by Sonya Clark
“Looking forward to it.” Frost brought a crisp tone to Eve’s voice.
Sanngrid’s laughter rang behind him as he hurried away. Chet caught up at the elevator. “She’s going to kick your ass if you keep being a jerk to her.”
Pete snorted. “I’d like to see her try.”
“Yeah, I think you would.”
The elevator opened and Pete stepped inside. Chet tried to follow but Pete threw up a hand to block him. “Take the stairs. I feel like being a jerk to you, too.”
The door closed on Chet’s laughter.
Pete leaned against the wall and ran his hands through his sweaty hair. He wanted this Key business over and done with, and not just because of how dangerous the damn grimoire was. The longer Eve stayed around, the more likely he was to do something stupid. Like not be a jerk to her.
There was a time when he’d been very good at not being a jerk to women, but that was a long time ago. Best to keep the past in the past.
****
Every muscle in Eve’s body ached but she had to admit she was glad for it. She’d done yoga and Pilates off and on but never got around to taking a self-defense class. That’s exactly what she’d just had all morning in the gym with Sanngrid. They didn’t do anything fancy but now Eve had a few basic moves down, most of which were designed to use her small size to her advantage. She’d been nervous about working with the intimidating woman but found Sanngrid to be surprisingly funny with a rough charm all her own.
The small gym was located in the east wing of the main building, giving Eve a chance to see a bit more of Bradbury. She got lost on her way out, had to back track and finally found a side exit. After a leisurely walk to the townhouse, she took a hot shower and dressed in fresh clothes before meeting Frances for lunch in the Oracle. If Eve could find her way back to the cafeteria, that is.
Meeting Frances and MacGuffin on the path back to the main building kept Eve from having to worry about finding the Oracle. Starving after the morning workout, she took full advantage of the large buffet, glad to see Frances ate plenty too. They talked and laughed about inconsequential things as they ate. Over coffee Eve worked up the nerve to voice a question she’d been dying to ask.
“You’re an apprentice to a wizard? Really? What do you do?”
“I was born a natural witch.” Frances scooped up MacGuffin and settled him in her lap. “The institute has an official training program for mages, wizards, whatever you feel like calling yourself.” She leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “Rami likes wizard because of Harry Potter, but don’t tell him I told you that.”
Eve grinned. “What’s the training like?”
“A shit ton of book work, let me tell you.” Frances snorted. “It was almost a year before Rami let me do any spells and rituals! He’s a sweet guy most of the time but he can be really unreasonable when he’s teaching you.”
Remembering what Chet said the day before about the blowing stuff up phase, Eve couldn’t help but wonder if Rami was really that unreasonable.
Eve felt a scowl over her shoulder. Sure enough, Pete stood just behind and to her right. “You ready to learn to shoot?”
She decided not to answer his question directly. To Frances she said, “Time for my next lesson.”
“Ooh, Pete and guns, how fun.” In a stage whisper Frances added, “You be sure and find me later and give me the scoop. You know, if he’s a twenty-two or a forty-four caliber.” She waggled her eyebrows in the last part of her sentence.
Eve tried not to choke laughing as she stood and followed Pete out of the cafeteria. She had to double-time to keep up with him because he flew out of the room so quickly. Down one hallway, then another, she ran to catch an elevator that he made no effort to delay. He stood ramrod straight, staring at the door with no expression on his face. For a moment Eve felt bad for laughing, then she noticed the tinge of red on the tops of his ears. A giggle slipped out and she hurried to cover her mouth.
He led her to an underground shooting gallery, reeling off perfunctory instructions and not giving her a chance to ask questions. He opened a case and withdrew a black handgun.
“This is a Desert Eagle Mark Nineteen fifty caliber. Just under five pounds, six inch barrel, seven rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. This is the weapon you choose when you want to put someone down and make sure they don’t get back up. Hopefully firing it won’t hurt you too much.”
