by Warren, Skye
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” my father murmurs.
“It’s a long story.”
“You’ve been here three weeks.”
It’s been a restorative three weeks, being pampered by our parents, feeling protected in this place where we spent parts of our childhood. My mother has been very understanding of our secrecy. She agreed to keep the story private, knowing that my father would lose his mind.
My father wants a name and an address. He suspects some of the things that happened, and he wants to commit murder.
“It doesn’t matter what happened,” I say, my voice light. I’m home now. The thought of him facing off with Elijah makes me shiver. I love them both, and a meeting would probably end with one of them dead. Elijah is a hardened soldier, and my father is tough in his own way.
“How can you say that?” He picks up a dish and begins drying. I know it’s his attempt to appear casual when he really wants to bend a crowbar in half. But he already tried stomping around. He already tried yelling and threatening, but we’ve been silent. “Someone hurt you. That much is clear. There’s a sadness about you that wasn’t there before.”
The sadness is from leaving Elijah. The sadness is from missing him, but telling that to my father won’t help. Not if I have to explain that I met Elijah in a prison cell. “Listen. There are people out there who could hurt me. They could hurt you, so it’s better if I don’t say anything.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know they’re wrong. He looks furious. “Let them come after me. Do you know what it does to me knowing I failed my little girls? That you needed protection and I wasn’t there for you?”
“Dad, I’m all grown up. I have been for a while.”
He sets the dish down and pulls me in for a hug. “You’ll always be my little girl. And I wanted to be overprotective. Maybe I still was. Your mother stayed my hand, because of the way she was raised. With a fist so clenched she couldn’t even breathe. Did she tell you that?”
“No, but she said something about the way you met.”
He looks away. “Hell.”
In this moment he sounds like Elijah. “I thought she met you on a road trip.”
“That’s a nice euphemism for how it happened. The same way you keep telling me that you decided to travel the world on the spur of the moment.”
I squeeze him back, the strong, protective solidity of him. “There are some things that only make sense to the people who experienced them. You raised two girls who know how to take care of themselves.” That much is true. We evaded experienced security professionals. We faced off against international thugs and made it out alive. “Now you need to trust us.”
He kisses my forehead. “You might be right about that. Some things only make sense to the people who experienced them. But I’ll tell you this much. You ever point a finger at someone, you ever so much as nod in their direction, I’ll rip his fucking throat out.”
I give him a watery smile. “I love you, too.”
I leave him to the rest of the dishes and go upstairs. I’ve settled into my old bedroom and London into hers. It’s been a safe haven here at home, but it’s getting time for me to leave. London has already been accepted into an upscale rehab center only an hour’s drive from here, and Elijah is…. In the past.
My cell phone sits with taunting darkness.
Of course he could get my number. He could call me all gruff and angry with me for leaving. Or he could call me acting all casual, as if I only stepped out to the store. I have a faint smile on my face just imagining it. He could call me. But he doesn’t.
For three weeks I’ve maintained radio silence. With shaking hands I pick up my phone and call the number Liam gave me. The words Liam North flash on the screen. His private cell phone.
“Hello,” he says, sounding brusque and businesslike.
“Hi, it’s me,” I say. And then with a little laugh. “Holly. Holly Frank.”
“Hello, Holly. Is something wrong?”
“Oh no. Nothing like that. I only… wanted to see if Elijah is okay.”
There’s a pause. “Why are you asking?”
“Well, you know, he did save us from Ian Taggart and help with that. I wouldn’t want him to be hurt or anything. You know, hurt physically. I know I can’t hurt him emotionally.” I’m rambling, and it’s only by clamping my hand over my mouth can I stop.
Liam clears his throat. “He’s fine. Angry. I have a nice shiner.”
I wince imagining Elijah punching his brother. “He didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be angry at him. He loves you and Josh so much.”
“You don’t have to defend him, Holly. I understand why he did it.”
“Oh. Well.” There’s a tightness in my throat. A tingle behind my eyes. I’m near tears just thinking about Elijah. Maybe I need my own rehab center. Not recovery from cocaine. I need to recover from Elijah North. He’s the addiction I can’t shake.
“Holly.” Liam’s voice softens. “He’s gotten on with his life. You need to, too.”
The tears spill over. “Right,” I manage. “You’re right.”
“He’ll be safe this way. And despite what you might think, I don’t hate my brother. I want him to be safe from the lieutenant colonel. You did that for him. You saved him.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Holly
I’m missing a shoe. I hop around my loft apartment with only one high heel on my feet, the other bare and stockinged. I’m wearing a white T-shirt with the words I read past my bedtime on it. The black pleated skirt and heels will make it vaguely professional.
“Are you on your way?” comes the voice from my phone. It’s sitting on the entrance table on speaker, because I’m supposed to be out the door.
“Very, very soon.”
There’s a laugh over the phone. “That means no. It’s a good thing I made the appointment for thirty minutes after two instead of two o’clock sharp.”
I glance at the clock. A smile hovers on my lips. “You knew I’d be late.”
