“Unless I lie, and say I remember when I don’t.”
“That’s one option,” Rowan said. “Tonight, members of the Wizard Council are meeting here at the house. I’ll question you in front of the council. You’ll need to confirm that McCauley and Moss were there for sure, and maybe some of the others. That will bring those wizards who are wavering over to our side. You may be asked to sign a statement. Just make sure you’re convincing, or no doubt Burroughs will get a chance to try his hand. Neither one of us wants that.” Rowan moved to turn away, but Emma grabbed his arm, pulling him back around.
“And what happens to me after that?” she demanded.
“After you have what you need?”
“I think you already know the answer to that,” he said coldly. “I was born into this game. I didn’t make the rules. If you cooperate, you can avoid considerable pain. The ending is the same, either way.”
Panic welled up inside her, constricting her throat so that she could scarcely get her breath. She might have a sad-ass life at the moment, but it was all she had.
Emma found her voice. “Just remember this: If I live, there’s the chance my memory will return, and you’ll have answers. If you kill me, you’ll never know who really murdered your sister. You might pass the murderer in the street and you’d never know it. Someone in your own organization may be gloating about it right now. Are you good with that? Are you willing to trade a political win based on a lie for a lifetime of wondering?”
They stood, eyes locked, for one, two, three heartbeats. Then Rowan looked away. “I suppose I’ll just have to take that chance,” he said, a muscle in his jaw working. “Now listen. Here’s how the evening will go. I expect the council members to arrive about six o’clock. You’ll hear a lot of coming and going about that time. We’ll be up front until about seven, then adjourn to the study that lets out onto the terrace. I’ll come to get you between seven and eight.” Releasing her, he dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the gloves he’d taken from her. “Keep these, if you want.” Then he was gone.
Emma stood, frowning, weighing the gloves in her hand, going back over her conversation with Rowan. I expect the council members to arrive about six o’clock. . . . We’ll be up front until about seven . . . I’ll come to get you between seven and eight. Why had he been so specific about times? Why had he returned the gloves to her after taking them away?
Unless he meant for her to use them.
First, she had to get over the garden wall. Emma hauled a chair out of her room and set it next to the wall. Then piled cushions on top of that. When she stood on top of the trembling stack, she could just reach the top of the wall with her fingertips. It was good that she was tall, or she’d never have made it. At least her arms were strong from hand-sanding and carrying wood around. As it was, she skinned both knees through her borrowed jeans as she scrambled for a toehold. Not a good start.
Once on the ground on the other side, she crouched close to the wall and scanned the grounds, looking for the two guards patrolling the compound. She watched until she figured out the pattern. One guard generally stayed in the guardhouse, probably watching the video feed while the other walked the grounds. Then they would switch off. One good thing about their presence was that there were unlikely to be motion detectors, at least nowhere near the perimeter walls.
She waited five minutes after the guard passed by, then fell in behind him, following the same path, every sense alert in case he stopped somewhere along the way.
Burroughs was right. There was a storm coming in. The tops of the trees thrashed overhead, sending flurries of leaves spiraling to the ground. The day had been sultry and summerlike, but now the northeast wind stung her skin, bringing the scent of rain, the touch of cold places in the north. She was glad of her sweatshirt, and jeans, and sturdy shoes. Looking on the bright side, the sound of the incoming storm covered any noise she made. And nobody would expect her to be outside in such weather.
Emma looked back at the house. Her phone was back at Tyler’s, and she didn’t have a watch, so she’d have to guess the time from the rough schedule Rowan had given her. Lights were ablaze in front of the house, cars coming and going. Which meant it was just after six, so she had an hour before anyone would notice her absence and sound an alarm.
She left the path along the wall at the edge of the cliff, knowing she’d be silhouetted against the lake as she walked along the shoreline. She’d have about fifteen minutes before the second guard passed by.
The stone wall that ran along the edge of the cliff was only waist-high so it wouldn’t block the view of the water from the house. Just inside the wall, a large tree shaded the terrace.
The first large drops of rain splatted down.
Swearing, Emma uncoiled her rope. She wished she knew more about knots, but who knew that such knowledge would be important one day? Hurriedly, she doubled the rope, threaded the loop around the tree, then ran the ends through the loop. She pulled on the gloves, then boosted herself over the wall.
It all but ended there. Had she not had a death’s hold on the ropes, the wind howling along the cliff ’s edge would have blown her away.
Emma looked down, at a jumble of jagged rocks at the bottom. The cliff seemed higher now that she was getting ready to climb down it. At least it was getting dark, making it harder to see the bottom. She swallowed down the terror rising in her throat. You can do this, she told herself. And then: Don’t think about it. Just do it.
She turned, facing away from the raging lake, gripped the ropes in either hand, crouched, and stepped backward.
She could tell right away that this mission would have been a total no-go without the gloves. Desperately, she clung to the increasingly slippery rope as rain needled her face and rivulets of mingled water and sweat ran down her neck.
Cautiously, she slid one hand down the rope until it came up against a knot. She followed with the other hand, kicking off the rock and planting her feet a bit lower.
Repeat.
