Every time she returned to Brownlow Manor, Layne met her with a mixture of relief and disappointment. He never said what he was thinking, but he didn’t have to. She knew what he wanted her to do, just as much as he knew she would never do it. He may not have understood completely, but she thought he was beginning to.
She was keeping as tight of a grip on her feelings towards him as she could, but every day she felt herself drifting a little closer to the warmth he provided. They no longer sat on opposite sides of the room, refusing to meet one another’s eyes. Now, they shared a couch, often reading books or watching television together way past the time Caroline and Pari went to bed. They still didn’t talk to one another like they did when they were kids, but they didn’t exactly shut each other out like they had been for the past few years either. They hadn’t returned to where they had once been, but they were building something new.
While they built their new attempt at friendship during the day, at night Lizzie’s brain took their relationship somewhere else entirely. Some mornings she could barely meet his gaze, embarrassed by what the two of them had done in her dreams. It seemed her subconscious was way more creative and informed about certain activities than her waking self. She was in the middle of a scene that would make Nicki Minaj blush when she became aware of a hand on her shoulder in the waking world. Acting on instinct, she lashed out, slamming her elbow into a soft expanse of flesh. At Alistair’s muttered curse, her eyes flew open.
She was in a car, somewhere in London.
Slowly, her brain caught up and reminded her she was on assignment.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her hands hovering nervously in front of Alistair, who was trying to catch his breath. “I was asleep and dreaming…”
Oh God. What if he knew what she was dreaming? Had she talked in her sleep? She did that sometimes. Usually not anything intelligible, but heaven only knew what affect sleeping pills had on her dreamtime ramblings.
“My fault,” Alistair said, trying rather unsuccessfully to look as if he wasn’t really hurt. “My father always told me that waking a sleeping woman was putting my life at risk. I thought he was referring to my mother’s rather abysmal early morning moods, but I can see now he was talking in a general sense.”
“I really am sorry,” Lizzie said again. “I wasn’t being loud, was I?”
Alistair brushed a strand of hair over her shoulder. She forced herself not to recoil from his touch. “Of course not. You are as perfect in sleep as you are every other moment of the day. I was simply wanting to let you know we’re here.”
Swallowing back bile, Lizzie attempted to subtly scoot away from Alistair while taking in her surroundings. She was surprised to see they were already in the heart of London. Normally they parked the car outside the city and took a train in.
“Where are we?” she asked, unable to place their exact location.
“King’s Cross Station. Or at least, we will be if this traffic ever actually moves.”
Lizzie couldn’t have stopped the ridiculous smile spreading across her face if she tried. “King’s Cross Station? Are you taking me to Hogwarts?”
“Unfortunately, no. Not today,” he said as the car lurched forward. “But I think you might like this destination just as well.”
Reaching into the magical inner-pocket that girl’s coats never seemed to possess, Alistair pulled out some documents and handed them to Lizzie. One was a bogus passport which reported her to be Sally Newton, a twenty-year-old student from Portland, Maine. The other was a train ticket to Paris.
“We’re going to France?”
“We have an appointment at the Louvre later this afternoon.”
“We’re going to France by train, and we’re going to be there by this afternoon?”
Alistair chuckled. “It’s just a quick trip across the Channel, love. We’ll be there in a few hours.”
Sure enough, less than three hours later she was stepping out into a Parisian train station. After a lifetime of hearing about the City of Love and Paris fashion, Lizzie had expected everything in Paris to be very modern and posh. What she found was a crowded city buried beneath a layer of grime. Instead of svelte, beautiful people, she saw guards walking around with giant guns.
She’d grown accustomed to London’s busy streets, but traffic in Paris was something all together different. Motorcycles zipped around cars as if they didn’t have to obey the same rules of the road and most drivers pretended they couldn’t see the gaggle of pedestrians littering the streets. By the time they reached the famed museum, Lizzie had watched her entire life flash before her eyes at least five times.