“Because I know you,” comes the singsong answer. My agent is more than my business partner. She’s been my friend since I sent my very first round of queries, and she replied back, “Let’s hop on the phone. Right. Freaking Now.”
She loved my tooth fairy story, but it hadn’t been the first novel we sold. She shopped it to publishers who said it had great writing but was too strange to be accepted by readers. Give them a vampire, please. But I’ve always had an aversion to blood.
They finally relented when I wrote a shifter story for them. Only when my books cracked the New York Times bestseller list for young adult were they willing to take a chance on the tooth fairy. She’s my highest grossing book to date, and the sequel has been a major success.
Finally I spy my shoe hiding underneath a tall bookshelf. I fish it out and slide it on, then I’m out the door. Then back inside again as I’ve forgotten my laptop bag.
“Coming,” I say into the phone, breathless as I press the elevator button.
“Good,” she says, her voice tinny. “This mermaid book is going to be big. I can feel it.”
“I hope so.”
“I’m heading into the elevator. I’ll shoot the shit with Trinity for half an hour, then we’ll meet you at the cafe down the street for lunch.”
“See you soon!”
Despite the number of books I’ve written, I haven’t actually met my editor that many times. There were a few awards ceremonies, a panel at an author convention.
Once, I received an official invitation to visit the publishing house, but from what I could gather, the main purpose was to snap photos for their Instagram account.
They had a sheet cake with my book cover on the top, the castle of teeth artwork even more startling on something meant to be eaten.
The elevator begins to close, but someone slides his hand between the doors.
Only distantly I realize that I don’t know the man wearing a hoodie and jeans,
who steps onto the car and stands in front of me. I can’t see much of him from this angle, but I would remember those broad shoulders if I’d seen them around here. Then again, a lot has changed in a year.
Maybe some of the tenants I knew have left.
Hopefully the guy who plays oboe is one of them.
I’m digging through my purse, looking for some lip gloss to swipe over my lips. It’s been so long since I got ready to go out that I’ve lost the hang of it. But I’m determined to fit into my old life, so when my agent suggested we have lunch with my editor, I accepted. We’ll discuss my proposal for the new book and hopefully get a contract.
The elevator car slides down the ten floors and opens at the ground. We’re immediately swarmed by a young woman with three small children in tow, and I have to step carefully to avoid getting trampled by a boy with an action figure.
The man who was on the elevator disappears in the direction of the parking garage, but like most New Yorkers, I don’t have a car. Instead I head toward the street exit, where I’ll take the subway to the publishing house offices.
The same flickering neon latte hangs in front of my favorite coffee shop.
I glance at my phone. There’s just enough time to grab a mocha frappe if I hurry. Sure enough, there’s no line. I step right up to the counter, where the same barista turns the pages of a science fiction book.
He glances up at me and grins. “You’re back.”
“It feels so good to be back,” I say, which is not entirely a lie. Certain things feel good. Like having an endless stream of boiling hot water for my shower. Wearing my super comfy pajamas to sleep. Other things feel… different. As if I’ve changed while I’ve been gone and don’t quite fit into my old places. “I’ll have my usual.”
He nods and turns to begin making my mocha frappe. It’s been years of coming here. I don’t even know his name; this isn’t a nametag kind of place. And he doesn’t know mine. But I know what series he’s on, and he knows my drink. There’s comfort in that.
“So,” he says, pouring the syrup in, heavy handed the way I like. “Where did you go? I figured you must’ve moved away or something.”
How to explain? I certainly can’t tell the truth. This is a conversation I’ll have to have a hundred times—starting at lunch with my agent and editor. “I decided I needed to see the world,” I say, which narrowly avoids being a lie. “So I flew to Paris and then took a tour in the countryside. Ended up in Italy, and now I’m home.”
He whistles. “Very nice. And impulsive. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”
That makes me laugh. “I didn’t think I had it in me, either.”
And that part, at least, is the truth. I survived a kidnapping and imprisonment in a French church. I escaped a high-security appartamente in Paris. I evaded ex-military forces and confronted an international thug. That’s the reason why I don’t quite fit into my life here; I’ve become someone else, someone who can do those things.
Bemused, I pay for my mocha frappe and head outside.
A man sits on the corner stroking a guitar. The sound filters through the bustle and honking.
Sunlight bounces off cars that zoom around each other on the busy street, a rush of yellow taxis and black Ubers. A few delivery trucks and vans break up the color.
From a few streets away I hear shouting. Some kind of parade or maybe a protest. From here they sound the same. A memory rises in my consciousness. Twelve months ago there had been a protest outside the airport in Paris. Shouting that suddenly grew quiet as I rounded a corner.
It seems almost like a dream when the white van careens into my sight. It swerves hard toward the curb. My body knows what’s happening before my brain does. I’m already taking a step back. The mocha frappe falls to the ground. The guitar’s song ends on a clashing note.
Time slows down.
I can smell the exhaust from the street, the garbage from the sewer. I can feel the hum of the city beneath my feet. I’m turning, running, racing toward the coffee shop. It’s become my safe haven in this moment. If I can just make it to the flickering neon latte, I’ll escape.
