Strength, however, did not mean I could ignore the splinters the slipped under my finger and toenails and the sticky resin that began to coat my hands. Just before my hands started to bleed in earnest, I reached the first branch, levering myself up with my magically enhanced strength. Sitting on my precarious perch, I teased splinters from my stinging fingers and mumbled a Healing, watching the flesh re-knit.
High enough, the old-growth conifer gave me an advantage I had so desperately needed. While my cousins hunted each other (knowing Burke, he wouldn’t try to find the mansion until he had bagged his limit), I would wend my way back. There were things I needed to do to ensure a good head start.
Scanning the horizon above the spiny spikes of beech, cedar, ash and hawthorn, I eventually spotted what I thought was the clearing that housed the mansion, its roof buried behind the barren branches of the forest.
As I reached the ground, hands and feet a bloody mess, someone let out an “ahem.”
Heart beating wildly, I turned just in time to take three shots to the chest, green paint spattering my face. “Bloody hell,” I groused.
Fergus laughed. “Saw ya up in tha’ tree, cuz and decided t’ be a mite sportin’ and wait till ya reached bottom before shooting ya’.”
“Mighty kind of you, Fergus.”
The Scotsman laughed and I pounded a Forgetting into his brain, almost gagging at the licorice odor. Fergus’s pupils dominated his eyeballs as he stared blindly ahead.
“Turn around, Fergus, and forget you ever saw Olivier,” I said in slow, even tones. Forgetting placed the subject into a mild hypnotic trance. “Travel west for ten minutes and start searching for your cousins.”
Fergus nodded dumbly and turned around, slowly shambling west.
An hour later I found myself on the Mansion grounds, silently slipping into the servants’ entrance. Only one chef was in attendance in the kitchen, no doubt whipping up something tasty for Julian and Boris.
One Forgetting later and I was ghosting to the second floor, reaching my room-which, fortunately, was empty of any cleaning staff-and finding that my suitcase had remained untouched.
As befitted a scion of the Judas Line, my room was plush, 1,400 square feet of white harp seal fur carpeting and a four-poster bed big enough for a battalion, coated with navy blue silk sheets. Satiny fur swished between my toes after I ripped off the remains of my boots and discarded my much-abused outerwear. The desire to shower pulled at me, but time pulled harder. Donning designer blue jeans, a black turtleneck and Timberline boots, I almost felt human enough for travel.
I did not need much, just some basics, but first, a little preparation. Two jars had been secreted in a compartment of my suitcase. One contained a whitish paste, which I smeared on my chest and forearms under the turtleneck. The other went into my front pocket.
From another compartment in my case I found my cell phone. I flipped it open and dialed.
A tinny voice answered. “Vance, this is Olivier Deschamps.” I kept my voice smooth and urbane despite the thudding of my heart. I wiped sweat from my brow. “Yes, thank you. I need you to liquidate some assets for me …”
Once my exit finances were taken care of, I eased down the obscenely long hallway to Burke’s room. Julian, knowing full well the animosity between Burke and me, had always made sure we were quartered far apart. Not out of any consideration for our welfare, I am sure, but to keep the mayhem to a minimum.
His door was locked, of course, but that proved a minor obstacle. The molecular knife made short work of the lock plate and bolt. Burke’s accommodations were nearly identical to mine except for the Panda-skin rugs strewn almost carelessly across the floor.
Burke was paranoid and cunning, an almost perfect assassin, so where would a perfect assassin keep his secrets? The armoire? Nope, empty. Next I tried under the bed and came up empty. Chest of drawers … nothing. Same for the toilet tank and all the ventilation registers. I cast my eyes about as I considered what hidey-holes that Burke would use. Where, where, where?
Eventually I focused on the armoire, an enormous cedar-lined affair about seven feet tall, constructed of white oak and covered in beautifully intricate scrollwork. However, it wasn’t the craftsmanship that drew my attention, but the space between the bottom of the armoire and the floor. The thing must weigh a ton, I mused. Muttering Strength, I crossed to the wooden monstrosity and heaved, lifting it high and settling it down onto one of the panda rugs. Nothing.
I cursed and was about to move the armoire back when another possibility occurred to me. Lowering the armoire down on its back, I inspected the underside. Stuck to the wood with silvery duct tape was a padded manila envelope.
Bingo.
Ripping it free, I eagerly tore at the seal and emptied the contents onto black and white fur. A CD in a thin plastic case, one black credit card, one of his prized ballistic knives, and four strips of photo negatives in protective plastic sleeves.
I held the negatives up to the light. Annabeth … me … the shower. Crap. Cursing, I stuffed the negatives into one pocket while the rest of the items went into others. I wanted to kill Burke and I wanted to hurt Annabeth like she’d hurt me-run the knife in and twist-but I had bigger fish to fry.
Seconds later, I headed upstairs to Julian’s office, small duffel the size of a bowling bag in one hand, a black leather jacket under one arm and fear hammering spikes through my temples. The audacity of what I planned had me shaking in my boots. I took no notice of the teak flooring save to walk carefully to avoid telltale sounds. After an eternity of climbing, I reached the third floor and Julian’s room, which was located behind double doors made of oak; their intricately carved panels sported scenes from a bacchanalia and polished bronze knobs.
I placed the duffel and jacket on the floor and knocked softly.
Boris opened the door, craggy face impassive as a death mask.
“Hello, Boris. I need to speak to Julian.” I was surprised how nonchalant I sounded.
He shook his head slightly.
“He is busy?”
A barely perceptible nod.
“Ah, well tell him this.” As loud as I could, I hit him with Force.
It was a risky shot, one that could backfire if the big Russian carried protection. Which he did. With a grunt that sounded like an echo from the Abyss, he took two steps back, flinging one large, knobbly hand up in front of his eyes to ward off splinters as both doors were torn apart.
Leaping, I hit him in the solar plexus with the heel of my right boot. I might as well have hit a tree. The big man didn’t even grunt; instead he gripped my leg and pulled me through the doorway, throwing me ten feet in the air, over a settee and into a heavy as hell coffee table made of polished redwood. I felt ribs break as I bounced and landed hard on the floor.
The first bullet hit the coffee table, throwing up a shower of burgundy splinters. The second grazed my ear, the bullet passing with a flat crack to gouge a furrow in the hardwood floor. The shot itself had been a quiet shht, the sound dampened by the best suppressor that money could buy.
I kicked the coffee table on its side just in time for it to catch the third bullet, my boot absorbing some of the shock, but a fragment of pain flashed through my ankle. Another bullet thudded home and I thanked my lucky stars that Julian loved heavy wooden furniture.
Boris was on the move-I could hear his patent leather shoes swish along the wool carpeting-so I ground out another Strength and heaved the coffee table upright, as I stood, using it as a shield.