Alyec was quiet a long moment.
“You’re smarter than your girlfriend, too,” he finally said.
“Nah,” Paul said, smiling. “She’s the über-PSAT girl. I just think longer than she does.”
Alyec bit his lip—Like a girl, Paul thought—and tapped his hands against his sides in a near-silent drum solo, apparently weighing something carefully in his mind. Paul followed him, patiently waiting for an answer.
“She’s fine,” Alyec said at last. “She’s safe,” he corrected himself, choosing more precise words, “from the man who was trying to kill her—and everything.”
“That’s all I needed to know,” Paul murmured. “Thank you.”
“Hmmph,” Alyec said, a little annoyed at his admission.
“Could you—could you let her know that we miss her? And worry?”
“I think she knows already, but I’ll get word to her. You’re her best friends.” They stopped in front of the comic shop and he frowned pensively, not really looking in the window but perhaps at something more distant. “I think,” he said slowly, “Wonder Woman’s breasts are pointing different directions in this poster—aren’t they?”
Paul desperately hoped that if Chloe was involved in some international conspiracy/drug/gang/corporate espionage/murder thing, Alyec wasn’t a key agent. He was nice enough, but he sure was lacking in the brains department.
“Hello?”
“Amy? It’s Chloe.”
She sucked in her breath, waiting for Amy to react. There was half a second when there was no noise from the other end.
“Ohmygod, Chloe! Where the hell are you?”
Chloe relaxed. This was the Amy she knew. Pissed as hell, but the same good ol’ Amy.
Chloe was in her new room, sitting on the floor up against the wall by her bed. She figured if anyone caught her, she could just tell the truth: that she was telling her friends she was okay. No one had told her specifically not to call them. And she could always play the stupid-sullen-teenager routine if she had to.
Of course, why was she even worrying about that? These people, her people, had accepted her and protected her and taken her in with love and enthusiasm—no questions asked. She was even wearing really comfy yoga pants and a top that had been quietly provided for her—correct fit and all. Why was she suddenly worried about being caught or doing the wrong thing?
Chloe twisted a piece of her dark hair around her finger. It was time to get it cut soon—another thing she’d neglected with all the excitement of the past few weeks.
Unless it turns out I’m a shorthair. She almost laughed at her own joke.
“I’m with some people—they’re protecting me from the people who want to kill me.” Chloe flinched, realizing how stupid that sounded.
“What the hell are you talking about? I thought it was just that one guy! Was that mugger part of this, too? Are these gangs? Are you in a gang, Chloe?” Before Chloe could answer, Amy started shouting, sounding muffled, as if she was holding the phone to her chest. “It’s Chloe! She says she’s all right. I think she’s been kidnapped. No, I’ll tell her.” The barely audible masculine voice that was answering back was definitely Paul. “Just get on the other phone!” Amy snapped.
He’s over at her place. Late, Chloe realized.
There was a click, then Paul was on.
“Hey, Chloe.” Calm as ever. She wondered, not for the first time, if anything ever ruffled his feathers. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, Paul.”
“Cool. We were worried about you, you know.”
“I know.” She smiled but felt a little strange. She was glad that Paul seemed to accept her safety as a matter of fact and that he believed she could handle anything she was in the middle of right now. It was great that someone had that kind of confidence in her. But didn’t he care enough to crack his cool exterior just a little? Shouldn’t he be just a tiny bit more worried?
“Anyway, I have not been kidnapped. And it’s not gangs—” Chloe thought about the Tenth Blade and the Mai. Strip down their history, legends, occult origins, and secret powers and, well, actually … “Okay, it’s sort of like gangs. But it’s also sort of international and stuff….”
“I knew it!” Amy cried triumphantly. “Alyec’s a spy for the KGB, isn’t he?”