Getting into the building was just as treacherous. People mobbed around the entrance, paying no heed to things like personal space. Despite the suffocating heat, Lizzie pulled on a thick sweater and slipped on a second pair of gloves. Still it took all of her will and concentration from having to endure a barrage of brain chatter.
Once they made it into the actual museum, the crowds thinned some, giving Lizzie room to breathe. The Louvre had a completely different feel than the National Gallery. As Alistair led her through a labyrinth of rooms and halls, the artwork threatened to overwhelm her in a way the paintings in London had not. Every piece screamed for attention, declaring, “I am important!” Since it was the Louvre, she was inclined to believe them. They rushed by one room where people were packed in so tightly she wasn’t sure how more continued to pour in through the door. Her heart skipped a beat when a lady pointed at the room and said to her friend, “Mona Lisa.”
She had ran past the Mona Lisa. Who ran past the Mona Lisa without stopping to have a look?
Lizzie knew the moment when they passed into a new section of the museum because the air changed. The room Alistair led her through didn’t have any paintings on the wall. The only artwork was a single statue.
A single armless statue.
“That is the Venus de Milo,” she said, coming to a stop in the middle of the floor. It took Alistair a few seconds to realize she was no longer sprinting behind him. Once he did, he trailed back, seemingly noticing the large slab of marble for the first time.
“Are you a fan?” he asked.
“It’s the Venus de Milo.” Seriously, wasn’t that the only explanation anyone needed? She could only recognize three sculptures in the entire world. Rodin’s The Thinker, the statue of David, and the Venus de Milo. Even someone like her, who knew very little about art, knew this hunk of stone was important.
“If you like that, you need to see what is in the next room,” he said, already leading her towards an arched door. With a final glance at the goddess, she followed, only to find herself soon surrounded by more figures. The room was considerably less crowded than the rest of the museum, and it almost seemed as if several of the tourist had suddenly turned to stone moments before she entered the room.
“Miss Smith.”
Lizzie turned, not at the name, but the voice. Even though it had been well over a month since she last saw him, she remembered the way Rashid spoke.
“Rashid,” she said, stripping off a glove and offering him her hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
Rashid was sensible enough to hesitate, but in the end, good manners prevailed, and he clasped her hand in his.
“Did you see your painting?” he asked. “It’s one of the reasons I picked this location. I thought you would enjoy seeing it in the flesh.”
Lizzie had noticed La Liberté guidant le peuple when Alistair tugged her through the various galleries. It was as large and richly colored as she expected it to be. What she hadn’t been expecting was her own potent response to the bodies littering the ground or the uncaring faces painted on the revolutionaries. For the first time, she wasn’t certain she was willing to pay the price freedom might ultimately cost.
“I did,” she told Rashid, trying to shake off the chill she felt despite the stifling heat. “I’ve decided when I paint myself, I’m going to go ahead and paint a shirt on th
ere. I’m not sure how leaving your boobs hanging out for the world to see really helps promote liberty.”
Rashid’s smile was one hundred percent smarmy. “This is France, ma belle. Here, nudity is liberating. Perhaps you should give it a try.”
Lizzie crossed her arms over her chest, which was as overly-ample as her butt. When Alistair moved in front of her, as if to shield her from Rashid’s pervy view, she let him.
Rashid wasn’t just skeevy; he was a criminal complete devoid of morals. He would do - and had done - wretched things to people just for the sick joy it brought him.
“Did you bring the papers?” Alistair asked, changing the subject and effectively dismissing Lizzie.
They’d been on enough assignments at this point she knew what he expected out of her. One handshake to get a quick read on their general mood and intent. If there was anything she thought Alistair needed to know before they got down to business, she would excuse herself to the bathroom, and being the gentleman he was, Alistair would show her the way so she could pass him the information. If there was nothing to be warned about ahead of time, she was free to zone out while he did whatever it was he was there to do. Afterwards, he would expect a full report on what she’d Seen during her brief contact, and she would comply… somewhat. He still had no idea the true extent of her powers, and she tried to keep most of the truly damning evidence to herself.