The white van speeds past me and splashes a puddle onto my slacks.
I stand there feeling stupid, so damn stupid. My drink is spilled, the man with the guitar is gaping at me. What’s wrong with me? It was twelve months ago that the white van abducted me in Paris. That wouldn’t happen to the same girl twice.
The odds would prevent that, wouldn’t they?
There’s heat behind me. A presence. I turn but time’s still slowed down to a crawl. I only have a glimpse of a black SUV, and then something dark covers my face. A hood. I scream, but it’s muffled. Hands are firm and careful as they tie my wrists behind my back.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” says a voice that sounds familiar.
Alarm streaks through me.
He’s lying. He has to be lying, so I strike out with my foot. It connects with hard muscle and bone. There’s a muttered curse word, and then I push myself away from his hold. It only succeeds in knocking me against the side of the SUV, and then everything fades away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Holly
My eyes open to pitch black.
I wait for the room to come into focus. I could be staying anywhere—a farmhouse in France, a penthouse in Italy. Nothing happens. This is the complete kind of darkness, the kind without even shadows. My lungs burn, as if I’ve been holding my breath. I gulp down damp and moldy air. I curl my fingers against stone. Faintly slick. Gently warm.
Where am I?
Memories drop into my mind like rain in a puddle. I remember the long flight and fear for my sister. I remember the man playing the guitar on the street.
A shudder works its way through my body, lingering in aches and tension, waking up pain as it goes. I move myself to a sitting position with a soft groan. The floor feels slightly uneven, large stone tiles strewn across the floor.
I crawl forward. Something hard meets my face. My fists close around iron bars.
No. Not again.
This is a dream. It has to be a dream. Doesn’t it?
The darkness closes in on me. It becomes a tactile force, squeezing my lungs. I don’t want to stay here, in this pitch-black prison. I can’t stay here. There’s no oxygen. I gasp through the fist around my throat. I’m going to die here, before anyone can touch me, and that seems almost like a gift, except that the body fights anyway. It wants to live.
“Breathe,” comes a voice from the inky void. I choke on air.
“Elijah,” I gasp out. It’s twisted that I’d actually be relieved to have him here. Anything is better than being alone right now. Even the presence of the man I left behind.
There’s quiet.
I’m not alone in the dark, though. My fists curl around iron. “Answer me.”
“I’m not Elijah.” And he’s not. He’s missing the rough timbre of Elijah’s low voice. His voice is more fluid and slightly accented. I recognize it immediately.
“Adam,” I say, wondering. And then again. “Adam.”
I become a force of fury. I fly toward his voice, not even caring if there are iron bars between us. There aren’t, there’s only air. And I land on him with my fists and my fear. I beat against his strong chest, using it to channel all of this horror.
“How dare you,” I gasp out. “How dare you keep doing this.”
“Calm yourself, ma petite,” he says, grasping my wrists in the darkness. “I’m not the one who brought you here. I’m not the one you’re angry at.”
I’m still struggling, inconsolable. “I don’t care. I don’t care.”
He has the temerity to laugh, a soft chuckle that makes me more angry. “Then beat me until I’m broken. I think I might welcome the pain tonight. It would make the symmetry complete.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, yanking away from him. I stagger backward, tripping over an uneven stone til
e, falling to the rough ground.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” I say, tears pricking my eyes. God, I don’t want to cry in front of him. He won’t be able to see me, but he can hear it, sense it. The new Holly is stronger than that. I clench my teeth together and lift my head. “Why did you kidnap me again?”
“I will say it again, though you will not believe me. I did not kidnap you. I’m as much a prisoner as you are, this time around, ma petite.”
A match strikes, and flame reaches through the bars. The first thing I see is Adam, disheveled and dirty, leaning against the wall, looking a little worse for the wear. Only next do I look through the iron bars at the man who’s holding us here.
The man who abducted me off the New York City streets.
“Hi,” I whisper as if we’re meeting for the first time.
Elijah gives me a small nod, his voice low and grave. “Hi back.”
“What are you doing there?” It’s a dumb question. An obvious question. I can’t help but ask it because I don’t want to imagine the obvious answer.
“I’m exacting a little revenge,” he says.
I begin to tremble, even though it’s not cold here. Not like France. “Where are we?”
“We’re still in New York City.”
“You’re insane. You can’t just do this. You can’t just kidnap me here.”
“Did you think kidnapping was only permitted in Paris? I could fly you there, of course, but it’s so hard to get a bound body through customs.”
I stare at the man who’s so familiar to me and yet still a stranger. My lover. My enemy. “Elijah. This is insane. Tell me this is a joke.”
His head cocks. “Would it be funny to you?”
No. Nothing about this is funny.
The match he holds is small, but it gives off enough light for me to see the room we’re in. It’s some kind of basement, but more finished than the one underneath the French church. There are elaborate carvings on the wall, sconces empty of candles, and steel bars that look incongruously modern compared to the surroundings.
Symmetry. That was the word Adam used, and I finally understand it. Elijah is wearing a suit. He doesn’t look as slick as Adam. He looks strong, instead.