Except that’s not what the blazing hard light in his narrowed eyes said. Reading through the squint Eve could see he wanted her to cringe, wanted her to act like the soft woman he assumed her to be and shy away from the big scary gun. What he failed to realize was that petite women like her, who knew they were at a disadvantage physically, sometimes liked big scary guns.
She checked her safety gear, took the gun from his hand, and emptied the clip into the target downrange. Humming, she flicked the button to bring the target forward, placing the gun on the shelf in front of her. The paper showed a nice tight grouping of shots at center mass.
Pete remained silent. Eve curved her lips into a saucy smile. “Well, look at that. I made your eyes widen.” With that she walked away, some feminine instinct assuring her that he was watching every step.
Chapter 12
Two days later Eve found herself on the top floor of Bradbury in what was originally designed to be a ballroom. Now used as a meeting room according to Franny, Eve had been instructed to bring her formal wear and be there at seven in the evening sharp.
Her time had been filled with a number of activities. Reading through the huge binder of information Chet had prepared, working with Jean-Pierre, more self-defense with Sanngrid. Evenings with Franny quizzing her over details from the binder. Eve was so exhausted every night she expected to sleep like a rock, but the nightmares always came calling. Blood spilling from the pages of a book, blinding flashes of red and gold light.
She draped the garment bag over the back of a chair and went to inspect a painting on the far wall. It was some sort of fantasy landscape with the colors all different and the proportions shifted. Eve knew little about art but this painting seemed incredibly vibrant to her. Almost as if you could cross into the canvas and step inside that strange world.
Heels clicked on the hardwood floor. Eve turned to see a woman bearing down on her garment bag, opening it and inspecting the dress without so much as an introduction.
“As I suspected.” The woman spoke with a French accent and the kind of self-assurance of which most women could only dream. “This will not do at all.”
Eve strode toward her. “And you are?”
“I am Bettine, and this is hideous.” She dropped the dress, letting it slide to the floor as if it no longer deserved any consideration at all. She stood only a few inches taller but had such a commanding presence that Eve couldn’t help but feel smaller. Not in the good way, either. Bettine had a heart-shaped face and flawless pale skin. Her eyes were chips of cold jade framed by thick lashes, her mouth full and lush. A sleek fall of dark chestnut hair flowed down her back. A blue swirl-patterned wrap dress hugged her curves, the V-neck plunging dangerously low to display more cleavage than Eve felt comfortable showing, well, pretty much ever.
Eve knew she was pretty but this woman made her feel like chopped liver.
“This,” Bettine waved her index finger up and down to indicate the simple skirt and blouse Eve wore, “is not tailored, no?”
“No, I – ’’
Bettine cut her off. “You are not used to wearing clothes that fit properly. The ball you will attend, you must look good. Not covered in a sackcloth.”
“Uh.”
Bettine dropped gracefully into a chair. “Take your clothes off.”
“What?”
“I need to see you, see what sort of figure you have if I’m to choose an appropriate dress for you.”
That made a certain amount of sense. Maybe. “Right here in the ballroom?”
Bettine shrugged. “We’re alo
ne.” She shook her head. “Americans are such prudes. Go on.” She waved her hands, impatient.
Eve stayed still for a moment but a stream of agitated French spurred her into action. Leaving on her heels, she made quick work of removing her skirt and blouse. Feeling ridiculous, and cold, her skin pebbled from the sudden chill. Bettine eyed her critically, ordering her to turn this way and that.
“Do you know how to dance?”
“I can manage a basic waltz, if it’s not too fast. Can I put my clothes back on now?”
“You may.”
Eve dressed in lightning speed and took a seat opposite the other woman. All in all she far preferred being pseudo beaten up by Sanngrid than this. “Well?”
“Chesney told me you intend this to be a, a honey-free trap, is that the phrase you used?”
Eve nodded. “I think I can get Knox to talk to me. I worked for his grandmother.”
