by A. L. Knorr
Chapter Fifteen
I froze, hardly daring to breathe.
Sark went rigid next to me.
“I will say this,” Pierre continued, enjoying the undercurrent of fear. “This is by far the best fake I’ve ever seen. It fooled the experts I keep on retainer. They all thought it was the real thing.”
He tossed the necklace back with a contemptuous movement.
Sark shifted a little in his seat, and I dared a glance at him. His gaze was fixed on Gwaffu, but I could practically hear the wheels turning inside his head. He would think of something, but he needed time. I leaned forward and forced my voice to be as steady as I could manage.
“Pardon me, sir, but if your experts said it was real, then how could you tell differently?”
Pierre looked at me for the first time since we entered, and unease crept over my skin. I instantly regretted speaking. His dazzling smile never left, but his expression seemed to flatten, how a viper might regard a mouse. I half-expected a forked tongue to flicker between his pearly white teeth.
“More things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, my dear.” He winked, and his eye flashed with demonic light.
I recoiled. Acting blasé would make the edimmu suspicious. I cursed myself for being so stupid as to ignore the queasy aura I’d felt from the original. If I had known the significance, I would have taken it and left the fake. I channelled my anxiety into a convincing performance, to keep the edimmu from realizing what I really was.
“Sark?” I hissed, in what I hoped was an appropriately terrified voice. I was scared, but not for the reason those present would assume.
“Sark, eh?” Pierre turned to Dillon with that reptilian grin. “That’s what you are going by now, Eli?”
Sark nodded dumbly, at first seeming to agree with Pierre’s question, but Sark’s eyes refocused an instant later, and I wondered if the nod was more to himself than anybody else in the room.
“One of a few, Pierre.” Sark chuckled, and his voice sounded markedly more relaxed than I’d expected. “You know me: I hate being tied to anything for too long, names included.”
Pierre nodded, shifting his weight. He sensed the change in Sark too.
“That must be why you and our friends in Switzerland seem to have parted company,” the edimmu said with flippant nonchalance. “And why you come to my doorstep, peddling fakes.”
Pierre crooked a finger at the door across from his seat. It opened, and a dark-skinned man dressed in a violet shirt with black pinstripe trousers and vest entered. Golden rings glittered on his fingers and ears, but they weren’t nearly as interesting as the handgun he held comfortably in one hand. He stopped at Pierre’s shoulder, his expression and posture relaxed, yet seeming to seethe with potential violence that only indirectly had to do with the gun.
“Pierre, is this really necessary?” Sark said in an exasperated tone.
“Marcel is head of my security and my right hand,” Pierre continued ignoring Sark’s outburst. “When I tell him to shoot your lovely friend in thirty seconds, he will do so without hesitation. You have thirty seconds to convince me to countermand the order.”
Marcel’s hand rose, and I found myself staring down the barrel of a very large gun. His expression did not change even as he met my eyes.
“You could shoot her,” Sark muttered and shuffled on the couch to widen the gap between us. “But that would be throwing away an incredible resource, and I’ve never known you to be wasteful.”
Pierre’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed as they slid over to me and then back to Sark. Judging from the quick once over he gave me, I wasn’t so impressive, even in this dress.
“Explain,” he said.
“Who do you think made a fake so good that it fooled all your overpaid experts?” Sark inclined his head towards me. “Why do you think I parted ways with our friends in Switzerland when I realized what she could do?”
My gaze bounced from the gun, to Pierre, to Sark. My time was growing short, my body as tense as it had ever been. Marcel’s finger slid towards the trigger. Pierre steepled his fingers. Sark stared back, giving every indication he was happy to wait.
Marcel’s eyes remained fixed on me, dark and hollow as the gun barrel. Though I didn’t dare expand my metallic sense to assess the gun, I knew I could collapse the gun around the goon’s hand faster than he could pull the trigger. But the second I did that, the jig would be up, and Sark and I would be lucky to fight our way out of this place alive, much less acquire the information we sought.
