"Mr. Chartrice, so wonderful to see you," Mr. Wilkes started. "I mean, withstanding these circumstances," he filled in, eyes flashing in fear.
"We have been informed of what happened, and are beside ourselves. We cannot understand how this happened. She has always been such a good girl," Mrs. Wilkes said, her bouffant hairstyle so stiff it didn't shift when she moved.
"Has she been in touch?"
"Not for weeks, and there was no indication. If there was, we would have told you immediately."
Tarquin didn't sit down, instead wandered around the room, four eyes guardedly following everything he did. Throwing a glance back at them, he saw a smile plastered on Mrs. Wilkes face. No, she was probably right, they would have turned in their daughter if there was any reason to. "Did you have regular contact with your daughter?"
"She usually called every two weeks."
So the family wasn't estranged. "Is she aware of the circumstances?"
"No, absolutely not," Mrs. Wilkes said. "We have raised her like our own. As far as we know, she believes so."
"Something must have made her suspicious, judging from her actions."
Mrs. Wilkes opened her mouth, but couldn't find anything to say. "We were even negotiating a marriage for her."
"Without consent? This is the first I have heard of it."
"It is the very early stages," Mr. Wilkes cut in. "We needed something to inform of first."
Tarquin stroked his chin. He could tell they where telling the truth. Whatever she had done, her parents weren't a part of it. Still, they had to be punished. She would have known that would happen, or had she depended on him not hurting innocent parties?
"And who were you hoping to match her with?"
"Justin Routin."
Tarquin knew the Routin family. Midlevel clericals. Justin was probably one of the younger sons. The Routins had never been anything but loyal. "Did they know each other?"
"They had met, I believe, but not recently."
Tarquin suspected Justin Routin was just another person she left behind in this quest of hers. He would get to the bottom of this situation before he meted out punishment, to her and everyone involved. It could well be that these two shaking people had no influence on this situation. This would still not do their standing any good, even if they escaped direct punishment.
"And her friends?"
"Well, she doesn't have a great many friends. Was never a popular girl. We were a bit disappointed in her in that regard. Tends to prefer books to clothes. Not that we didn't try our best," Mrs. Wilkes said. "But her training and service record has been impeccable—until now." A worried look broke through the woman's mask. They did actually care for her, he noted; although they probably felt betrayed now. This action had ruined her prospects and her relationship with her family. It was quite a bit she was giving up.
"Don't leave town," he warned. Mrs. Wilkes plastered smile didn't change. "Obviously, if she gets in touch, you will inform me immediately."
"Of course," Mr. Wilkes said, "we wouldn't dream of doing otherwise."
Tarquin returned outside. This was a nice estate and he'd thought he'd made a good choice settling her here back then, but maybe it hadn't, considering she'd thrown this life away. Now she was a player and potentially a dangerous one, a link to the past, to an era long gone. Something he'd hoped he'd prevented.
If Cassandra Wilkes was running, she had a good reason for it, something worth messing her life up for. And that was the worry. Maybe the past was coming back to haunt him. The kindness he'd shown was now having dangerous consequences. There was probably something to regret in that, or maybe he should just make sure it never had a chance to.
"I want to hear every bit of information about what the rebels are doing. The widest possible scan.” If there was some trace of her, he wanted to find it.
Getting into the car, he watched out the window as they drove northward. Somehow, someone had found out who she was and was taking advantage of it. This was a mistake on her part, one that would undo the kindness he had once shown her. It just proved that kindness and mercy never paid off, even to the baby daughter of your enemies.
Chapter 21:
* * *
The street Cassandra walked down was dusty and houses sprawled around her with little uniformity, bright colors haphazardly changing down the street. Tropical heat soaked into her clothes, making them stick to her body. No one paid any particular attention to her. She'd dyed her hair dark and sunglasses kept the sun from her eyes. Sure, guys tried to hit on her, seeing a lone female walking the streets of Rio, but they eventually melted away, getting no reaction from her. It was only when she opened her mouth that it became obviously clear that she was a foreigner, so she did her best not to say anything when she could avoid it.
Her apartment was up a crumbling set of stairs in a building that was at least a hundred years old and it hadn't been repaired since. Her apartment was small with peeling green paint, the kitchen even tinier, but it did its job. There wasn't room for much more than a bed and a couch, but the door was solid wood and a breeze flowed through if she left it open.
It was no way to live, though, but she had to keep moving, staying same place a few weeks then moving on. She knew it would be like this, but she had to do it. It was only for a while, she reckoned. Over time, she would become less important and people would forget they were looking for her—well, anyone who didn't know her anyway. But maybe she was just being hopeful. She could never, ever go back to Paris, probably never Europe even.
Freedom was another whole issue to deal with. She'd never had it before—being the mistress of her own domain. She decided how she spent her time. The decision was hers; she could stay inside and read all day, or wander the streets—work if she had to. Stores and cafes were always looking for people, although it was harder here as she spoke no Portuguese.