Bettine waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, I know. That doesn’t matter.”
“But – ’’
“No, listen to me. No one wants to talk about this. It’s that annoying prudery. But I will be honest with you, Eve. We will speak to each other as women, not little girls. You understand?”
Eve did understand, she just didn’t know how she felt about it. “Yes, I understand.”
“We all know Knox from his time here. But we each know different things about him, yes? Chesney has a certain way of understanding people, as does Peter. As do I. I can tell certain things about people. About Knox, I could tell he is very playful. A sensualist. He likes a challenge. A present that is difficult to unwrap. Do you understand?”
“Honestly, no.” Dealing with men had never been easy for Eve. There had been few times in her life when she’d felt like she had the upper hand with a man. In fact, the shooting lesson with Pete the other day had been one of them. She put that thought out of her mind and focused on the issue at hand.
“What you have to do with Knox is present him with a great temptation, but keep it at arm’s length.”
“Play hard to get?”
Bettine nodded. “Yes. Surely you realize that in order to get him to hand over such a valuable thing, he’s going to want something in return.”
Eve had thought of that but every time she did she pushed it away. “You think I’ll have to sleep with him to get the Key.”
“What I think is you are a beautiful woman who wears ill-fitting clothes and is not comfortable with her body. That you are perhaps not comfortable in your dealings with men. That you are telling yourself if you sleep with Knox Delafield to get the Key from him that it will make you a bad person. Am I correct?” Those cold green eyes surveyed Eve without sympathy.
Eve said nothing. What could she say? Bettine already knew the answer.
Bettine stood. “You have to make a decision, quickly. I will get you the perfect dress. If you can wear that dress, if you can be the woman that would wear such a dress with confidence, then go to Frankfurt. Temptation alone might be enough to sway Knox. Or you might choose to sleep with him. He is an attractive young man with a delightful hedonist streak. I’m sure it would be enjoyable.”
Eve blushed. To cover it, and the fact that she didn’t know what to say, she retrieved the rejected dress from the floor.
Bettine continued. “This body is yours, to enjoy, to use, to do with as you please. To show off in a scandalous dress, to make love with a man who excites you. There is no shame in that. And there is no more shame in getting something out of using your body than there is in being rewarded for using your mind. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Without another word Bettine turned on her heel and left. Eve sank back into the chair, her old dress crumpled in her lap. She had no idea what to think of any of what Bettine told her. To her horror, the words scandalous dress were the easiest ones to contemplate.
****
“This is a hell of a lot to place on the shoulders of a stranger. Too much.” Pete sipped from his glass of whiskey, the night air rifling his hair. He stood on the balcony of the top floor meeting room that overlooked the back lawn of the compound.
A snap of fingers brought a small flame to life in the darkness - Chet lighting his cigar. “We’ll be with her the whole time.”
“This would be a whole lot easier if I could just grab Delafield and beat the Key out of him,” Pete complained, waving smoke away from his face.
Sanngrid stepped out of the shadows, holding up her own cigar. “Poor Pete. It’s been too long since he got to beat someone senseless.”
Chet snapped his fingers again, lighting Sanngrid’s cigar. “Knox may be a thief but it isn’t like him to deal in something so dangerous. Judith wants to know what’s going on.”
Jean-Pierre spoke from a chair in the corner. “She’s a smart girl, Eve. Brave too. I think she can handle herself.”
“Here’s what I don’t get,” Rami said. “We know Knox. We know that he’s harmless. But why would she be willing to act as bait to get the attention of a guy who tied her up and robbed her the first time they met?”
Sanngrid blew smoke at Rami and smirked. “Does someone need to have the talk with you?”
Pete bristled but said nothing. He’d already gotten enough grief from Chet after telling him about the shooting lesson.
“Eve knows the Key is dangerous,” Chet said. “She also knows she doesn’t have to be scared of Knox. I for one am grateful she’s willing to help us.”