On the other hand, if I waited for Sark’s scheme to work, I could end up shot in the face. I hadn’t mastered the art of stopping bullets mid-flight.
Seconds passed, and I was certain Sark’s gambit had failed.
“Marcel, give us a minute.” Pierre’s voice was flat but for a hint of irritation.
“Oui, Capitaine,” Marcel lowered the gun and exited the room.
Pierre nodded at the necklace.
“You made this then?” he asked me, eyes narrowed to razored slits.
“Yes.” I took my first full breath since Pierre had levelled his initial accusation. “I had the original, which helped me get the details right, especially the composition and level of corrosion. Even well-preserved pieces accrue signs of ageing over the years.”
Pierre’s expression darkened before his smile returned.
“So, you had the original, and still you bring the fake.” His gaze shifted to Sark. “How interesting.”
Sark gave me a look that shouted stop helping before turning back to Pierre with a smile.
“It was a demonstration, Pierre.” Sark chuckled. “I wasn’t going to give you a fake, not a good friend like you, but I couldn’t very well hand you a fake and tell you it was a fake. If I did that, you would never have gone to the effort to see what I am bringing to you.”
“You brought me something?” the edimmu asked with a cocked eyebrow.
Sark sighed and swept a hand up and down the length of my body.
“Just look at her.” He reclined with one elbow on the arm of the loveseat. “Imagine what you could do with her.”
“What?” I snarled, rounding on Sark.
“I’ve had better.” Pierre shrugged. “Many times.”
I was ready to show the scumbag, edimmu or no, what I thought of his assessment when Sark intervened, hands raised placatingly towards me.
“Darling, a moment, please.” Sark turned back to Pierre before I could respond. “Pierre don’t be obtuse. You know what I am talking about. Imagine the kind of money you could make with someone of her calibre, with her talents.”
Pierre shrugged again, but an avaricious gleam had crept into his eye. “You mean working for me.”
Sark leaned forward a little and levelled a finger at the necklace.
“Details aside, you know what I am offering. A shadow operation, running parallel to your own. Give her time with legitimate artifacts, and she can produce forgeries good enough to fool museum verification teams. You pass the legitimate works to priority clients, while the shadow op arranges the sale to other well-paying but less critical clients.”
Pierre’s expression didn’t flicker, but the Midasian light in his eyes intensified.
“Your overhead would be minimal, a few tools and raw materials.” Sark leaned over the table, his voice becoming a conspiratorial whisper. “Within a month, we could double your profits. Double!”
The edimmu’s eyes, nearly fever bright with mundane human greed suddenly narrowed, and the demonic shine returned for an instant.
“We?”
Sark didn’t flinch.
“Of course, we.” Sark chuckled. “Who is going to arrange the sale of her fakes, and keep your operation clear of blowback from nosy parties? Plausible deniability makes me worth my weight in gold.”
Pierre considered, and at last nodded. Sark withdrew, glowing with victory.
“We will need to discuss percentages, ti
metables, operating costs,” Pierre said, his gaze sliding into the middle distance as he began a mental tally in his head. “The devil is in the details.”
Sark nodded, smiling ear to ear as his legs began to bounce with excitement. “I’m sure,” he said. “But we’ve always been able to work things out, haven’t we, Pierre?”
Pierre returned the smile, the first genuine one I’d seen.
“So, it would seem.”
---
“Marcel,” Pierre called, “refreshments.”
Sark and the edimmu talked steadily about operational concerns until the servers arrived. I couldn’t follow the acronyms, code names, and references, so I stopped listening.
The distraction of food and drink being delivered reminded Pierre that I was there. As I put down my empty plate and glass, he looked me over.
“Marcel,” Pierre called, and the man appeared again, handgun holstered under his vest.
“Capitaine?”
“Our guest deserves some respite after her rough treatment this evening.” Pierre nodded at me. “Please show her a good time.”
