Текст книги "The Shadows"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

NINE

IAm returned to the Brotherhood’s great stone mansion just before sunrise, jogging up the steps to the cathedral-like entrance, and pushing his way into the vestibule. Following protocol, he put his face into the security camera’s eye and waited.

A moment later, the inner door opened and a cheery old puss greeted him—along with the rich scents of a well-cooked Last Meal.

“Good late evening, sire,” Fritz, the butler, said with a bow. “How ever are you?”

“Hey, listen, have you seen my brother? I’m trying to find—”

“Yes, he’s returned.”

iAm nearly cursed with relief. “That’s great. Just great.”

At least the poor bastard was home safe and in a secure environment. But, Christ, Trez could at least have shot a text back that he was alive. How many times had that cell of his been unanswered—

From over on the left, a fast-moving shadow leaped up from the mosaic floor, going full-blown missile right at him.

iAm caught Goddamn Cat, also known as Boo, in his arms. He absolutely despised the animal—especially lately, as the fleabag had started sleeping with him during the day. All that cuddling. Purring.

Worse? He was getting used to the torture.

“. . . clinic.”

“Sorry?” iAm scratched the cat’s throat and made Boo’s eyeballs roll back. “I didn’t hear a thing that you just said.”

“My apologies.” The butler bowed again even though it was not his fault. “The Chosen Selena has fallen ill and been taken unto the clinic. Trez is attending her as she is being treated—I believe the Primale and Cormia have gone down there as well? I’m sorry to say, but her condition appears to be quite serious.”

“Damn it . . .” iAm closed his eyes and let his head fall back on his spine. They’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop, but that was supposed to have been about the s’Hisbe. Not the Chosen his brother had been so attracted to. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I do not believe a diagnosis has been ascertained.”

Shit. “Okay, thanks, man, I’ll go—”

The Chosen Layla appeared in the archway of the billiards room, Qhuinn and Blay tight on her heels. “Forgive me, but did I just hear something about Selena?”

Letting the butler field that one, iAm headed off for the hidden door beneath the grand staircase—and he was not surprised when the others quickly fell in behind him.

Just as he punched in the code to open the sealed panels, a cell phone went off.

“Is that you again?” Qhuinn asked.

Layla silenced the ringer. “It’s just a human misdialing.”

“You want V to block the number?”

“Oh, there’s no reason to bother him.”

“Here, give it to me, and I’ll see—”

Layla returned the phone to the folds of her robing. “They won’t call again. Let’s go.”

After a subtle beeeeep sounded, iAm pulled things open and they descended a shallow staircase to a second locked door. On the far side of that was the underground tunnel that ran from the mansion to the training center, and farther still to the Pit, where V and Butch lived with their mates.

With each stride down the concrete-walled, short-ceilinged stretch of here-to-there, the tightness in iAm’s shoulders increased, the muscles along his spine clamping up so hard that the pain reverberated all the way to his temples.

When they emerged into the office, Tohr looked up from the computer. “It’s a convention down here tonight.”

“Selena’s sick,” Qhuinn muttered.

The Brother got to his feet. “What? I just saw her like an hour ago. She was going to feed Luchas and . . .”

Which was how they ended up with five sets of shoes and shitkickers heading into the corridor.

The training center was a huge subterranean facility that included everything from an Olympic swimming pool, a target range, a weight room, a PT suite, and a full-size gym, to equipment rooms and a complement of classrooms that had been used for trainee teaching before the raids. There were also extensive medical facilities, with surgical suites and recovery rooms—and that was what they were gunning for.

The fact that people were clustered around the closed door of the examination room was not a good sign: Phury, Cormia, Rhage and Vishous were in anxious-wait mode, pacing, staring at the floor, twitching.

“Oh, thank God,” Phury said as he saw iAm. “Trez is going to be glad you’re here. We were trying to get hold of you.”

Probably why his own phone had been going off—but he’d been ignoring the thing while leaving the condo and going to try to find Trez at shAdoWs.

“They’re X-raying her,” V said. “That’s why we’re out here. Trez isn’t leaving her.”

