“You left him?”
“Who is he? Can we trust him?”
“Arwan, he has done everything we have asked, and more. He is the sole reason we found the guardian.”
“Zanya.”
Renato paused. “Yes. That is her name.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Her name?”
“Anything.” Arwan’s tone was sharp. “You didn’t give me any word that she’d arrived. No information about the seeker, that he knew her already. You didn’t even tell me her name.”
Renato exhaled into the phone. “I wanted to give you time.”
“I’ve had enough time.” He turned onto an isolated road, leading into the jungle. “I thought you of all people would not just want to wait around—”
“Let’s take this one step at a time. Allow the guardian to find her bearings. She will be frightened when she awakens. She’ll have questions that need to be answered. She needs guidance, not pressure.”
“Marzena hasn’t woken her up yet?”
“We thought it best to allow her to sleep through the night. Tomorrow will be a grueling day, and I hope you have the patience and maturity to stay calm while we work out the details.”
Patience was one of his mentor’s best, and worst qualities. “We don’t have time to waste. We have to find Sarian.”
“Our first priority, young man, is to find the stone. If that leads to Sarian, so be it. Either way, we must not push her. The guardian must fulfill her roll on her own terms. In her own time. Until then, you will have to put aside your personal vendetta. That, or do not come home.”
Chapter Three
Zanya
Zanya rolled over in bed and pulled the plush feather comforter over her shoulders. The luxurious, satin sheets brushed against her skin.
But the sheets at her orphanage were over-starched and stiff.
Her eyes flew open and she sprang off the pillow-top mattress, landing on the wooden floors of a large bedroom with muted, canary-yellow wallpaper and powder blue accents. It was beautiful. Too beautiful. The perfect stage for yet another death.
She could either sit and cower, or fight. As many times as she’d been through this in her dreams, she always chose the latter.
There had to be something she could use to wake herself. She scanned the room and viewed a shiny object sitting on an antique vanity. She rushed toward it and snatched up the silver letter opener.
The Man could barge in at any second with a countless number of creatures at his command. If she were going to jar herself awake, she’d have to do something drastic.
Holding her breath, she gripped the handle and drove the sharp, metal tip deep into her forearm. Pain shot up her arm in one swift spike of adrenaline.
Zanya clenched her jaw as blood slid down to her elbow, splattering scarlet drops on the wood floor.
In her dreams, self-inflicted pain was the only way to wake up. To escape. Her eyes widened when she realized—this wasn’t a dream.
With a firm grip on the weapon, she silently walked across the room and pushed the door ajar. All was quiet. She slipped through the hall and descended a grand staircase with old wooden handrails. One last step put her in the foyer of a large Victorian-style home.
Voices murmured softly from a room beyond an open entryway. Casually placed footsteps grew closer. She spun and pressed her back against the wall, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice her as they passed.
A tall, lean man crossed the threshold and into the kitchen without so much as a glance in her direction. Cupboards opened and closed, followed by the clattering of dishes. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Zanya?” His voice curled with a charming accent.
Cautious steps led her toward the kitchen. There was no way of telling if she would have to use her weapon. She swallowed. Please, God, don’t make her have to stab someone. She slowly approached the kitchen and spied around the corner at the man pouring coffee. She had seen that tall, lean frame before, with skin the color of toasted caramel, that complemented his dark eyes.
The grip on her weapon relaxed slightly as her lips parted. “Dr. Fitzgerald?”
He held out a steaming mug of coffee. “Yes, that was my name, wasn’t it?”
Zanya pushed away the raw fear clawing up her spine.
He peered at the weapon in her hand and frowned. “There is no need for that.”
She glared. “So says the creepy kidnapper.”
His gentle laugh caressed the air. “I suppose that’s true.” He noticed her bloodstained pajamas and frowned. “You’re wounded. How did that happen?”
Classic pretend-to-care-so-she’ll-let-down-her-guard act. Not happening. “Who are you?”
“My name is Renato Coreandero. You may call me Renato. Please, allow me to get you some bandages—”
“Who. Are. You.”