Sitting down on the couch with a large split up the cheap, fake leather, she turned her thoughts to where she'd go next. It had been three months since she’d left Paris, and she had started in Canada, slowly traveling south.
Maybe it was time to skip over to Asia, but she would stand out more there. The Chartrice networks also thinned, particularly in remote places.
But it didn't matter where she went, the constant fear and searching for someone watching her never left. That was what took a toll. That was the price for her freedom. And the fact that she couldn't stop thinking about him. That was the obsession that had wheedled its way into her brain, torturing her relentlessly. She wondered what he was doing. What he was thinking about. Not that she had ever known. In her mind, she'd gone through every action, word or response she'd ever seen him do and tried to garner any understanding from it. He completely eluded her though. She didn't understand how he could survive being so isolated. But she knew inside he was someone who wanted something else; she'd seen the hint of it. That was the thing that got her. It wasn't like he was a prisoner; there was just a part of him that didn't thrive the way he was.
Letting her head fall back along the couch's back, she surveyed the peeling paint on the ceiling. He wasn't her problem—an unsolvable riddle, because he would never be anything other than what he was.
It would be dangerous to go back to Canada, although she had liked it there. Eastern Russia was an option, but not one she relished.
A tiny noise alerted her. It was the noise of someone trying to be quiet. A normal person charged up the stairs of the building without a care. This was deliberate. Rushing to the window, she looked out but saw nothing unusual in the typical manic street life below. Opening the window, she scrambled up to the roof, the escape path she'd carefully planned. Her instincts told her something wasn't right and it never served her to doubt it. Running along, she jumped over to the next building where a staircase led down to a back alley.
Now it was time to get lost in the maze of narrow streets. Running through here was a danger, because it attracted attention, so she slowed down and forced h
erself to walk when she was far enough away to turn and survey the street she'd just come down. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but the hairs on the back of her neck refused to settle.
She was leaving town, would take the intercity bus somewhere, just move on and never look back. There was a passport and a stash of money in another location, placed there just for a situation like this. She'd never had to enact it before, but things just felt wrong. Maybe it was her being jumpy and paranoid, but she wasn't going to double check herself. Paranoid was better than dead.
"Hello, Cassandra." Cold dread crept up her spine, making her whole skin break out in goosebumps. It wasn't just some henchmen; it was him. He'd come himself, which meant the game really was up. She couldn't take him. That wasn't even a question.
The point of his sword came up and dug into the tender skin of her neck and he stepped into view, dressed entirely in black as he usually was. How the hell had he found her, but maybe she shouldn't be surprised. Maybe it had always been inevitable.
Automatically, she pointed the blade she held in her hand to his gut.
He turned his head as if he was regarding her, not even a sign of concern in his eyes. "Do you think you have a chance?"
Of course she didn't. He was too fast, but even if he took a cut, and the damage he would do to her would be far worse—fatal, in fact. It would end things quickly—but she didn't want to hurt him. Even now, when he was going to do some serious damage to her, she didn't want to hurt him. This whole thing was just fucked up, but it was still true.
"I think you and I need to have a little chat," he said, grabbing her by the neck and pushing her back against the wall. A blink of an eye and a strike, and she slipped into dark unconsciousness.
*
Pain was what her mind registered first. Her temple ached. It was all she knew for a moment. Nausea assaulted her when she opened her eyes, seeing a parqueted floor. She tried to move her hands, but they wouldn't release from what held them. Blinking to clear the fog, she tried to take inventory. Her hands were tied and she was standing, a pillar behind her.
Black shoes and pants came into view. He was here. A rush of adrenaline shot into her bloodstream and her head shot up.
He stood a few feet away from her with his arms crossed. They were in the… ballroom at the Chartrice headquarters. They'd crossed the ocean while she'd been unconscious. No wonder she felt a little groggy.
"Now then, let's have that little chat, shall we?" he said quietly.
Cassandra bit her lips together, and his eyes moved to her lips, observing the action. He raised an eyebrow at the defiance.
"So, you woke up one morning and decided to run away? Somehow I don't think so. You're going to tell me the whole sordid tale."
Over her dead body, she said in her mind. The truth was something she would never admit.
He stepped closer and she could see every part of his face. His cold, light green eyes, the dark eyebrows, the haughty nose and the firm lips. As afraid as she was, she couldn't stop looking. She'd seen his face a million times in her mind the last three months and here he was—real, flesh and blood, and beautiful. It seemed unfathomable. She could see the pulse in his neck, the telltale sign there was a real person being standing in front of her, but no part of that inner person that wished and wanted was on show now.
Then there was the whip, which he stroked impossibly quickly and she screamed, her mind exploding in pain. She could feel the blood running and this was only the start. It would get much worse.
"Obviously Brazil was just somewhere to lay low," he said once she got her breath back.
Defiantly, she leaned her head back on the column behind her and silently defied him.
He smiled. "You will tell me absolutely everything in the end. So you might as well save both of our time."
It kind of felt ironic that he was the one torturing her. Everything about him was torture, sharp edges and pain, from the moment she'd fallen in love with him. Perhaps that was her just desserts, for being so utterly stupid. Could it really have ended any other way?