Layla frowned. “Why are they doing that? Did she break a—”

Cormia went over to the other Chosen and took Layla’s hands. Soft words were exchanged and then Layla gasped and weaved on her feet. As Qhuinn steadied her, iAm decided that whatever it was, he needed to get in there.

“I’m not waiting,” he said, putting the cat down and pushing the door wide.

At first, he couldn’t figure out what he was looking at. As the heavy panel shut behind him soundlessly, he focused on what looked like table legs on the examination platform. Except . . . it was Selena. Her slender calves and thighs were bent, separated abnormally and held rigid at bad angles, as if she were in great pain—and it wasn’t just her lower body that was affected. Her head position was all wrong, and her arms were twisted up against her chest, even her fingers cranked into claws.

She looked as if she were in some kind of seizure.

Doc Jane was moving a large piece of machinery into position over Selena’s shoulder, and her nurse, Ehlena, was following behind so that the various cords didn’t get tangled. Trez was by Selena’s head, his trembling hands stroking that black hair.

He didn’t even look up. Didn’t seem to be aware that someone else had entered the room. Wasn’t even breathing.

“Okay, Ehlena, the plate?” The doctor accepted something that was the size of an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven piece of paper, but had the thickness of a finger. Wires connected to one end of it led to a laptop that sat on a rolling table. “I’m going to try to get the elbow here.”

The plate was slid under the joint, and then Doc Jane glanced at Trez. “Do you want to hold this one as well?”

He nodded and reached over, doing the duty. “I won’t move this time.”

“These are digital X-rays, so we can just do it over, okay?” The doctor gave Trez’s arm a quick squeeze. “We’re going to step behind the partition now.”

Doc Jane looked up and jumped a little, as if she, too, were so intent on her patient, she hadn’t known he’d come in, either. “Oh, iAm, good—but listen, you might want to leave while we—”

“I’m going nowhere.”

“I can’t . . .” Trez cursed. “I can’t keep this steady.”

Without a word, iAm went across the tiled floor and put his hand on his brother’s, stopping the vibration. “Let me help.”

Trez didn’t jump. Didn’t start. But his eyes shifted over, and oh, God, those eyes . . . they were black pits of sadness.

And that was when iAm knew that this was not bad, but BAD.

The male wasn’t terrified.

He was already in mourning.

* * *

Trez wasn’t immediately sure who his savior was. Didn’t recognize the hand that joined his own, even though it looked almost exactly like his. Didn’t track the new scent in the room. It wasn’t until he looked up that he saw . . .

iAm, of course.

As if it would be anyone else.

The image of his brother got wavy. “iAm, she’s . . .”

He couldn’t say the words. His thought processes literally flatlined sure as if he’d had a stroke or something.

“Let’s hold the plate,” iAm said. “Together.”

“You should be behind the lead thing.”

“No.”

Trez wasn’t surprised iAm hung in, and he mouthed a thank-you, because he didn’t think his voice was functioning any better than his brain or that hand of his was.

“Let’s get as still as we can,” Doc Jane said. Then there was a brief whirring sound from the machine and Doc Jane and Ehlena came back at the table.

iAm was the one who handed the plate over—and good thing, because Trez would have dropped it. Screw his hands, his whole body was shaking.

“Thank you,” Doc Jane said. “I think we have enough now. Do you want to call the others in?”

Trez shook his head. “May I have a moment with her?”

“We need to stay in to look at the X-rays.”

“Oh, yeah, I know. I just . . .” He glanced to the door, and knew those people had as much right to be in here as he did. Actually, they had more.

“Trez,” Doc Jane said gently. “However you want it, that’s how we’ll do it.”

But what did Selena want? he wondered, not for the first time.

“Look,” Doc Jane murmured, “there doesn’t seem to be an emergency issue right now. There will be time for the others to come in later—and if her condition changes? We’ll make different choices depending on where we’re at.”

“Okay.” He nodded toward his brother. “But iAm. I want him to stay.”

His brother nodded and brought over a chair—but not for himself, as it turned out. He shoved it under the backs of Trez’s knees, and functioning joints being what they were, a total collapse of the vertical happened but quick. As his ass smacked into the seat, he thought, yeah, he had been feeling a little light-headed. Probably a good idea to get off his feet.

