by Dee Palmer
To his credit, Atticus makes light work of the London traffic, weaving through back roads and shortcuts the SatNav fails to provide.
I’m also grateful he isn’t one for small talk.
All I can think of is getting to Tia before—God my stomach turns and I stop myself from going there.
After two weeks of searching every which way I know how, I had to concede Ghost’s nickname was entirely apt. I couldn’t find her, and in a strange twist of gratitude, I was actually pleased she called me yesterday wanting to meet. I wish I’d ended it then; not that I had anything like an opportunity to get her alone. She’s smart enough that our first meeting was to be in a highly public place, with no fear of making a scene, capture, or the police. Not that she’d committed a crime, so the latter wasn’t really an option. Even sitting opposite her in the small Bistro cafe table on the cobbled forecourt in Covent Garden was too close, too much, and I realised very quickly that, although I may no longer want her dead, I don’t ever want to see her again.
I know my sister. I know she’ll never stop until she has her prize, and after the meeting, a chilling conclusion cloaked me when I realised she’d already won.
I sent Tia away.
I could lose the one woman I love because of Lilith, and I this morning, I decided I wasn’t going to let her steal another day away from us. Even if it meant I had to hire a personal bodyguard and screen every item of food that passes her lips. I want her in my life, she is my life, and I want to live again.
Atticus screeches to a halt, bouncing the front tyres up the kerb, and we both leap from the car. I get to the front door half a step before him. The key is already in my hand, and I open the door and instantly start yelling for Tia.
“Check downstairs.” I call back over my shoulder to Atticus as I bound up the stairs. I barely get to her bedroom when Atticus calls out.
“She’s not here.” His voice is echoes up the stairwell, hollow and certain.
“You haven’t searched…oh…” I round the top of the landing and look down at his hand waving her phone like a white flag. “Fuck!”
“Yeah, and her bag is on the floor, her shit is emptied all over the place. This is your sister right?” His accusatory tone couldn’t make me feel any worse. Fuck!
“Shut up and let me think.”
“If she’s hurt her…” The direction of his anger flips a U-turn. “I should’ve kept her cuffed to the bed. None of this would’ve happened.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. My sister would’ve found a way.” I walk down to where he is standing, flipping the useless phone in his fingers.
“So what now? How are we going to find a ghost?” He slaps the phone and his hand against the centre of my chest with enough force the aggressive intention is more than crystal clear. I straighten my back and take the phone.
“She’ll find me.”
“I’m not prepared to wait that long.” He squares his shoulders and faces me. We are almost nose-to-nose, matched in height to within a millimetre, but I have more bulk, broader shoulders and more muscle. If he doesn’t back down, he’s about to find out how much more.
“You think I am?” My jaw ticks, fingers curl, and its like looking in a mirror of rocketing rage and hostility.
“Look, Logan, this isn’t a pissing contest because, trust me, I’d win. I have years in the bag and you kicked her to the kerb at the first sign of trouble.”
“And those years you mention, what did they matter exactly when she was watching her life pass by from a jail cell? Where were you when she lost her virginity that she saved for you?”
“You son of a bitch.” He draws his fist back, and I side step and bend back out of the reach of his swing. I hop back on my toes and steady myself for the next, because I know it’s coming. I’m glad it’s fucking coming. I grin and hold my position, fists raised and ready.
“No, I think that title is rightly yours.”
“You can have that one since it’s true, and you can have this one because it’s going to feel really fucking good to finally beat the shit out of you.” He lunges, barrelling me across the hall. My back crashes against the door, and he gets a few sharp jabs to my ribs before I can use my shoulder to push him off of me. I draw back and land a perfect uppercut on his jaw, effectively wiping the smug grin from his face.
