The Black Orchid

Carter

His heart thumps.

He hears more yelling—snatches of the men’s voices, half words being torn by the wind and carried over the caldera toward the jagged black cliffs of Santorini.

He flails wildly, grasping for something—anything—to hold on to. There’s nothing. Nothing to stop his plunge if his other shoulder slips from the backpack strap.

Blood rushes to his head, pounds against his eardrums.

The magician suddenly screams—a sound so primal, so inhuman, so horrific it curdles his blood. Then a jolt.

Carter feels a sudden drop. His pack jerks—and his other arm slips free of the strap.