, now I need to figure out how to get out. And getting out means getting out of this slave cage, first of all.

If that means being nicey-nice to this guy, I’ll do it. So I flutter my lashes, give him a chirpy smile, and try again. “I’m from Earth. Chicago, actually. I know everyone thinks it’s all crime ridden and cold, but it’s actually pretty awesome. Great nightlife. Fantastic museums. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it?”

And I beam like I’m not in a slave pen on some Conan-esque planet, wearing manacles and what can only be described as a half of a skirt.

I’m going to get my way out of this place with the power of positive thinking, damn it.

The man just narrows his eyes at me. He glances over at the man in front of the slave pen and gestures at me. “This one’s got a mouth on her.”

“That can be fixed,” the man says, counting coins in his hand and not looking up.

I swallow hard, thinking of the guy I saw have his tongue pulled out yesterday. Okay. New plan. “Did I say Earth? I meant…east. Totally meant east. Absolutely, one hundred percent from this land.” I try to slide back behind the other slaves shackled in the pen. I only moved to the front because this guy looked clean and wealthy and maybe would be reasonably nice to a poor, down-on-her-luck woman that isn’t supposed to be in a slave pen.

Or isn’t supposed to be in this world at all.

No such luck, though. The man points a finger at me and looks over at the guy counting coins. “I’ll take that one anyhow. Best looking of the lot.”

The slave-master finishes counting his coins and grunts. “You’ll want to collar her. She doesn’t think she should be a slave.”

They both share a chuckle at that, and someone puts a hand to my back and shoves me forward. With a yelp, I stagger to the front of the pen, and then I’m hauled out. I would say it’s an improvement from the cramped, filthy pen I’ve been stuck in for the last two days, but given that I’ve just been sold as a slave?

“Improvement” is debatable.

So I smile at the soldier that bought me, determined to make a friend. If I can win him into friendship, maybe he can explain to me what I’m doing in this weird-ass world and how I get home. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Faith. I’d give you my hand to shake, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.” I raise my shackled hands and put on my most winning smile.

The soldier stares at me. He smiles, then crooks a finger.

Even though it feels like a trap, I lean forward. “Yes?”

He grabs me by the neck, and then something rough and metal locks around my throat. A collar. I choke, raising my manacled hands to claw at the hair caught between my skin and the collar, since it feels as if it’s all being pulled out. He slaps my hands away, then grabs them and loosens the manacles before snapping my lead chain to my collar. “Follow me, tart.”

Coughing, I stumble after him when he tugs on my lead. “My name’s not Tart. It’s Faith. And I feel like we really need to talk—”

The man comes to an abrupt stop, and I slam into his front. He gives me a shove backward, scowling. “I say I wanted you to lip off at me, Tart?”

“No—”

He glares again, and I go silent. I know when to take a hint. Fighting back frustration, I follow behind the jerk—my new owner—as he heads out of the slave pens and into the busy Aventine streets.

“Pleasure doing business with you again, Sinon,” the slave-master calls.