“Learn a little history, will you?” Chloe snapped, finding herself falling back into her old pattern with Amy instead of this being the I’m-okay-I-love-you call it was supposed to be. She took a deep breath. “This has nothing to do with the Cold War—” But then again, it sort of did. “Okay, there’s these two groups—the Mai, who are basically related to me, and the Order of the Tenth Blade, who are sort of all about killing the Mai because …” Think this one out, Chloe. “Because the Mai were sort of a hunter-warrior caste who were … undeservedly reputed to be bloodthirsty and … animalistic. It’s all really old and stuff. The important thing is that Alyec saved my life when that psycho from the Order tried to kill me.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true—he had held Brian at bay while she fought the Rogue, and the truth was that maybe Brian really had been trying to help her…. But if Alyec hadn’t shown her the things he could do as a cat, she would have been slit from nose to navel immediately by the Rogue’s daggers.
“He didn’t,” Amy said, obviously not wanting to believe her.
“He did,” Chloe repeated firmly. “And more than that. These people are going to help me find out who my biological family is. They might have all been killed—” She thought about Kim with a faint gleam of hope, then wondered how she and Amy would get along. Chloe decided not to mention her potential sister just yet. “But they might still be alive. These people are dedicated to finding all of the people from Abkhazia, a country in the old Soviet Union, who were scattered and bringing them over here safely.”
“Sounds like they brought trouble with them,” Amy observed. Chloe opened her mouth to argue, but in a way, her friend was right.
“Come home,” Paul suggested. It was almost a plea. “As soon as you can. I don’t trust these ‘people.’”
“Yeah, they probably tapped your line.”
“Amy, this is a cell phone….”
“Whatever! Don’t be a douche. When are you coming back?”
It was a strange question. Chloe had only been at Firebird with the Mai for a week or so and it already felt like a completely new life. Sure, she missed her mom and Paul and Amy, but the thought of suddenly waking up tomorrow and going to school again was just weird.
She paused too long, trying to figure out how to answer it.
“So you mean you haven’t even considered coming back,” Amy said evenly.
“Not until it’s safe,” Chloe said, faltering.
“And when’s that?” Paul asked. His voice was beyond cool. “When this Order thing has been completely wiped out? When they’re all dead? How many of them are there? I mean, it sounds like a real gang war, from what you’re saying.”
She hadn’t thought about it.
She really hadn’t thought about any of it.
She thought about it now, though, sinking into her pillows. They kept saying—Sergei kept saying—she could go back “as soon as the danger had passed” and Chloe just accepted it, repeating it, making it the truth by repetition. What did she expect? That the Tenth Blade would just give up after a while? That they would grow bored with hunting the supposed killer of one of their Order? That there was some sort of statute of limitations on accidental death in the middle of a five-thousand-year blood feud?
Did she really believe that one day Sergei was going to come to her with an all-clear signal, hug her, let her go back home, and insist that she drop by once in a while? Now that she thought about it, no one ever acted like she was going to be leaving at any point. Alyec never said anything one way or the other. She had a job, for Christ’s sake.
“I don’t like the way this sounds, Chloe,” Amy said grimly. “I want to see you. Myself. If these people are so
great, they shouldn’t mind letting you see your friends.”
“Amy, now is not a good time….”
“I mean it! Promise you’ll meet us. Or I’ll call in the cavalry. I call the police. I’ll tell your mother.”
“All right, all right, I promise!” Chloe agreed.
“When?”
“I don’t know! I’ll call you again when I can, okay?” She looked at the battery meter. About a quarter left. She didn’t have a charger with her and for some reason, once again, she didn’t feel comfortable asking for one. Come to think about it, no one in the Pride knew about her phone except for Alyec—and now Igor and Valerie—so unless they told anyone, that was it. Why did that make her feel better somehow?”
“All right. Call me by Saturday or it’s the cavalry. I mean it.”
“All right! I’ll see you later.”
“’Bye!” Paul shouted.
Chloe flipped her phone closed and looked at it for a long time, sitting on the floor.