Usually she stayed by his side during the discussions, but she’d already had enough of Rashid. Just being near him made her ill. While Alistair examined documents supposedly authenticating a Warhol Rashid had in his possession, she wandered around the room. Just as Alistair had promised, the pieces in the room were as intriguing as the Venus. She couldn’t begin to imagine how the artists made hard rock look like soft skin or gossamer fabric.
Once the negotiations were finally over, Rashid barely had time to suggest Lizzie perform some tawdry act before Alistair escorted her away. Normally he was much calmer and more likely to let her do a bit of sightseeing after one of his meetings, but not this time. He rushed her out of the Louvre and back to the train station as quickly as he’d ushered her in. The urgency must have been an alteration from his original plan, because once they got to the station he had to purchase new tickets for their return trip. He was less than happy when the only ones available were in coach. For a guy who had no problem riding public transportation in London, Alistair was rather particular when it came to first class seating.
Thirty minutes into their return trip home Lizzie decided they were pumping some sort of sleeping gas into train car. They were sitting at a table, Alistair and David facing forward while she road on the other side alone. Pari had once again been left behind, and both men seemed more relaxed with her absent. In fact, David was snoring softly while Alistair drooled onto the headrest. A pair of blond, round-faced travelers had claimed the seats across the aisle, and they too were nodding off, although it seemed entirely possible one of them was passed out drunk.
Lizzie was feeling the tug of sleep as well. She hadn’t had her return trip meds yet - they were saving those until they got to London - but the ones she’d taken that morning were still weighing down her eyelids. She was about to doze off when a man who smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a week came lumbering down the aisle. His foot caught in the strap of one of the blonde’s bags, causing him to grab ahold of Lizzie’s headrest as he tripped. With a muttered foreign curse, he continued on, spilling half of the sleeping girl’s possessions into the aisle.
“Jackass,” Lizzie muttered, bending over to scoop the girl’s belongings off the floor. She haphazardly tossed a stick of lip balm, a wallet, some tissues, and a pack of gum back into the bright pink and yellow tote. She thought that was all until a gleam of metal under Alistair’s seat caught her eye. Bending over, she grabbed a cell phone whose case matched the pattern on the tote. Her hand stilled just inches over the bag.
She had a phone.
She had a phone and no one was awake to watch her use it.
With trembling hands, she woke up the screen and slid the puzzle piece into place. By luck or miracle, there was no lock code. Her heart banged painfully against her ribcage as she typed in the emergency number Joshua made the entire Alpha Pack recite on a regular basis and began typing a message.
“Alive. In Bath.”
Alistair shifted, and without even looking at the phone, Lizzie hit what she hoped was send and dropped it into the bag just before his eyes fluttered open. Her guilt must have been written all over her face, because his eyes immediately narrowed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling himself up to a proper sitting position. He glanced at David, scowling when he realized Lizzie had been completely unsupervised. “Lizzie, tell me you haven’t done something stupid.”
How she wished she could tell him that and mean it. Because it had been stupid. What was the likelihood the girl’s phone had service to the States? And even if it did, the message she typed was nearly indecipherable, even if she had managed to hit the right button to send it. She had just ruined weeks of building up Alistair’s trust with one reckless move.
“I… I don’t know what y-you’re t-t-talking about?”
Of course you don’t. You’re just sweating and talking like Porkie Pig because it’s fun.
Damn. She couldn’t have been any more obvious if she’d said, “Who? Me? Try to send a text to my friends so they would come rescue me?”
Alistair’s eyes roamed around the car, landing on the phone that hadn’t quite made it back into the bag. It sat there, half in and half out, as if to mock her for being so careless.