He examined her for a moment, then gestured toward the French doors. “Have some coffee with me on the veranda.”
Her gaze flickered to the exit. Once she was outside, she’d make a run for it—or at least try.
She cautiously took the mug from the counter. The brew smelled heavenly, but she’d been drugged once already, maybe, and wouldn’t take a chance of it happening again.
When she stepped outside, hot, humid air smacked her in the face. The veranda was spacious, made of white, glittering stone and alabaster pillar railings.
“Where are we?” She sat on a wicker chair and set down the coffee on a round stone table. The guardrail was at least twenty feet away. She slid to the edge of her chair, ready to sprint into action, her heels pressed firmly against the cool stone.
He lunged toward her. Zanya jerked away and pushed back on instinct, skidding her chair across the veranda floor. He froze, watching her with parted lips and raised eyebrows. She aimed the letter opener at him, her hand quivering. “Back off.”
“I’m sorry.” He sat back, taking a moment to collect his composure. “It will be much safer if neither of us has a weapon. I won’t hurt you.”
Her wound throbbed. She stole another glance at the railing. It was tall and far away, a long chance, but still possible.
“Perhaps if I told you a little about my home, you would feel inclined to put that away.”
Irritation plucked her nerves. He must have thought she was stupid. “Not happening.”
He crossed his ankle over his knee and sipped his mug of coffee. “Then I suppose I’ll just do my best to explain.”
“Damn straight. Why did you bring me here?”
“We brought you here after rescuing you from the orphanage.”
“Rescuing me?” She froze. Panic flooded her mind. “Tara—where’s Tara?” She shot out of her chair. “Is she here?” The idea of leaving her behind was almost more terrifying than being here with this stranger.
“Please, there is no need for concern. My niece, Hawa, took her by horseback to tour the property.”
“I want to see her.” She aimed the letter opener at him. “I want to see her now.”
“I’m afraid you will have to wait until they return. Perhaps you would be satisfied with having some breakfast and freshening up? I’m sure she will return by the time you’re finished.” He stood and extended his hand toward the doors leading into the kitchen.
She gripped the letter opener tighter.
“Please, Zanya. I don’t want to force you into compliance, but I can, and I will if you make it necessary.”
Her stomach churned with nausea, and she glared defiantly at him. She could still run, but if she did, it would mean leaving Tara behind—if she were really there. She couldn’t take that chance. Worse, he knew it. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
Zanya stormed back into the house, through the kitchen, and back up toward the bedroom she awoke in. It wasn’t ideal, but there was nowhere else for her to go. Half way up the stairs she came to a realization that stopped her mid-stride. “I uh…I don’t have any clothes to change into.”
> “Of course. Wear whatever you like out of the closet in your bedroom. Some of the clothes are vintage, but I believe you will take a liking to them. You should fit into her clothes quite nicely.”
Zanya's peered at him. “Whose clothes?”
Renato mumbled something in Spanish, and then walked away without offering a reply.
***
After giving some much-needed attention to her arm, Zanya set off in search for Tara. The long-sleeved cardigan and jeans she’d found while fingering through the closet fit her fine. Even though she wasn’t used to picking her own clothes, she was used to wearing things that covered most of her skin. It had its advantages—like hiding injuries. Today was no exception.
As Zanya wandered barefoot through the house, the wood floors were warm and natural, unlike the cold, sterile tile that covered the orphanage floors. She poked her head into several large rooms. One was a conservatory, with a dark wood desk and a quill pen beside a bottle of ink. The other was what she could only guess to be a greeting room, with plush upholstered sofas and a fully stocked bar.
Zanya finally located Renato in a study at the back of the house. In fact, the room took up almost half the wing. The home was huge, and the fact she was allowed to roam free was unnerving. If she were a prisoner, she would undoubtedly be locked up somewhere. Perhaps it was a false ploy to make her feel comfortable, which didn’t make sense either since she had nothing to offer and nothing they’d want. Nothing about this situation made sense.