“And when is that going to start exactly, because this feels more like sparring with my nana.” He dodges my next hit, and we both spend the next few minutes struggling to land a decent punch. We’re pretty evenly matched, if I’m honest. I’m able to use my bulk to throw him off balance when we wrestle, but he’s more agile and able to right himself before I can take full advantage. His fist cracks the side of my head, and I rattle. I feel the spilt in the skin above my brow at the same time my own knuckles garner a satisfying crunching sound against his cheek. He buckles but rights himself, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth on the back of his hand, and launches forward. We lash out at each other furiously, powerful fists flying, and blow for blow it’s an irritatingly even match.
“I can do this all night, but we need to find Tia, so how about a rain check.” Atticus wipes the blood from his lips and spits the rest pooling in his mouth onto my floor. The grey flagstones resemble the ring of a Madison Square Garden ‘big’ fight, with spatters of blood and smear marks from our collective bleeding wounds. We’ve skidded and wrestled around the entrance hall for a good thirty minutes. We both draw in steady breaths, beads of sweat on our foreheads the only indication either of us are exerting ourselves. Stamina is clearly not an issue, stubbornness is, but he’s right.
“Fine, but we’re not done.” I relax, drop my arms and stretch my neck out until it pops with the release of tension.
“Agreed.” He walks over to the bottom step of the stairway and slumps down, more worn by our predicament than the fight. “If I could get back into my apartment, I could activate the tracker on her necklace.” He glances up, my face creased with confusion. “I can’t risk going there until I have this Russian situation sorted.”
“She’s still wearing it?”
“If I tell you, will that land me another black eye?”
“Depends. If you add the fucking smug tone, then yes, it will.”
“She’s still wearing it.” He answers, keeping the tone in check, since we are both supposed to be on the same page.
“I can activate the tracker from here.” I step past him and take the stairs two at a time until I hit the top flight.
“Really? You can do that?”
“All stupid dumb-arse hackers can do that,” I call back, not breaking my stride and loud enough for him to hear. I race along the landing to my office, filled with the first surge of hope since finding her phone. He laughs and is soon following my footsteps to my office.
He stops at the main bathroom only to join me a few minutes later, patting his face dry with a towel. He hands me a clean, damp cloth for my own cuts. I nod my thanks, placing it on my desk while I continue to activate switches to boot up the servers. I have to wait a few more seconds for my computers to fire up. My fingers tap out a restless beat on the leather inlay on the desktop and Atticus’s knee bounces nervously in the seat opposite. This better work.
It takes a few seconds to identify the necessary programs and no time at all to activate the tracker, given the information I’d already saved when I first took a closer look at her ‘collar’.
“She’s at the lodge? No wait, not quite there, she’s close by though.”
“Can you pinpoint her exact location?” Atticus is instantly at my shoulder.
“Since she’s not moving, yes. Look, she’s there, right there.” I point to the map and switch to the satellite image to get a better feel for where she is exactly.
“Shit!” His worried epithet is exhaled in a whisper; the thick swallow that follows makes more noise.
“What?”
“That’s the East Tower, she wouldn’t be there on her own. It means so
meone’s taken her there.”
“I’m not arguing. I think Lilith has her, but what makes you think she wouldn’t be there on her own? She might be hiding.”
“She knows a hundred places to hide on the estate, and I told her the tower is unstable. It’s a fucking death-trap. There is no way she’d go in there voluntarily. I don’t suppose you have a gun?” He doesn’t draw breath between sentences, and his last question leaves me cold.
“No, I don’t have a bloody gun.”
“I’ll call Carter. He’s got a licensed handgun. He’ll meet us there.”
“Do you think it’s a great idea to involve anyone else?”
“Not just anyone, no, but he’ll also be able to hide the body.” He arches a brow. “You have a problem with that?” He walks to the door and fixes a knowing glare on me that I have no problem holding. His question is a no-fucking-brainer.
“No.”
“Good, lets go and get my girl.”
I might hate that he said ‘his’ girl. Since I’m really not sure if I can call her mine, my jaw simply twitches with the effort of keeping my mouth shut.