“And if it gets her killed?” Pete set his glass on the balcony railing. “Mueller’s auctions bring out the heavy hitters. More than a few would be willing to kill to get their hands on that grimoire.”
Chet stared at him for a beat, then looked away. “That’s why you’ll be hovering in the background like her own personal guardian angel.”
“Or stalker,” Sanngrid said, sotto voce.
Chet ignored her. “If it goes south, we get her out of there and move on to plan B.”
Rami said, “There’s a plan B?”
No one spoke. The door swung open, revealing Bettine outlined in the lamp light from inside. “Chesney. Walk me home.”
A slow intake of breath sounded from Chet. He bade them all good night and left with Bettine on his arm.
Pete picked up his glass and drained the last of the whiskey. Sanngrid leaned against the balcony, blowing smoke rings. Jean-Pierre said his own goodnight. He had a wife waiting for him, after all. Rami drifted away next, probably going home to a book or some strange experiment.
“Keep an eye on things while I’m gone,” Pete said.
“I always do.” Sanngrid used her cigar to point at the door. “Especially that one.”
Reflexively Pete glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting something to burst from the woods. “You never will trust Bettine, will you?”
“I don’t trust anyone with a drop of Unseelie blood.”
Pete hunted up the bottle and poured another two fingers of whiskey. Sleep would be a long time coming tonight, even though he needed it. In thirty-six hours they would leave for Frankfurt.
Chapter 13
Agnar Drake lounged in the comfortable chaise centered on a raised dais. He had a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other, and a half-naked bottle blond enthusiastically applying her mouth to his pleasure. The room was lit with a soft glow from sconces spaced along the walls covered in dark red fabric. Richly appointed cushions, settees, and occasional tables were spread out in a horseshoe from the chaise, which served as the focal point of the room. He called it his office, this large corner room in the top floor of the warehouse he used as headquarters, and deliberately created an atmosphere of a kingly receiving room.
One of his top lackeys, a man named Crantz, entered. Two underlings followed, dragging a hooded man in a suit.
Agnar placed his drink on the closest table and his cigar in an ashtray made of a horned humanoid skull. Roughly pushed the blond away, he zipped his pants as he stood. “Did you bring me Delafield?”
Agnar stepped down from the dais. “I believe that almost gives me pleasure.”
“I had hoped so, sir. He’s a screamer. I know how you like that.”
Agnar gestured for the guards to drop the man. He hit the marble floor hard, knees taking the brunt of the impact. A cry of pain made it past the gag in his mouth. Agnar grabbed the black silk, ripping it from the man’s head. “Where is my Key, Delafield?” He filled his voice with ice and a promise of violence.
John Delafield shook his head, making mewling noises. Agnar shoved him away. A wave of his hand released the gag.
Delafield coughed as he struggled to his feet. “I don’t know, I swear to you. It was gone from the safe deposit box by the time I got there.”
Agnar raised a hand, cutting off Delafield’s windpipe. Delafield fell to his knees again, gasping for air, his face turning purple. With a savage grin Agnar said, “Where do you think we should start, Crantz? What can he afford to lose first? A hand? A foot? His balls?”
Crantz chuckled. “I don’t think he’s got any balls. Take a hand.”
Agnar began to raise his other hand. Delafield shook, frantic, stomping his feet.
“What’s that, John?” Agnar eased off the pressure on the other man’s throat. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
“I don’t know where it is,” Delafield struggled to speak as he gulped down air. “But I know my son took it.”
Agnar considered this for a moment. “Your son Knox?”
The older man nodded, his features a distasteful mask of sycophancy.
“You were right, Crantz. He doesn’t have any balls. John, are you right or left handed?”
The odor of urine filled the room as a large wet spot traveled across Delafield’s pants. Agnar laughed, enjoying the man’s humiliation. Crantz and the guards joined in. Even the momentarily forgotten girl huddled on the floor by the chaise giggled.