The bookcases lining the walls towered to the ceilings, making it necessary to have a rolling ladder to reach the upper shelves.
Zanya approached Renato’s desk, where he sat puffing on a stone pipe.
“Where’s Tara?” Her icy tone didn’t seem to faze him.
“I hope your room is satisfactory.” When she didn’t offer a reply, he continued. “The ladies arrived back a few moments ago. They are in the kitchen having—”
Zanya rushed out before he could finish his sentence. She needed to see Tara, to make sure she was all right. Through the foyer and around a corner to the kitchen, she found her friend sitting at the eat-in table, chatting with a girl of similar age.
“There you are!” Zanya threw her arms around her neck, inhaling the salt and fresh air in Tara’s red curls.
“Zanya,” she croaked. “You’re choking me.”
“Oh, sorry.” Zanya let go and stepped back. A wave of comfort washed over her as she examined Tara’s familiar face. Now that she and Tara were reunited, it was time to concentrate on the next important issue—escaping.
A girl beside Tara, with jet-black hair that fell straight and sleek down her back, cleared her throat.
Zanya wasn’t good at meeting new people. She hadn’t had much practice, but under the circumstances, she’d have to give it a shot. “Hi.” The girl silently inspected her with narrowed, chestnut-brown eyes. “Thanks for taking care of Tara.”
“You took long enough to wake up. I couldn’t leave her wandering around the house by herself, now could I?”
Zanya turned to Tara. “How long was I asleep?”
“Longer than the rest of us.” The girl gestured at Tara with a nod. “Your friend was actually almost keeping up with me.” She slid off the barstool. Now standing, Zanya could tell she was a few inches shorter than their new best friend. “Speaking of—I have to go brush and feed the horses.” The girl glanced at Tara. “Stay out of trouble, would you?”
Tara nodded, and the girl left without another word.
Zanya slowly sat beside Tara. “Who was that?”
“That’s Hawa. She’s Mr. Renato’s niece.”
“Oh, right.” Zanya paused. “Wait, you’ve met Renato?”
“Yeah. I had breakfast with him and Hawa this morning. He’s a really nice guy.”
“Nice? Tara, we don’t know these people. We were drugged…or something, and kidnapped, and then brought here against our will. We need to get home.”
“Home?” Tara snorted. “Earth to Zanya. We don’t have a home, remember? And Mr. Renato said we can stay as long as we want.” Tara crossed her legs and relaxed in her chair, bobbing her foot. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in no rush to go back.”
This was some kind of trap. It had to be. Their lives weren’t straight out of a fairy tale. Real people didn’t just wake up one day and find themselves in a mansion with rich strangers willing to take them in. Not without paying a terrible price. “This isn’t right.”
Tara pushed to her feet. “Of course it is. Don’t you see? This is our ticket out of that shithole. No more medications. No more isolation. We can finally start our lives. I mean, come on. This place is amazing. Just look at the view. You can’t tell me you don’t want to wake up to that every day.”
Zanya's entire body tensed. Staring at the French doors, she came to a sickening realization. She hurled herself through French doors, onto the patio. Her fingers tightened over the cool, stone railing. As far as the eye could see was unoccupied, pristine beach and aqua blue waves. A gentle breeze caressed her cheek, tickling her nose with salty air. The screaming seagulls snapped her back to reality.
She turned toward Tara, who stood in the doorway with her hand on her hip and an ear-to-ear grin. Tara drummed her long fingers smugly on her waistline. “Welcome to paradise.”
Zanya's stomach bubbled and pitched. She pursed her lips and drew in a deep breath through her nose. “I have to sit down. I think I’m gonna throw up.” She walked to a chair in the kitchen and sat. “Where exactly are we?”
“Belize. Can you believe it?” Tara’s voice was hysterical with excitement. “Where exactly in Belize, I’m not sure. Honestly, I don’t really care, as long as we get to stay.” She inspected Zanya. “Do you want some water or something?”