“Well, that’s … weird … ,” Paul said, distractedly arranging Amy’s stuffed animals into extremely lewd positions.
“Stockholm syndrome,” Amy answered promptly, pleased with herself. “She has begun sympathizing with her own kidnappers. She’s beginning to really believe they are keeping her safe instead of just keeping her.”
Paul looked up at her and narrowed his eyes. “Amy? What are you planning?” he asked evenly.
“Nothing,” Amy said, crossing her arms. “Yet.”
But they both knew it wasn’t true.
“Well, well, my own son wants to have dinner with me,” Whit said, folding the painfully white linen napkin into his lap. “What an extraordinary honor.”
Brian grimaced. Once again his father had managed to turn the tables so everything was to his advantage: Mr. Rezza had chosen the Ritz-Carlton’s restaurant for dinner, much to Brian’s dismay. It embodied everything that Brian did not want to get involved in during their discussion. Fussy place settings, crazy rich people, annoyingly perfect and subdued lighting, silent waiters, and worst of all, a dress code. Technically Brian wore the required “business attire,” but he saw that the maitre d’ was pissed at his Generation-Y interpretation: brown velvet pants, a leather suit-style jacket, and a Diesel shirt that he wore with a thrift store tie.
“Shall we start with a bottle of something? Maybe some Krug Grande Cuvée to celebrate the occasion?”
Brian had an almost overwhelming urge to point out that he wasn’t old enough to drink, but now was not the point in the conversation to start acting up.
“Whatever. You know I like reds.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Whit looked at his son with something approaching fondness. “I remember: cabernets. A strange thing for a California boy, but I don’t disapprove. I seem to remember they have some very nice native ones here….” He took out a pair of reading glasses and buried his nose in the wine list.
Brian sighed. At least his father seemed a little nervous despite his posturing. It had been several months since they had really spent any time together outside the dusty walls of the Order’s chapter house. The older man looked more or less the same, maybe a little tanner, maybe his jowls were just a little bit tighter. He had said something about taking up squash or tennis. He was a large man, imposing, with an utterly patrician face and a nose that was large enough to make him look regal but sharp enough so that he looked like he was something other than a hundred percent Italian. Only his easy olive tan betrayed a Mediterranean origin.
His outfit was impeccable, a several-thousand-dollar Armani suit that fit so well with the shirt, the cuff links, the tie, and the shoes that except for the slight paunch, Brian’s dad could have been a model for some older men’s magazine. Whitney Rezza was a living embodiment of taste and wealth well spent.
“Dad,” Brian said, clearing his throat, “I think we should consider me leaving the Order.”
His father looked over the wine list at him.
“Don’t be absurd.”
Brian had thought long and hard, and the best thing he could do for Chloe now was to cut all ties with the organization that was bent on killing her. Whatever happened between the two of them, he would be free of the Tenth Blade, and Chloe would feel confident that she could trust him.
But that was only partially it: this was also an opportunity for Brian to figure out what to do with his life. Which he knew, regardless of anything else, did not involve the Order of the Tenth Blade. At best it was a silly society of archaic rituals and secrecy; at worst it was a group of people devoted to killing other people. Either way, it was not going to be his life’s work.
“I’m serious, Dad. I want a career, an education—I want a life” He ran his hand through his own thick dark hair, angry at his own nervousness.
“All of those things are possible while you remain in the Order,” his father said, slowly setting the wine list down, “if that’s what you really wish.”
“I want to concentrate on ‘those things.’ I don’t want to have to run out of a final because of some emergency meeting the way Dickless—uh, Dick did a couple of weeks ago.”
“Richard is an extremely devoted young man,” Whit said patronizingly. “He is an exemplar for the Order.”
Then why don’t you just adopt him and be done with it? His father’s feelings toward Dick used to drive Brian up the wall; now he wished his dad was grooming the college student for eventual leadership. God knew he himself didn’t want it.