Despite all her precautions, the wind caught her and slammed her against stone before she could get her feet in proper position. Swearing some more, she turned and planted her feet against the rocky wall.
In that way, she crept down the face of the cliff, agonizingly slowly. By now she was soaked through, battered and bruised, blisters already forming on the palms of her hands through the gloves. She wished there were a way to stop and rest, but there was no place to wedge herself in order to relieve the stress on her hands.
Best to get it over with as quickly as possible. At least it was not an electrical storm. That would’ve been terri— The entire shoreline lit up as lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating layers of threatening gray clouds. Thunder crashed, the sound reverberating off stone.
Emma glared up at the heavens, squinting against the torrents of rain. “Hey!” she shouted. She would have shaken her fist if she’d had a hand free. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry, all right? Can you cut me a break?”
She was answered by another strobe of lightning. As she turned her head away, she thought she saw something moving on the cliff face, farther down. The shoreline went dark again as the crash of thunder seemed likely to shake her loose from her mooring.
Was somebody already climbing down after her? If so, why was he over there? And how did he get below her? Granted, she was slow, but . . . she looked up the twin ropes to where they disappeared over the cliff ’s edge and saw no activity, no lights . . . nothing.
She kept her eyes fixed down the shoreline to the east. When the lightning flared again, she saw nothing unusual.
You really are seeing things, she thought, and continued her painful descent.
Now the spray from the crashing waves was drenching her, adding to her general misery. Amazingly, that meant she must be nearing the bottom. Kicking out with her foot, she managed to find purchase on an outcrop of broken stone. She found a place for her other foot, then stood there, trying to catch her breath, her sh
oulders screaming in pain, all of her muscles quivering. Waves swirled around her feet, then receded.
She looked to her left. Heaps of broken rock formed a sort of path along the shore. If she could just keep her footing, she might be able to work her way down past the perimeter wall and find a way to climb back up to street level.
She inched her way to the left, keeping hold of the rope, hoping it would slide sideways enough to get her past the wall. Then her questing foot met nothing but air and she looked down to see boiling water far below. There was a major gap in what had seemed to be a continuous if dangerous path. Emma slid the rope a little farther, but then it caught on an outcropping high above her. She eyed the gap, judging the distance. Could she somehow swing across it?
“Emma!” someone shouted. Sheltering her face with her arm, she looked up and saw figures milling at the top of the cliff. Her escape attempt had been discovered. Had it really been an hour?
“Emma! Don’t move! Stay there and hold tight to the rope! We’ll come down and get you.”
It was Rowan DeVries. Even with all the wind and rain and crashing waves, she recognized his voice, his silhouette.
Not going back, Emma thought. There’s trouble up top, and trouble down below. But I’ve already been up top.
Again, she turned and faced downshore. She set her feet, bent her knees, and pushed off, swinging in a long, low arc across the breach. Her feet had actually touched the other side when a huge wave slammed into her, hurling her sideways against the cliff. She took the impact in her shoulder, and immediately her arm went numb.
She screamed, blood welling up salty in her mouth where she’d bitten her tongue, tears of pain and frustration welling up in her eyes. She bumped against the cliff twice more before she ended up dangling against a sheer rock face. The cliff jutted out to either side, so that she was enclosed by stone on three sides. She could think of no way to get past it. It was hard enough holding on to the ropes with her injured arm.
She was trapped. Sooner or later, a wave would hit her hard enough so that she’d lose hold on the rope and drop into the foaming lake below.
Chapter Thirty-four
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
“Are you hurt?”
Emma started, nearly losing hold of the rope. The voice came from just over her right shoulder. In fact, the speaker sounded like he was nearly on top of her. Carefully, she turned to find a boy perched on a rock outcropping like a . . . like whatever thing it is that perches on rocks. He wore black clothing that seemed to turn the rain, a nylon webbing harness overtop. His black hair was plastered to his head, but otherwise he looked like he belonged there, one leg thrust out, foot resting on a ledge below, the other bent beneath him. He had a coil of rope slung over his shoulder, gloves on his hands, and narrow-toed, high-tech sneakers on his feet.
Oh, and his eyes were so blue a person could drown in them. Blue, and somehow familiar, striking a chord that had sounded in her heart before.
“Are you hurt?” the boy repeated, those blue eyes sweeping her for damage. He seemed tightly wound, vibrating, like a guitar string tuned to a high pitch.
“Me? I couldn’t be better,” she said, thrown completely off balance by this turn of events. “Why do you ask?”
Something in him relaxed, uncoiled. “I heard you scream,” he said. “I thought you might need help.”
He must have climbed down from above. Was he Rowan’s on-site cliff rescue specialist? Always on call?
As if in answer, he pulled something from a hidden pocket and held it up for her inspection. It was a harness made of webbing, connected to a light nylon line. He clipped one end of the line to his harness and tossed the other one toward her with a low, overhand throw. “Strap this on, if you can do it without falling. I’d feel better if you were anchored to something.”
Emma caught the harness with one hand, and pain rocketed through her shoulder. Black spots danced in front of her eyes.
