Excerpt of The Devil and Via by Marie Treanor

Via could no longer hear her pursuers. The painful rasping of her breath drowned out their angry voices and the furious trampling in the undergrowth. She crashed through invisible tree branches, tripped over roots, rolled and sprawled her way down the dark, wooded hill until a flash of light ahead distracted her.

At first she thought they'd somehow got in front of her, that she was trapped between two groups of them. Despair threatened at last. She actually fell to her knees on the hard, dry ground before the truth came to her. It was a pair of lights, casting parallel beams. Onto a road. It was a car's headlights!

With a sob of gratitude, she launched herself upright and forward once more, new strength forcing her exhausted body back into a run.

The vehicle moved too fast, of course. By the time she reached the road, clawing her way out of the unexpected ditch at the side, the car had already passed her. She tore after it, desperate to be seen. Astonishingly enough, she thought she could make out a lit taxi sign on its roof--surely fate, a sign of her salvation. Her legs pumped faster.

"Taxi!" she screamed at the top of her feeble, breathless voice. It was past time for caring about noise. If the taxi didn't stop for her, it would only be a matter of time until they found her...

Later, if she got through this night alive, she might laugh at the demented sight she must present, looming out of the darkness in the middle of nowhere, in torn and ridiculous garb, no doubt covered in blood, scratches and bruises, jumping up and down and waving her arms in the air while still trying to run. For now, she could think only of preventing the taxi from getting away.

Shouts from higher up the hill told her they'd seen her, but she had no time for fresh despair. The taxi was slowing, stopping, actually reversing toward her. Without another thought, she ran the last meter along the road, wrenched open the door and threw herself into the backseat, slamming the door behind her.

"Drive!" she gasped out. "Avanti!"

The car leapt forward obligingly. Via, peering out of the windows at the side and the back, thought she could make out her pursuers swarming down the hill. But perhaps it was a trick of the darkness on her eyes, semi-blinded now by the car's dim internal light. Blinking rapidly, Via faced the front.

The driver, as only Italian taxi drivers can, actually turned to look at her between the front seats before he reached up with one bare arm to extinguish the glow. Via had a brief, far from comforting vision of a shaven head, scarred above one ear, black eyebrows above intense, almost glaring eyes and a muscled, hairy arm with a tattoo snaking up from the wrist.

That was when she realized her total idiocy, climbing into a car with a stranger in this situation. The dreadful possibility hit her that this man could be one of them, some muscle hired to pick her up...

"Jesus," she whispered, already reaching for the door handle again when the muscle spoke.

"Pisa okay? Or do you want to go somewhere else?"

Via paused, her fingers gripping the handle as she glanced uncertainly back at the dark figure of the driver. Another car whizzed past in the opposite direction, and by its headlights she saw her driver's eyes watching her in the mirror. They didn't look immediately threatening. Neither had his voice sounded violent. On the contrary, it was merely casual, its timbre deep and curiously gentle compared with what she could see of his appearance.

She swallowed. "Pisa," she agreed. "As fast as possible. Please..."

Yesterday she might have been outraged by the way he instantly slammed his foot down and roared round the corner, narrowly avoiding an oncoming truck. Tonight she was just grateful for his unquestioning cooperation.

Collapsing against the back of her seat, she concentrated on getting her breathing under control. Her whole body trembled with solid fear as well as exertion. Somehow, she still couldn't believe she had escaped. That any of this night was real...

In front of her, the taxi driver reached forward and turned up his radio. An operatic aria assailed her ears, something she recognized from an old Marx Brothers film. The memory caught at her breath with unexpected, hysterical laughter that she had to bite back so only a sound like a startled frog escaped her lips.

Again the taxi driver turned his head to look at her. His teeth gleamed briefly in the darkness. He said something about the music, but she couldn't follow the words. Her Italian wasn't good enough.

"Bene," she said doubtfully and, apparently satisfied, the driver turned his attention back to the road, just in time to deal with the next bend.

Smiling is good, Via reassured herself. Smiling and opera. Both good--it's going to be okay...