Brian took a deep breath.
“Dad,” he said patiently, “most people choose to join the Order. Even Edna—”
“That’s Mrs. Hilshire to you, Brian.”
“Even fucking Mrs. Hilshire—” He stopped when his father gave him a warning look. “Even she gave her kids the choice. Evelyn chose to join, and William and Maurice didn’t.”
“Well, I don’t have the luxury of three children and the chances that one may follow in his father’s footsteps. I only have you.”
“It’s not my fault you only have one kid,” Brian snapped, his temper slowly getting the better of him.
“Oh, is this where you’re about to blame me for the death of my own wife again?” his dad said, annoyingly lightly. “How if it hadn’t been for me, she would still be alive? How I might have had three kids, and you would get out of your current predicament? You’re right. Terribly selfish of me to let my own wife die. I didn’t realize how it would inconvenience you.”
Brian’s foot began to shake under the table. He forced himself to stop it, not wanting his dad to see how close he was to losing control.
“I’m not talking about that.” Though I should throw it in your goddamn face, you self-satisfied … “I’m talking about my right to choose my own life.”
“Sometimes we don’t have those choices, son. Look at Prince Charles,” Mr. Rezza said gravely. “Listen, I inherited this burden from your grandfather, just as he did from his father. Sometimes we just have to accept what we’re given and bear it manfully.”
Manfully? Brian almost cracked up. But it was interesting that his dad had phrased it that way. Was it possible that Whit Rezza had rebelled at some point? That his own father had shot him down? Brian’s grandfather seemed like a gentle enough old man, but Brian knew there was a sharp and possibly evil mind behind his friendly exterior.
“I understand that, Dad,” Brian said softly. “But these are different times. I have … individual rights, like the right to pursue my own path.”
He knew as soon as he said “individual rights” that he had made a mistake. The almost-caring look his father had given him disappeared, replaced with a stony glare.
“Nonsense,” he said with disgust. “Your generation has no sense of responsibility to a group, a calling higher than your own. You treat random friends like family and family like strangers. You want to dither your life away, pursuing one pleasure after another. That is not a path; that is a waste of life.”
And that was
that. Brian had tried to sail the choppy waters of his father’s limited common sense—and failed. Mr. Rezza picked up the wine list again.
“Everybody in the Order has had their doubts at one time or another, Brian, even Edna. Even myself. It’s an inevitable phase in the path to becoming a fully integrated member. You’ll get over it.” He paused, his eyes scanning the wine list. “What about a merlot?”
Still sitting on the floor long after she’d hung up on her friends, Chloe picked up her jeans that were wadded in a pile. There was a wear spot threatening to tear into a rip. It was already tissue thin. She ran her finger over it and the harder nubbles of the denim around it. These were vintage Lees she had saved for herself at Pateena’s.
“I expect to see you back on Wednesday—if not, don’t bother ever coming back.” Her boss’s words echoed in her memory.
Chloe sighed. Her job at the vintage store was just another thing her new screwy life had, well, screwed up. She had an overpowering urge to talk to Marisol, the owner and her friendly boss—if Marisol was still her boss, that is. The older woman always seemed to understand Chloe better than her mom ever did and sense her moods with an uncanny knack. Even if she couldn’t tell her all her secrets, Chloe had always unburdened some of her feelings. Now, of course, that would be impossible.
Hi, Marisol. Sorry I flaked and didn’t come to work after you gave me that last chance. I know I’m effectively fired, but there were good reasons. I can’t really tell you why, but can I just vent for a while?
The sadness of a relationship ended fought for space in her head alongside her anger at the thought of Lania—her work nemesis—running the cash register all the time now.
Chloe prepared herself for a nice introspective and lonely sulk on her bed, but she was too nervous. Too energetic. Like that night that seemed so long ago, when she’d run out of the house and gone out to the club.
The Stolen Page 6
