“We’re going to have to put something in that space, you know.” Hopkins indicated the empty space on the wall where her grandfather’s portrait had claimed pride of ownership on the landing.
When she was a little girl, she’d always thought the eyes in the painting followed her around. Frankly, it had felt like that now that she was an adult, as well. That’s why she’d finally asked that it be taken down, ostensibly for cleaning. It felt wrong to tell her staff that a painting “creeped her out,” as Declan would say. Not very ladylike. It sat in the attic now, draped, where her grandfather’s dead, painted eyes couldn’t glare down at them all anymore. As far as she was concerned, it could stay there forever.
“Something with tiny kittens and butterflies, perhaps, and a motivational slogan such as ‘Hang in there, pussycat,’ ” Hopkins continued, his voice drier than ever.
She laughed and stumbled, almost missing the step. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Just checking in to see if you were listening. We do need to hang something, though. The bare space is too dramatic and invites questions. Perhaps another deceased family member with a slightly less dour countenance?”
She shivered. “Not likely. How about you, Hopkins? We’ll have your portrait done. You can even wear the sheep pj’s.”
His un-butler-like snort sounded as it reached the second floor. “Yes. I’ll put that in my planner straightaway. Shall we say Tuesday of never?”
She caught up with him and put a hand on his arm. “I’ll tell you more, later. But with Declan, I’m going to . . . play it down, shall we say.”
He stopped walking and stared at her in silence for a long moment, then finally inclined his head. “As you say. He’ll never be off to university if he thinks his big sister is in danger. He’s quite protective of you, you know.”
“He’s not the only one,” she said, flashing a sudden grin.
She started off again, but this time he caught her arm. “Are you in danger?”
Fiona bit her lip, thinking about how to respond. Finally she went with truth. Always easiest to remember. “I might be. This time, I really might be.”
The door to the last room on the right of the warmly lit hallway opened, and her brother popped his head out. His hair stood straight up, a sign that he’d been at his beloved computers most of the night, and he instantly launched into an excited swarm of questions.
“Oh, boy, that was close. Did you set off the alarm? Guards swarmed the room for quite a while after you left, and who was that bloke on the floor? Where did he go? They put the cameras and computers in emergency lockdown mode right after that, so I got kicked out, and Fee, I think they knew I was in there. They’ve got somebody top-notch. It would have to be somebody really, really good to know I was there and find out it was actually me, you know? Not in an arrogant way, but you know. What did you think of the Siren? Did you get a really good look? It’s absolutely gorgeous, but I’ve always been moved along by the guards when I try to—”
She finally stopped him, dazzled by the sheer volume of words. “What did I tell you about caffeine after midnight? Slow down, let me in, and we’ll talk about it. I don’t really care to discuss this in the hall.”
Not that the hall housed anyone but herself and Declan; those few of the staff who didn’t return to their own homes at night had the other wing, but it never hurt to be careful. She took a step toward the combined office and computer room she thought of as her brother’s private nerve center, but this time Hopkins clamped a hand on her arm with the tensile strength of a cast-iron manacle.
She glanced up at him, and her question died in her mouth at the sight of the flames practically shooting out of his eyes.
“There was a bloke?” he said, enunciating very, very precisely, always a bad sign. “A bloke on the floor?”
“Inside. Let’s get out of the hallway and I’ll tell all,” she repeated. “But let me warn you now: you’re not going to like it.”
Christophe opened his eyes to total darkness, and just for a moment, that instant between conscious and not conscious, terror swept through him. Not again, not now, not the box, I’ll be good, please no. Before he could smash his fists into whatever hard surface he lay on, however, or howl his fear to the menacing dark, realization dawned. The present reality snapped back into focus with the power of a moon-pulled wave crashing around his head in high surf.
He was safe. He was in the trunk of the car—the ninja’s car. It was no longer moving, so hopefully they’d arrived at her home base or headquarters. Unless they’d stolen the car and then dumped it, in which case he was screwed. Yet again.
Funny, he hadn’t considered that it might be a stolen car until now that it was too late. He was better than that, when he wasn’t drugged and chasing a silk-covered ninja. He closed his eyes and forced his heartbeat to slow.
Calm. Serene. He was one of Poseidon’s elite, not that little boy. Never again that pathetic boy. Never again helpless.
He was also feeling stronger. The sleep must have allowed his body to metabolize the rest of the drug out of his system and recharge Atlantean magic that had been far too frequently channeled this night.
Stretching out his arms, he carefully felt in the usual places for any type of release mechanism. Ven, the car enthusiast, had told them all about that after Christophe had wanted to put an uncooperative shifter in the trunk of one of Ven’s cars once. Newer cars generally had release levers, Ven had said; a protection for children who might accidentally lock themselves in the trunk.
Accidentally. Lock themselves in the trunk. The words themselves mocked him. Mocked his helplessness, all those years ago. The word “trunk” then meant a heavy wooden thing, not part of a vehicle. Cars had been a thing of the far-distant future back then.
No. Not accidental at all. When they’d locked a terrified little boy in that trunk. Demon-borne, they’d said. Hours and hours in that trunk, but what came later had been even worse.
No. He shook his head and took a deep breath to escape the memories. His trembling fingers found the release lever, and he paused to listen carefully for the sound of anyone in the area who might be surprised to see a man climb out of the trunk of a car. Surprise sometimes equaled guns shooting at his head. Or worse: vampires’ kind of surprise.
He hated surprise.
But there was nothing. Not road noise, either, so the car was inside a garage or parking structure, or else he’d been asleep for long enough for the car to travel far beyond London’s busy streets. He couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t feel like the latter. He didn’t feel rested enough for that.
“Enough delaying, already,” he whispered into the dark, just so he could hear the sound of a voice. Even his own. The technique had helped in the past. Not that he needed any help now. Dark was just dark. A trunk was merely a storage space, not a prison.
There were almost certainly no exorcists in the immediate area.
The thought snapped him out of his memories, and taking a deep breath, he pulled the release lever. The trunk popped open smoothly, with not a hint of squeak, and he immediately sat up and scanned the area, his dagger held at the ready. Ceiling lights set to low provided illumination enough for him to see that the garage—for it was clearly that—was empty, however. He climbed out of the car and whirled around to face the other half of the room, searching its dimly lit corners for any dangers.
Nothing. Tools, workbench, a second car, and two very hot motorcycles filled the clean and tidy space, which smelled of gasoline, oil, and polish and, underneath it all, the faintest hint of jasmine. Of her. Somebody took very good care of this garage, which didn’t feel at all like a hideout for desperate criminals. It felt like a garage attached to somebody’s home.