Marcel’s eyes widened fractionally at the command, but he didn’t pause as he extended his hand. “Mademoiselle?”
The idea of taking the hand of the man who minutes ago was ready to shoot me point-blank was uncomfortable, but I caught the slightest nod from Sark in my peripheral vision. My skin felt like it wanted to crawl off, but I took his hand and smiled as I rose.
“I always appreciate a man who can show a girl a good time,” I purred.
Marcel gave me a very open up and down, and a leer came to his face. “Oh, vraiment?”
I didn’t speak French, but body language helped. Marcel hadn’t had better than me. As I followed him out of the room, it took more effort than it should have not to point that out to his boss.
We found ourselves in a long hallway whose ceiling pitched with the slope of the roof. I moved to one of the dormer windows and looked out over the front lawn and circular drive where Jackie had dropped us off.
“Lovely view.” I turned back to Marcel and scanned the opposite wall. Every door I could see had a lock requiring a keycard. It was obvious that the third floor was where serious business took place, and the most likely place to find the Ledger.
Now, if only I had one of the keycards.
“Do you speak English?” I asked as I slid my arm through Marcel’s.
“Peut-être,” he said slowly and winked.
“Oh, aren’t you saucy.” I winked back, squeezing a little closer. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but I like how you say it.”
Subtle was obviously not Marcel’s cup of tea. His eyes flared with open lust as he leaned towards me, craning his neck to graze his lips across my neck. I bit my lip to control the urge to recoil. His breath was hot and cloying. Sark had mentioned in passing that covert work meant “doing uncomfortable things willingly”. I was seconds from having to decide exactly how far I was willing to go.
“Marcel?”
A gruff voice, laced with a radio’s crackling notes, spared me my moral event horizon.
Marcel paused, his lips just beginning to press against the curve of my neck. We both hung there for one ludicrous beat before the head of security gave an irritated snort and withdrew. Muttering, he fished out a small walkie-talkie from his vest pocket. He raised the device to his mouth, gave me a lingering look, then pressed the talk button.
“What?” he snarled.
The voice came on again. “Marcel, is that you?”
Marcel looked ready to throw the device out the window.
“Yes,” he growled with slow malevolence. “What. Is. It?”
Another pause, this one a little longer, then a familiar feminine voice came.
“Marcel, we’ve got a party crasher,” the blonde reported briskly, sounding a little out of breath. “Looks like one of the drivers got some big ideas and decided to sneak in.”
My heart stopped: Jackie had gone to park and wait with the car. Would she really have gotten so antsy? My mouth went dry, and I wrapped my arms around myself to hide the tremble.
“Is the crasher caught?” Marcel asked, his scowl deepening.
“Yes,” she replied before a crackle of static and what might have been raised voices. When she came back on, she was mid-sentence and sounded more out of breath.
“—broke Derrek’s arm and keeps trying to get away. Can I please handle this?”
Certainly sounded like Jackie, but how could she be so reckless, so stupid? Then I remembered the look she’d given me in the rear-view mirror, and I felt like the floor might disappear from underneath me. Things were going sideways fast, and I felt dizzy and sick.
Marcel, ignoring me, swore in French again before pressing talk.
“Mais non! We don’t want the guests hearing the gunshot, and I want to talk to them, to know what kind of fish you caught.”
Another pause, and the woman’s voice came back sounding petulant. “We wouldn’t have to use a gun … but fine. We are in the second-floor drawing room.”
“On my way.” Marcel turned towards me as he signed off.
“It seems we must part ways, mademoiselle.” He sighed, looking thoroughly disappointed. “I expect this business will keep me busy for some time.”
My mind was racing. I couldn’t let him interrogate and probably execute my best friend. I also needed that keycard.
He moved towards a door, and with a swipe, opened a portal that led to a wide marble staircase.
“Come, I will take you downstairs,” he said with a curt gesture to the stairs. “You will have to find your own amusements.”