The car doors shut and he slams the car into first gear. The vehicle lurches forward, and we speed our way back across town and toward what’s left of Tartarus Hall. I don’t suppose his thoughts are that much different from mine…
I hope we’re not too fucking late.
Ow. I mean, mother-fucking OW! My head throbs like it’s hit every stone step of the Machu Picchu. I fear moving it at all will make my brain shut down from the agonising pain shooting through every synapse. My eyelids flick open, and even that small movement causes me to wince.
The room is dim but not dark, sunlight slips through the slats in the shutters and casts enough of a hazy glow for me to instantly recognise where I am. It never was my favourite place. The round rooms of the tower had the smallest windows, very little in the way of furniture, and the most enormous spiders. It looks like nothing has changed since Atticus and I used to play up here as children, him telling me ghost stories, and me pretending not to be terrified. The irony of this situation isn’t lost on me as I stare into vacant eyes and Ghost’s eerily evil expression. Once again, I’m trying not to be terrified.
My back creaks with a dull shooting pain when I try to move. My arms are pulled behind the high back spindle backed chair. My wrists are tied together with rope but not tightly. If I wriggle and pull I may be able to work them free.
I won’t do that just yet, since I’m a little preoccupied with trying to work out what the hell must be going on in that crazy fucking head of the lunatic in front of me. She glares, unblinking and only inches from my face. I’m finding it hard to draw any conclusions. In fact, I’m finding it hard to do anything other than hold my breath and hope the knife she’s holding at my throat doesn’t press any harder.
“Ghost.” I can feel the point of the blade rise and fall as I slowly swallow down the dryness in my throat and force myself to speak. My voice is a rough, shaky whisper. “This place isn’t safe.”
“It looks pretty safe.” She tilts her head and her eyes never leave mine.
“This tower isn’t safe.” I press on, and the urgency of my tone implores her to take a good look around. “The whole building was blown apart, and even though this bit is standing, Atticus said it wasn’t safe.”
“And you believe him?”
“Why would he lie about this?” I choke back a humourless laugh when she narrows her eyes and jerks her hand and the blade presses harder into my neck. I breathe in deep and steadily exhale through my nose, trying to keep my calm. It’s difficult to see how my situation could get any worse, what with the knife at my throat and the psychopath in my face, in a building that is likely to crumble to the ground at any moment. Panicking might tip the edge in her favour. I won’t let that happen. “He is going to make it safe but as of right now, it isn’t. Right now, it’s a death trap.”
“You’re lying, he’s not even in the country, Tia.” She rolls her eyes, dismissing my concern. I glance at the rotten floor and the very visible scorch marks that have burnt through from below. The slatted windows are too high to get a feel for which floor we are on. There are several and each of the top ones looks identical. If it collapses, I guess it won’t matter if we’re on the third floor or the seventh, the mountain of rubble will be deadly enough regardless. She hums and taps the fingertips of her free hand on her pursed lips. “What I can’t get my head around is why my Logan wants you. How is that fair, Tia? How is it fair my Logan wants a dirty broken whore? How is that fair?”
“Lil-ah!” The point of the blade punctures my skin, a physical reminder not to use her real name. It’s not so deep, just enough to sting and cause a trickle of blood to gather at the hollow of my neck. “Ghost, please. You’re wrong. Logan doesn’t want me; he sent me away to be with you.” Since reasoning is ineffective, I opt for giving her what she wants to hear. I need time. I need to keep her talking and I need to keep alive. She thinks Atticus is out of the country. I have to hope he’s seen something out of place, maybe a door left open, or a car parked that shouldn’t be here, something, anything. I need time.
“He does want me. You think he doesn’t?” She practically snarls.
“I just said he did.” You crazy fucking bitch. I hope my expression and tone aren’t as revealing as my internal dialogue.