“Rashid is going to turn on you.” The words were out of her mouth before she could even consider them. “I knew it the moment I touched him, and I should have told you sooner, but—” The tears forming in her eyes were real, even though the story was not. Complete and utter terror always seemed to affect her tear ducts. “He’s a Shifter, and I felt like I would be betraying him. But I’ve been sitting here, thinking about it, and I realized I was betraying you myself by not saying anything.” She used the cloth of her gloves to dab away the moisture in her eyes. “Do you forgive me?”
Alistair sat frozen for a good minute before he took a deep breath, a smile curling at the edges of his mouth.
“Of course I forgive you,” he said smoothly. “I’m sorry I put you in a difficult position, but I’m happy that you made the right decision.”
“He’s been in touch with a German pack.” It was a lie, of course. Once she’d known what to look for, she Saw how much he hated others like them. He was getting a perverse pleasure in aiding in the war waged against the Shifters and Seers. Even his treatment of her had been way of striking back. “When he thinks he’s gathered enough information on you, he’s going to sell it to them.”
The lines bracketing Alistair’s mouth deepened. “Bastard,” he snarled. “I should have known better than to align myself with someone whose only concern is money.” He cranked his neck to either side, the pop from his bones sounding like gunfire. “David,” he said, waking the other man. “I need you to contact Slade.”
David scrubbed a hand over his face. “Do we have a problem?”
Slade. She hadn’t heard the name before, but she doubted a man with a name like that was into floral arrangements. Her gut tightened, realizing for the first time the full extent of what she’d done.
“It seems we are no longer the highest bidder for Rashid’s loyalties,” Alistair said in a voice that carried no further than Lizzie’s ears. “Tell Slade to leave a mess. Make it look like a robbery gone wrong. And then, have him circulate the picture of the body.” His eyes found Lizzie’s across the table. “Make sure everyone knows the price of betrayal.”
Chapter 19
“Westley, help me! I’ve fallen in the lightning sand!”
Caroline sank dramatically to the ground, one hand reaching towards where Layne sat on the couch.
“This is your fault, y
ou know,” Pari said, polishing the already gleaming silverware. “You’re the one who insisted on her watching The Princess Bride.”
Clasping Caroline’s small hand in his, he flung her up on the couch, where she erupted into a fit of giggles.
“It’s a classic. Every kid has to see it. It’s the law. Anyway, it could be worse. She could’ve fallen in love with the High School Musical movies Lizzie made her watch. At least this way there is no singing.”
Pari held a fork up to the light, narrowing her eyes on an invisible blemish. “For your information, I happen to like High School Musical, not to mention my daughter has the sweetest singing voice you’ve ever heard. Hearing it would be a great improvement over the two of you breaking everything in sight with your sword fighting.”
At last count, they’d only managed to break one ugly vase and a rather frightening ceramic lamb, which hardly constituted as everything.
“Not to mention,” Pari continued, “I happen to despise The Princess Bride. A worse movie has yet to be made.”
“You hate The Princess Bride?” Layne said, throwing one hand over his heart. “That’s…” he drew out the word and threw Caroline a wink. “Inconceivable!” they shouted together.
Pari waited until Caroline’s laughter died down to say, “I don’t think that word means what you think it means,” which threw her daughter into another round of giggles. To keep the sound of laughter - and the diversion from worrying about Lizzie - going, Layne started a tickle war. Her shrieks were so loud he almost didn’t hear the locks clicking shut, but the moment he did, they both stopped what they were doing and waited anxiously for the door to open.
Pavlov would have had a field day with what went on in their apartment.
As usual, Alistair didn’t come into the room, but held the door open for Lizzie as she walked through. It was like he was walking her home at the end of a date, complete with vomit-inducing lovey-dovey good-byes. Thankfully, they were all in French this time, so the only part Layne understood was the “au revoir” that proceeded Alistair going away.
Whispered Visions (Shifters & Seers Book 3) Page 15