I took a few reluctant steps towards the stairs and then paused laying a hand on his shoulder, kneading the wiry sinew beneath his silk shirt.
“Didn’t Mr Gwaffu tell you to show me a good time?” I pouted, fluttering my eyelashes.
Marcel shrugged off my hand, bristling a little, and nodded towards the stairs. “He did, but he also trusts me to make decisions in his interest. Get.”
The force of the command drove me forward another step, but I stepped close enough to whisper in his ear.
“I could come with you. I’d love to watch you work. I bet I’d find it very … exciting.”
Marcel pulled back a little, surprise, and no small amount of interest plain in his features. I could see good judgement and erotic curiosity locked in a desperate struggle right behind those dark eyes.
“I don’t think you would like it,” he said, swallowing. “It can be ... rough.”
I inched closer, cursing Jackie for every millimetre, to purr breathlessly in his ear. “And who says I don’t like it rough?”
Marcel’s breath hitched, and he allowed himself a lascivious grin, then wrapped an arm around my waist. “Allons-y!”
---
The two men beating someone to death on the carpeted floor of the second-floor drawing room was a shocking contrast to the room itself. Full of dark wood and plush furniture, it was the kind of place Elizabeth Bennett and Mister Darcy might have retired to with a few close friends.
The blonde woman, leaning against the fireplace watching her goons work, nodded to Marcel as we entered. She glanced at, then dismissed me.
My heart seized, horrified at the thought of Jackie curled up beneath the storm of crushing feet. Then a wave of relief washed over me as I realized the poor victim was a man and a strongly built one at that. A pang of guilt followed, but an overly-confident, grotesquely optimistic driver crashing a party full of powerful and shady people was considerably lower on my list of concerns.
“Fais gaffe, tête de noeud!” Marcel growled at the thugs, bringing the beating to an abrupt halt. Both men, breathing heavily, turned towards Marcel but looked sheepishly at their shoes as if the instruments of the beating would give them answers.
“How is he going to talk if you beat him to death? Blaireaux!”
The thugs’ gazes darted from their guilty feet to th
e blonde woman and then back again, but neither spoke. She made a point of pretending that she didn’t notice the silent implication.
Marcel levelled a warning look her way before moving to the man still curled up on the floor. “Where is Derrek?”
“Getting his arm looked after,” the blonde said.
“What is she doing here?” she cut another glare in my direction.
“Casse-toi, Ros.” Marcel waved her off as he crouched next to the man on the floor. “Hey, what’s your name?”
The poor wretch didn’t speak, his bruised and bloody arms still wrapped protectively over his head. Marcel gave an exasperated growl and shuffled closer, reaching a hand out.
“Careful,” Ros warned, her voice utterly devoid of concern. “He’s a brute.”
Considering the company she kept, I would’ve taken the warning more seriously, but Marcel only snorted and gave the man a series of quick taps on the shoulder.
“Hey, big guy,” Marcel said, his voice almost soothing. “What’s your name?”
Very slowly, the arms parted. The man on the floor looked up at Marcel, his face discoloured with bruises. Even through the knots of black and blue, I recognized him. My heart jumped up into my throat.
“M-Marcus,” he grunted between gritted, bloody teeth.
Chapter Sixteen
I smothered my reaction with raw determination, but a combination of horror and confusion coiled in my stomach. Marcus’s life, and mine, depended on acting.
“Okay, Marcus,” Marcel said slowly, as though talking to a skittish animal. “Were you invited to this party?”
Marcus, his gaze locked on Marcel’s face, shook his head warily.
“No?” Marcel’s tone was surprised. “If you were not invited, why are you here?”
A determined scowl came across Marcus’s face. He stared back at Marcel, jaw set.
Marcel held the stare for a long pause before shaking his head. He looked back at Ros with exasperation, and as he twisted, Marcus spotted me. I didn’t dare make any sign as Marcus’s eyes widened.