Zanya raked her fingers through her hair and pulled it back as she mumbled to herself. “Okay, we’re in Belize. How did we get here? I don’t have a passport and neither do you. Neither of us has ever traveled outside the U.S.” She gasped and stared up at Tara with wide eyes. “What if this is one of those human trafficking things, where we’ll be sold to some local drug lord?” Zanya's skin iced over and her feet turned as heavy as ten-pound weights. Her chest constricted until she couldn’t breathe.
Tara stooped beside her, gliding her hand over Zanya's back in soothing circles. “Deep breaths. Try to calm down.”
Zanya did the only thing that would calm her down. She covered her ears and hummed a melody—River Flows In You, composed by Yiruma. Covering her ears isolated the sweet, slowing melody. The tune filled her mind and gave her back the ability to breathe.
A few more breaths and she lowered her hands from her ears. “Once we get some answers from Renato, we’ll figure out how to get out of here.”
“You have to be conscious to talk to him.” Tara vanished for a moment and came back with a glass of water. “Here. Drink this. It’ll help.”
Zanya sipped the cool liquid, restoring moisture to her throat. “Thanks.”
Tara sat down, propping her elbows on her knees and her chin in the palm of her hand. She examined the room with a warm smile. “This place is…It’s nice—and, I don’t know—” she shrugged, “—homey. I like it here. I like most everything about it, actually.” She sat up. “Especially the incredibly good-looking company.”
Zanya arched an eyebrow. “Come again?”
Tara grinned. “You’ll see.”
***
“Ah, you found your friend.” Renato stood from behind his desk as Zanya and Tara entered the study.
Renato invited her and Tara to the sitting area with a few sofas in dark leather and an oval coffee table in the center. She was determined to stay close to her friend, but as usual, Tara didn’t seem concerned. Tara waved at Renato and then hunkered down on the leather love seat. Zanya sat beside her.
A boy with shaggy brown hair walked toward them. His radiant skin and soft smile seemed to entrance Tara, putting Zanya more on edge. She re
ached in her pocket and ran her fingers over the sharp edges of the letter opener. It was the only weapon she could find, and one she wouldn’t give up.
Tara leaned in close to Zanya. “And—cue incredibly good-looking company,” she whispered, studying the blue-eyed boy. He winked. Tara’s cheeks flushed so red, they nearly matched the color of her shimmering hair.
Typical. A cute face and Tara goes weak at the knees.
“This is Peter.” Renato laid his hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Peter, this is Zanya. I believe you have already met Tara.”
“It’s really nice to meet you. An honor.” Peter shoved his hands in his front pockets and leaned in close to Renato. “Where’s Arwan? I’m pretty sure he didn’t want to miss this.”
“I spoke with him last night. He’s on his way. With or without him, we need to focus on the task at hand.” He directed Peter’s attention to Zanya's arm. “If you don’t mind, can you please tend to our guest’s wound?”
Tara shifted back and scanned Zanya. “Wound? What happened?”
“It’s not a big deal. I’ve had worse.” It wasn’t a lie, but the puncture mark still hurt like hell. She’d gotten used to managing pain through ignoring it, pushing it to the back of her mind. The nurse at her school wasn’t keen on prescribing anything to dull the discomfort.
Peter knelt beside her and gently rolled up her sleeve.
“Really.” Zanya coiled back. “I’m fine.”
Peter unveiled brown, clotted blood that had formed a thick scab. He sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Ouch. How’d that happen?”
“It was an accident,” she mumbled.
“Some accident.”
“What are you, some kind of doctor?” The swollen, red skin throbbed and itched. Her pride was strong, but the fear of infection in a third-world country was stronger.
“I guess you could call me that.” He gently laid his hand over the torn skin. Nervous bubbles built in Zanya's stomach while warmth from the guy’s touch radiated up her arm. She was used to people touching her, but always on their terms. Here, there were no restraints or drugs to force her cooperation. Zanya shoved Peter back and cradled her limb close to her chest. “I don’t like to be touched.”
Mayan Blood Page 3