With not a single word, iAm took a load off on the floor beside him, and it was incredible how just having the male in the room calmed him.

Trez refocused on Selena. She still had not moved from the position he’d found her in, and all those hard angles of her body were a total nightmare.

In fact, this whole thing just seemed so . . . devastating.

From what Cormia had said, the Arrest was a disease that struck a tiny minority of Chosen females. In all of history, there had been only a dozen, maybe fewer, who had suffered from it—which meant the statistical chance of getting the disorder was very small. Unfortunately, the condition had been uniformly fatal.

Goddamn it, he didn’t want any of those females to be sick, but why her?

Of all of them, in the entire history of the Race, why did Selena have to be one of the ones cut short like this?

And it was a horrible way to die. Frozen in your own body, unable to communicate, trapped in a fading prison until everything went dark and you . . .

He closed his eyes.

Shit, what if she didn’t want him here? He had bonded, yes—and everyone else was treating him with the respect that a bonded male would have in this situation, even as they wondered how it had happened without them knowing.

The problem was, he and Selena weren’t mated. In a relationship. Even dating.

Hell, they hadn’t even spent two minutes together in months—

“Trez?”

With a jerk, he popped his lids. Doc Jane was in front of him, her forest-green eyes alert and grave. “I’ve looked at the X-rays.”

He cleared his throat. “Maybe the others would like to be here for this?”

Shit, should he step aside so Cormia or someone could hold her hand? Would that be better? His body would hate that and so would his soul. But this was not about him.

A lot of people came in, more than there had been, and he nodded at Tohr, Qhuinn and Blay—and was glad that Layla was there, along with Cormia and Phury. Forcing himself to his feet, he went to step back, but the Primale came over and eased him down into that chair again.

“You stay where you are,” Phury said, squeezing his shoulder. “You’re right where you need to be.”

Trez let out some kind of croak. It was the best he could do.

Doc Jane cleared her throat. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” She called something up on the big computer screen by the desk. “It’s as if the joints themselves have turned to solid bone.”

The black-and-white image was of what appeared to be Selena’s knee and Doc Jane indicated different areas with the head of a silver pen. “On X-ray, bones register white and pale gray, whereas connective tissue like ligaments and tendons don’t offer that kind of contrast. Here”—she drew a circle around the joint—“there should be dark patches in between the cap and the socket. Instead it’s just . . . solid bone. The same is true for the joints in her feet, her elbow, her . . .”

More of those images flashed up on the screen, one after another, and all he could do was shake his head. It was as if someone had poured cement into all the junctures.

“What’s particularly worrisome is this.” A new picture became visible. “This is her arm. Unlike the other joints, the bone growth appears to be spreading and invading into the musculature. If this continues, her entire body—”

“Stone,” Trez whispered.

Oh, God, those marble statues in that place he’d found her.

That wasn’t a courtyard—that was a cemetery. Full of the females who had suffered and died from this.

“The only thing I’m aware of that is remotely like this is a human disease called fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva. It’s an extremely rare genetic condition that causes bone to form where muscles, tendons, and ligaments are, and it results, over time, in a total restriction of movement—to the point where patients must choose the position they want to be locked into. The growth of the bone happens sporadically and can be triggered by trauma or viruses, or can be spontaneous. There are no treatments for the disease, and surgical removal of the growth just triggers further genesis. What Selena’s going through is like that—only it seems to have occurred all over her body at once.”

Trez twisted around to the two healthy Chosen in the room. “Has this ever been treated? At any time in the past, did someone try to find a way to stop it?”

Layla looked at Cormia and the latter spoke up. “We prayed . . . that was all we could do. And still the attacks came.”

“So this is . . . an episode of some sort?” Doc Jane asked. “Not the terminus?”

“I don’t know how many of these she’s had.” Cormia brushed a tear off her cheek. “Usually there is a period of them before the final one from which they do not recover.”

Doc Jane frowned. “So the body unlocks? How?”

“I do not know.”

Trez spoke up to the Chosen. “Did either of you have any idea she was sick?”

“No one did.” Cormia leaned against her hellren as if she needed his support. “But considering the condition she’s in now . . . I believe she must be toward the end of the disease. It’s my understanding that the early episodes affect only parts of the body. This is all of hers.”