“You are hurt,” he said, flinching as if he felt it himself. “I thought so. Hang on. I’ll come to you.” He slid the rope from his shoulder and took something else from his magic pockets that somehow turned into a grappling hook. Before she knew it, he’d anchored his line somewhere up above. He pushed off and swung toward her. He slammed into her, wrapped an arm around her, his momentum carrying the two of them to the other side.
Now they were squeezed together on a tiny ledge, and Emma couldn’t figure out where to put her body where it wasn’t pressed up against his. He must have been aware of it, too, because he averted his eyes, as if he could pretend it wasn’t happening. He buckled the harness on to her, his fingers deft and sure.
He, of course, had gloves on.
“You act like you’ve done this before,” she said.
“Once or twice.”
Up close, there was something familiar about him, something that pinged in her consciousness. It was as if he gave off a scent that went straight to that place in memory where the important things are stored.
Had she seen him at one of the meetings in the mansion above?
Which reminded her.
“Just so you know. I’m not going back up there,” she warned. “Don’t try to make me.”
“No problem,” he said. “We’ll go down. Do you swim?”
“No, I do not,” she said tartly, water streaming down the back of her neck. “I wasn’t planning on getting wet.”
He laughed, and the sound echoed around the cove, somehow lifting her spirits.
“Do I know you?” she asked, their faces inches apart.
Something flickered in his eyes—something almost like panic—then was gone. “Maybe,” he said, turning his face away again. “Do you come here often?”
She couldn’t help it: she found herself laughing. He was so charming, so self-deprecating, so . . . so . . .
“I’m Jonah Kinlock,” he said. “I’m a friend of Natalie’s. Remember . . . we met at Club Catastrophe? I was rude. You played pool . . . and kicked butt.”
“You’re Boy Blue!” Emma blurted.
“I’m who? ”
“Never mind,” Emma mumbled as the puzzle pieces fell into place. Boy Blue had come to the club with the band. Sat with the blond guitar player during the break. Natalie was with the band. “So . . . you’re Natalie’s friend?”
“She seemed to think you needed rescuing, so here I am.”
He tilted his head back and scanned the top of the cliff. His lips tightened in annoyance. “I’ll explain later. Your friends up top are on their way down. It’s best if they don’t know I was here. In fact, it’ll be really convenient if they think you drowned.”
Emma looked down at the furious waves pounding against the cliffs below. Could still happen, she thought, panic rising in her again.
“Hey.” She looked up, and the boy, Jonah, looked straight into her eyes. Rainwater trickled down his face and clung to his eyelashes. The sculpted terrain of his face invited exploration, its peaks and valleys framed by a tumble of hair, set with eyes the color of oceans under sunlight and racing clouds. He turned his head slightly, looking down at her, his eyes deepening to a smoky amethyst. His lips were just inches from hers. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
“Listen to me,” Jonah said, his grip tightening on her shoulders. “We’re going to jump into the water, landing as far away from the cliff as we can. That’s the trickiest part. I’m going to swim us out further, then follow the shoreline to a place we can get out. I want you to try to flatten your body in the water, relax, and just let me handle the swimming. I promise you, Emma . . . I won’t let you drown.”
She believed him.
He pulled her tightly against him. She could feel his hard muscles through two layers of clothes. “Now,” he murmured, his breath warming her ear. “By all means, scream.”
He jumped, carrying them both farther than she would’ve expected. Then they were plummeting toward the water, and Emma screamed, a screech that could have
been heard in Canada.
They plunged into the waves, and the shock of the cold water almost made Emma suck in water. Then they were bulleting upward, Jonah kicking strongly, pushing them toward the surface.
Her head broke through the waves, Jonah beside her. They were a fair distance from shore, but the rough surf threatened to push them back in and smash them against the rocks.
“Lie on your back,” Jonah said, one hand pushing against her bottom, the other against her chest, until she was in the right position. He slid an arm across her chest, pressed tight against her breasts, then stroked strongly away from the cliffs.
Emma did her best to relax as waves crashed over her face. Since it was still raining, sometimes it was hard to tell when she was above water. It was better once they got into deeper water. Eventually, Jonah turned and swam parallel to the shoreline. She could hear faint shouts in the distance. “Emma!” If she craned her neck, she could see lights sweeping over the water under the cliffs where they’d landed. But they were already out of range.
Every so often, Jonah would tilt her upright in the water and ask, “Are you doing all right? Okay to keep going?” As if there was a choice.
He didn’t seem winded at all.
“You’re—you must be in really good shape,” Emma said. Jonah brushed off the compliment. “I am unusually strong,” he said. And swam on.
Emma was so relaxed that she didn’t even notice when he turned back toward shore.
“Emma,” he said into her ear. “Put your feet down.”
She did, and found a mix of slippery rocks and sand. When she stood, the water was only waist-deep.
“Careful you don’t fall. The waves are still high.” He grabbed her hand to steady her, and they waded onto a rocky beach. “I parked just up here.”
They cut between two large houses and followed what looked like a private lane until it ended on a public street. A dog started barking in a nearby house. “Walk faster, if you can,” Jonah said. “I don’t want to have to explain why we’re wandering around the village soaking wet.”
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