Another stroke tore into her skin and again pain ripped her mind apart. It tired her out and her head hung down for a moment until she collected herself.
He was close; she could see down his body. He smelled spicy, an expensive cologne she recognized but hadn't noticed before. As awful as he was, she couldn't bring herself to hate him, and maybe she hated herself for that. "Maybe I should start on your fingers, take them one by one."
"You're a horrible person," she said, her voice rough.
"Yes, I am."
Chapter 22:
* * *
Cassandra stood with her feet apart, her back straight against the column, looking defiant. She wore dark green pants and boots. The thing about people on the run, particularly women, was that they never wore shoes they couldn't run in, which showed that Cassandra knew full well she was hunted. And she'd spooked easily, resulting in the chase.
"I actually had to pay quite a bit of money to have your hiding place uncovered," he admitted.
She didn't say anything, just stared at him. Most people would be terrified at this point, would have broken already, but she hadn't. She just watched him, in some way as if she'd completely accepted her fate. Now why was that?
She wasn't foolish enough to be unafraid, to not realize what was going on. She, out of anyone, knew what he did to people who went against them—unswayed by pleas, offers, promises or horror. She knew full well, but she was accepting this. People only acted like this when they felt they were doing the only thing they could, when they were ready to make the sacrifice.
"Who are you protecting?" he asked softly, twisting his head to the side to watch her reaction. This level of acceptance can only mean she was sacrificing herself to save someone else. The problem was there had been no sign of another person in her life. There had been no secret meetings in café's in town, hidden rendezvous or illicit communication. Every part of her life had been examined and there had been nothing there. Whoever she'd been dealing with had been extraordinarily discreet, leaving no trace at all, which was unusual.
"A lover perhaps?" he said, bringing his fingers up to her neck, tracing them down along the soft skin. And she let him, which was confounding. Being tied up didn't normally stop people from trying to evade, but she didn't. Had she so completely accepted her fate she was making no attempts to avoid it? This, again, was unusual behavior. All along, it was her behavior that gave her away.
The righteous indignation was completely absent. If she had learned of her true identity, there would be fire in her eyes, curses flowing from her mouth, hatred blazing in her eyes, but there wasn't. There was just an absence that he couldn't understand.
He brought his finger higher, tracing it down her cheek, just to see how she'd react. She was beautiful, her skin perfect. Any normal person would assume he was going to hurt her; he had so far. His fingers traced down to the corner of her lips. Finally, she closed her eyes and moved her face away. They'd just played chicken in some way he didn't completely understand. What the hell was going on?
What would she do if he gave her a blade right now? Would she fight? Would she come to life if she had a weapon in her grip? A perverse part of him wanted to know. He wouldn't, of course, but there was a part of him that wanted to test her, prod her and see a reaction, even at his own expense. This curiosity was something he hadn't experienced before.
For once, he didn't know a way forward. Pain weakened her physically, but didn't weaken her resolve. He could beat her into unconsciousness, but that rarely served any purpose. The only reaction he'd gotten from her was when he touched her lips. Touch itself didn't scare her, which knocked out some less savory possibilities. That was also contradictory.
Cutting fingers would be messy and it wasn't something he particularly enjoyed, but they were at a stalemate. So far, he'd found no leverage over her, except maybe her parents, but with their part in elite society, there were limitations
in what he could do, and he wasn't sure she would crack considering she'd deserted them.
"Staring at her doesn't seem to undo her," he heard a droll voice and turned to see Castran sitting in an armchair, slouching with his leg over the side. "Is that a leaf out of the responsible torturing handbook? Did you ask her nicely?"
Tarquin hadn't noticed Castran come in. He'd been too absorbed in the puzzle before him to notice. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be?" Tarquin asked.
"Not particularly. Actually, I came to tell you that you are expected at the Sybcavel's this evening, but you seem too distracted by your new toy. Hello, Cassandra," he said, getting up and leisurely walking over. Castran had always had a more cavalier attitude to everything, making light of every situation. "Father will not be happy if you're late."
Annoyance flared through Tarquin. He hated these events, insipid people fawning over themselves.
"But I see you have something much more diverting planned tonight," Castran continued. "Although I'm not sure father will take it as an excuse.”
"This isn't about diversion, Castran. It's about protecting the family."
"In that case, I think you better do more than tickle her."
Tarquin's annoyance wasn't abating. He wasn't tickling her. Putting his hand heavily on her breastbone, he brought a blade up under her chin. "No, we were just getting started." His eyes sought hers and there was that same resignation there.
Castran stepped closer to Cassandra, lifting his hand to her face and she evaded it, her eyes darting down suspiciously to it. Castran smiled incredulously, pulling his hand back, watching her more closely. Alright, Tarquin wasn't the only one who observed something unusual here. "Oh," he finally said, apparently comprehending something.
It was irritating that Castran had just understood something about this. Cassandra's eyes were on the floor as if they weren't there, as if there wasn't a hand pressing on her chest.
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