Trez deflated on his exhale, his strength expelling out of his mouth. The only thing that kept him from breaking down was the possibility that Selena might be aware of what was happening—and he wanted to appear to be strong for her.

Doc Jane leaned her hip against her desk and crossed her arms. “I can’t imagine how the joints can recover from this kind of state.”

Cormia shook her head. “The attacks, those few I’ve seen, come on fast and then . . . I don’t know what happens. Hours or a night later, they start to be able to move again. After a period of time, they regain mobility—but it always happens again. Always.”

“They also choose a position,” Layla said quietly as she, too, brushed at tears. “Like the humans you spoke of, our sisters always chose—they would tell us how they wanted to be and we would make sure . . .”

There were more things said. Questions asked. Explanations given to the best of people’s abilities. But he had stopped tracking.

Like a train gathering speed, his mind, his emotions, his sense of total impotence and all his regrets started to churn along a defined path, gathering speed and intensity.

He hated that her hair was a mess and he couldn’t fix it.

He hated that there were grass stains on her robing, bright green smudges where her knees had hit the ground.

He hated that her shoes had fallen off.

He hated that he couldn’t do one fucking thing to save her.

He hated the burden he carried with the s’Hisbe and everything it had made him do to his body—because maybe if his parents hadn’t sold him to the Queen, he wouldn’t have fucked all those humans, and maybe he would have been even slightly worthy of her. And then he wouldn’t have missed all those months. And maybe he could have seen something, or done something, or—

Like the conversation around him, the thoughts continued to pelt their way through his brain, but he couldn’t track them any more than he could whatever else was going on in the exam room. A violent roar had overtaken him, tsunami-ing through him, wiping everything away except a rage that could not be held in.

Trez wasn’t aware of moving. One minute he was holding on to Selena’s hand carefully; the next he was at the door to the examination room—then he was through it, his body exploding forward, more momentum than coordination.

Running, running . . . going by the jerks in his vision and the passing walls of the concrete corridor, he was running . . .

And there was a lot of noise. The empty hall was echoing with some kind of tremendous noise, like the gear of a great machine had locked or was grinding—

Something tackled him from behind before he reached the exit into the parking garage, an iron bar hold locking around him.

iAm.

Of course.

“Drop it,” came the shout in his ear. “Drop it . . . come on, now. Drop it—”

Trez shook his head. “What . . . ?”

“Drop the gun, Trez.” iAm’s voice cracked. “I need you to drop the gun.”

Trez froze except for his panting breath, and tried to make sense of what his brother was saying.

“Oh, Jesus, Trez, please . . .”

Shaking his head, Trez . . . gradually became aware that there was, in fact, someone’s forty in his right hand. Probably his own. He always wore one in the club.

And what do you know, the muzzle was up against his own temple—and unlike back with those X-ray plates, his hand wasn’t shaking at all.

“Drop it for me, Trez.” With his finger on the trigger the way it was, his brother obviously didn’t dare try to take control of the weapon for fear of causing a discharge. “You gotta put the gun down.”

At that moment, everything became clear: him bursting up, bolting fast, breaking out of the exam room and into the corridor. Running down toward the parking garage as he palmed his weapon.

Intending to blow his brains out as soon as he was free of the training center.

He’d had the conception that maybe, if there was actually a Fade, he and Selena could meet on the other side and come together, in a way they never could down on Earth.

“Trez, she’s still alive. Don’t you do this. You want to kill yourself? Wait until her heart stops beating, but not before that. Not one fucking moment before that.”

Trez pictured Selena back on that table, and thought, Shit . . .

iAm, as always, was right.

The shaking returned as he began to lower his arm, and he moved slowly for fear of some twitch setting the forty off. But he didn’t need to worry about that. As soon as that muzzle was out of the range of his gray matter, his brother took over, disarming him quick as a breath and putting the safety in place.

Trez stood there numbly as iAm patted him down and removed a couple more weapons, and then he allowed himself to be led back to that examination room and the group of people standing shocked and still around its door.

Not before she was gone, he told himself. Not while she was still here.

