From what I didn’t do.
I still sometimes hear that woman’s screams in my sleep.
“And your father? Is he also dead?” Sofie asks, her tone mocking.
Mention of Eddie reminds me of Tony’s assault on him. Alton would have called for an ambulance. “No, but he’s ill.”
“And what ails him?”
“Don’t you already know?” What is this game she’s playing?
After a moment, she nods, confirming my suspicions. “So, you grew up surrounded by talk of demons, and yet you do not believe in them.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I have a better grip on reality than both my parents.” And a healthy fear of becoming like either of them.
“Perhaps.” Again with that curious tone. She doesn’t pry further, but she also doesn’t offer condolences. “How did you find yourself in this career path?”
I shrug. “One thing led to another.” And I like not starving.
“You did not want a new family, a new home? A normal life?”
“My life was never going to be normal.” I considered going to the police after that fateful night in the church basement, but I didn’t have any faith in a system that had already failed my father. I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me, or worse, they’d force me to go back to her. I balked whenever the youth shelter workers asked questions—What’s your name, hun? Where did you used to live? What can you tell me about your parents? I knew they were only trying to help, but anonymity made me feel safer. And then I met the grifter Tarryn. We had big plans to move to LA and live in a van near the ocean, until she got arrested, and I was dragged into the back of an SUV by Korsakov’s goons.
These last few years I was on my way toward something that vaguely resembled “normal.” I earned my GED and enrolled in art classes. Just last week, I was eyeing programs at the local community college. That’s what normal twenty-one-year-olds do.
I keep feeding Sofie information about myself—that she somehow already knows—and gathering almost nothing in return. “So, is your husband in prison?”
“Of a sort,” she says cryptically.
“I don’t know the first thing about breaking a person out of jail, unless you need someone to steal a key, which I’m sure one of them can handle.” I nod toward her assassin squad.
“Perhaps you should present yourself as more useful rather than less? You will find it is in your best interest. People tend to keep those of value alive longer.”
I can’t tell if that’s a lesson or a threat. “I just don’t understand why you chose me.”
“I did not choose you. Malachi did.”
“But why?” And who is this man!
“I will admit that I do not entirely understand it myself. I am worried. But you have impressed me, especially for one of your age.”
“My ability to steal impresses you?”
“Is that the only value you see in yourself?” She cocks her head, her attention drifting over my lengthy black hair. It was as silky as a raven’s feather when the night began, but the drizzle has unraveled the stylist’s work. “You are proficient in that skill. So proficient, in fact, one might say you were blessed with a godly talent for it.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s a commandment against my talent.” Though sometimes I’ve surprised even myself with how effortlessly I’m able to separate people from their belongings.
She smirks. “I see a shrewd young woman who has learned to survive and adapt, despite being betrayed and abandoned by those closest to her, who is acutely aware of her surroundings and suitably wary of dangers, but who has the fortitude to keep her wits about her, even in the most perilous situations, who knows when she has no other choice but to make the best of her circumstances. All these things will serve you well.”
My cheeks flush. I’m not accustomed to someone doling out compliments in my direction. I can’t remember the last time it happened. But I don’t miss her underlying meaning—whatever she has planned for me, there is no escape. “Have I met him? Malachi?”
“You have not, but you may, eventually.”
Sofie is evasive, which means she has something to hide. Another question burns for an answer. “What about after I help you free your husband?”
“Your task will be complete.”
“And I won’t owe you? You’ll let me go?” I won’t be able to go back to my life in New York. Not with Tony alive. Maybe I should have let Sofie kill him.
Something unreadable flashes in her eyes. “It is I who will owe you a debt. One that can never be repaid.” It’s an echo of what I said to her earlier about Korsakov.
“But I’m not being given a choice.”
“You are not.” Her voice has turned hard. It’s as if the suggestion that I might refuse to help infuriates her. That makes sense, though, if her husband’s life is on the line.
The sound of a blade drawing across its scabbard pulls my attention to the yellow-eyed man. He is putting away Sofie’s sword after cleaning it, and yet I sense an unspoken warning.
I swallow against my rising nerves. “Can you at least—”
“All will be explained when the time is right. That time is not at present.” She shifts her attention back to her paper, giving the pages a shake.
As much as I want to push, the memory of Korsakov and his butchered men still fresh in my mind stays my tongue. I huddle deeper into my wool blanket and watch the world below slip into complete darkness, wondering how long I’ll have to bide my time before I can dodge these lunatics.
Somehow, I manage to drift off.
“You live here?”
“Oui.”
“But it’s, like, a real castle.” Built on top of a hill that overlooks a charming old town, with a stone wall and iron gate to protect it, cobblestones beneath my shoes, and towers scaled with leafless vines and capped with spires soaring high above us.
“Oui. My chateau. Mine and Elijah’s.”
I know I should be sizing up escape routes, and yet I’m enthralled as I turn slowly, absorbing the vast medieval courtyard, empty of everything but the sleek black car we arrived in and a lone tabby cat that sits on a stair wall, lapping at its paw. The two assassin-guards have disappeared into a separate, smaller building with their duffel bags of deadly weapons.
I note the small door next to the gate that appears to be a walk-through exit to the town. For a place this size, there must be more. I don’t see surveillance cameras, but that doesn’t mean they’re not around.
Beyond the gate, the town bustles with midday activity, but within these walls, it’s silent, save for a few withered leaves scuttling across the stone on a breeze. “How old is this place?”
“The original building is from the fifteenth century.”
My jaw drops as I quickly do the math. That’s over six hundred years of history. And what does a place like this cost? I assumed Sofie and her husband were rich and powerful—the private plane and assassin bodyguards more than hinted at that—but to own a castle …
Sofie’s musical laughter carries in the eerie quiet. The simple act softens her features, making her appear less intimidating. “It is refreshing to see your reaction. Mine was much the same when Elijah first brought me to Montegarde and told me this would be our home. We had left Paris rather abruptly and—” She cuts herself off, her smile turning sorrowful. “Well, that was long ago. Hopefully, he will still appreciate its beauty when he finally sees it again.”