“Princess, that’s what Atticus called you right? You’re the fucking princess in the fucking tower, waiting on your Prince Charming to come and rescue you. But no one knows you’re here, princess.”
“You’re right, no one knows I’m here. But when Logan finds my phone, he will know, and he will blame you.” My heart is pumping, and my anger and frustration are escalating out of control. I can feel it like a tidal wave building inside me.
“That’s why I’m going to use our time together to learn your tricks, your wiles, and the ways you won him over. Whatever you did to blind him, you will teach me.” She pulls the knife from my throat only to wave it pointedly in my face. Her eyes are wide and wild…no, not wild…unhinged.
“Fine, I’ll teach you, but we can’t stay here. It’s not safe.” Teach her what exactly, I have no idea, but right now, I’ll agree to anything to get out of here.
“Why would that worry you?” She presses the blade flat against her lips, my blood glistening on the tip. Her tongue slides up the blunt edge and licks it clean. Her eyes crinkle with pleasure, and I get a rush of bile in my mouth that I manage to swallow back down. “You think you’re going to live. Interesting.” She smiles so wide and genuine, her features fix like a happy mask, and it feels like she should’ve delivered some exciting news rather than my death sentence.
“Why the fuck would I teach you anything if you’re just going to kill me?”
She drops her chin and pouts playfully, tutting whimsically and shaking her head. “Because I’m going to torture you if you don’t, silly.” Her eyes darken to large inky pools of nothingness, and I swear the summer air in the room drops several degrees when she speaks. “You’re going to die. Logan loves me, but he’s confused. When you are dead, he will see more clearly, and he’ll be able to follow his heart.” She might as well add the ‘duh!’ part, because her tone is patronising enough for me to wonder if I’m the one who’s missing something here.
“You crazy fucking bitch. Ah!” The knife cuts my words and a line across my collarbone, deeper and fucking painful. I pant through the pain, and my eyes pinch shut as waves of nausea mix with shooting agony from the slice in my flesh. Blood gushes from the wound, soaking into my T-shirt and dying the pale pink crimson.
“You think that hurt? Also interesting.”
“Jesus Christ!” I yell through gritted teeth, pain pumps around my body faster than the blood from the cut. It fucking hurts.
“Yes, perhaps it is time to pray.” She steps back and stretches her neck to the side. Her gaze void and chilling, she fixes on me. Dragging a chair from one end of the
room, she places it directly in front of me and sits down. Her palms rest flat on her knees, which are touching mine, and the knife is now laid across her lap. She looks like it’s fucking story time. Expectant, wide eyes and a creepy smile distort her face into some sort of twisted Stepford Wife’s expression of joy. “So what did you do first?”
Her contact lenses shift ever so slightly when she blinks rapidly, the dark brown edges of her own colour rim the luminous brightness of the artificial green. It’s distracting. This close I can see the cheap hair extensions glued against her scalp, giving her normal cropped hair my length, colour and volume of thick locks. I have to admit, its creepy how much she does look like me.
“Are you wearing my actual clothes…ow! Stop fucking cutting me!”
“Focus Tia. I’m the one asking the questions.” She pulls the knife back from lashing out and taking a swipe at my arm, just below the shoulder joint. More blood and pain.
“Fine, well, the first thing I did was sneak into his house, steal his food and not bathe for three months…Ow! For fuck sake, Ghost, this is nuts!” She slices another cut below the first, my sarcastic tone and irritation not doing me any favours but fuck, this is insane.
“What. Did. You. Do. To. Make. Him. Want. You?”
I pant and suck back the painful cries as she punctuates each word with more slices down the length of my arm. I nod my head, and before I answer, tears burst on to my cheek and run freely down my face. She needs to stop or needing more time will no longer be an issue, I’m going to bleed to death. I’m ready to answer her questions.
“I…I talked to him. I sketched a lot, and he seemed to like watching me do that, and we ate together. He liked cooking for someone else, I think.”