Unfortunately, he feared that was not likely to be very long at all.

TEN

Paradise, blooded daughter of Abalone, First Adviser to the King, frowned at the screen of her Apple lappy. She’d set herself up here in her father’s library ever since he’d started working each night for Wrath, son of Wrath, because in the old rambling Tudor mansion, Wi-Fi was strongest at this desk. Not that a good signal was helping her at the moment. Her Hotmail account was full of unread messages, because, with iMessage on her phone and her Twitter, Instagram, and FB accounts, there was no reason to sign into it very often.

“So hold up, what was it called?” she said into her cell.

“‘New Trainee Class,’” Peyton, blooded son of Peythone, replied. “I forwarded it to you, like, an hour ago.”

She sat forward in her father’s chair. “There’s just so much junk in here.”

“Lemme resend—”

“Wait, I got it.” She clicked and then clicked again on the attachment. “Wow. It’s on official letterhead.”

“Told you.”

Paradise scanned the date, the personalized greeting to Peyton, the two paragraphs about the program, and the closing. “Holy . . . it’s signed by a Brother.”

“Tohrment, son of Hharm.”

“Well, if it’s a fake, someone’s going to catch some serious—”

“But did you see in the second paragraph?”

She refocused on the words. “Females? Whoa, whoa . . . they’re accepting females?”

“I know, right?” There was a bubbling noise and an exhale as Peyton took another hit. “It’s unprecedented.”

Paradise reread the letter, this time more carefully. Operative words leaped out at her: Open tryouts for the training program. Females and civilians welcome to take physical performance test for entrance. Sessions taught by the Brotherhood themselves. Tuition? Nada.

“What are they thinking?” Peyton muttered. “I mean, this is supposed to be for the glymera sons only.”

“Not anymore, apparently.”

As Peyton went off on a commentary about the fairer sex and traditional roles at home and in the field, Paradise sat back in the leather armchair. Next to her, logs set by the household’s doggen crackled with orange flames in the marble-faced hearth, the warmth hitting one side of her face and half of her body. All around, her father’s library glowed with yellow light and polished mahogany and the gold accents on the spines of his collection of first-edition books.

The mansion they lived in was one of Caldwell’s grandest, with forty other rooms that were kitted out with equal luxury to this one, if not even greater: Beautiful silks hung from diamond-paned leaded windows. Fine Oriental rugs stretched out across polished floors. Oil paintings of ancestors were mounted up the stairwells and featured prominently over mantels and sideboards. Fine china was set at a formal table for every meal, food cooked and served by the extensive staff.

She had lived here with her father for years upon years, tutored by other ladies of the glymera in all the things that made an aristocratic female mateable: Clothing. Entertaining. Etiquette. Being the chatelaine of an estate.

And what was it all leading up to? Her presentation party, which had been delayed, as with the Brotherhood’s training program, because of the raids two years ago.

Plans for her were likewise going to be reinstated, however. What was left of the aristocracy had moved back to Caldwell proper from their safe houses, and as she was of age, being at least four years out of her transition, it was time for her to find a mate.

God, how she dreaded all that—

“Hello?” Peyton said. “You still there?”

“Sorry, yes.” She jerked the phone away from her ear at a loud crackling sound. “What are you doing?”

“Opening up a bag of Cape Cod potato chips.” Crunch. Munch. “Oh, my hell, these are amazing. . . .”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I still have half an ounce left. So I’m going to finish it and a bag of chips. Then probably crash—”

“No, about the training center program.”

“My father’s already told me I’m going. It’s fine, whatever. I haven’t really been doing anything for three years now, and I would have matriculated in when they first opened the facility up, but . . . well, you remember what happened.”

“Yeah, and you’d better stop smoking. They’re not going to like that.”

“What they don’t know can’t hurt them. Besides, I have First Amendment rights.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, for one, you’re not human, so their Constitution doesn’t apply to you. And two, that’s about freedom of speech, not freedom to light up.”

“Whatever.”

As Peyton took another hit, she pictured his handsome face, and his broad shoulders, and his very blue eyes. The two of them had known each other all their lives, their families having inter-married for generations, as all members of the aristocracy did.

It was the worst-kept secret in the glymera that his parents and her father had recently started talking about them getting mated—

The great bass sound of the front entrance’s door knocker brought her head around.

“Who is that?” she said, getting to her feet and leaning forward so she could see out into the foyer.

Their butler, Fedricah, strode across the floor, and though her father never answered the door himself, he, too, came out of his private study across the way.

“Master?” the butler said. “Are you expecting anyone?”

Abalone pulled his suit jacket back into place. “A distant relative. I should have told you, my apologies.”

“I gotta go,” Paradise said. “Have a good sleep.”

There was a pause. “Yeah, you, too, Parry. And you know, you can call me if you get the bad dreams, okay.”

“Sure. Same for you. ’Day.”

“’Day back at you.”

As she hung up, she was glad her friend was still around. Ever since the raids had gone down and so many of their class had been slaughtered, the two of them had used the phone lines to pass the sometimes forever hours of daylight. The connection had been indispensable in the immediate aftermath of the raids, when she and her father had gone out to the Catskills, and she had rattled around that big barn of a Victorian for months.

Peyton was a good friend. As for the mating thing?

She didn’t know how to feel about that.

Going around the desk, she jogged across to the foyer until her father caught sight of her and shook his head. “Out of sight, Paradise. Please.”

Her brows popped. That was the code for her to take cover in the hidden tunnels of the house. “What’s going on?”

“Please go.”

“You said it was a relative?”

“Paradise.”

Paradise ducked back into the library, but she stayed by the archway, listening.

The soft creak of the massive front door opening seemed very loud.

“It’s you,” her father said in a strange tone. “Fedricah, please excuse us, will you.”

“But of course, master.”

The butler walked off, crossing briefly over that part of the foyer Paradise could see. After a moment, the door into the back half of the house closed.

“Well?” a male said. “Are you going to invite me in?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m going to die out here. In a matter of minutes.”

Paradise fought the urge to put her head around the molding and see who it was. She didn’t recognize the voice, but the precise pronunciation and haughty accent suggested it was someone from the aristocracy. Which made sense, considering he was a “relative.”

“You are wearing the vestments of war,” her father countered. “I do not abide them across my threshold.”

“Is it my associations or my weapons that frighten you more?”

“I am not afeared of either. You were beaten, if you recall.”

“But not defeated, I’m sorry to say.” Clicking sounds suggested someone was handling things made of metal parts. And then there was a clattering, as if something hit the front stone stoop. “Here, then, I am naked before you. I am utterly unarmed, and my weapons are on your doorstep, not within your walls.”

“I am not your cousin.”

“You are my blood. We have many common ancestors—”

“Spare me. And whatever message your leader wishes to send to the King, have him do it through—”

“I am no longer affiliated with Xcor. In any way.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ties have been cut.” There was an exhausted sigh. “I have spent these months since the election that returned Wrath to the throne trying to convince Xcor and the Band of Bastards to disengage from their treason. Even after such entreaty and reasoning, such extended pleading for a smarter course, I am saddened that I cannot dissuade them from their folly. Finally, I just had to leave. I sneaked away from where they stay, and I now fear for my life. I have nowhere else to go, and when I spoke with Salliah back in the Old Country, she suggested that I pay you a visit.”

Their distant cousin, Paradise thought. She recognized that name.

“Please,” the male said. “Lock me in a room if you have to—”

“I am a loyal servant of the King’s.”

“Then do not turn away a tactical advantage.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“In return for safety under your roof, I am prepared to tell you everything I know about the Band of Bastards. Where they spend the daylight hours. What their patterns are. Where they meet during the night. How they think and fight. Surely that is worth the use of a bed.”

Paradise couldn’t stand it. She had to see who it was.

Inching out, she curled her body around the archway and looked past her father’s stiff shoulders. Her first thought was that the male’s leathers and ragged button-down shirt did not match his intonation. Her second was that his eyes were bruised, they were so tired.

He did indeed appear to have come from the war’s front lines, something sickly sweet staining the air that brushed by his body as it entered the house.

The male noticed her immediately, and his face registered something that he quickly hid.

Her father glanced over his shoulder and shot her a glare. “Paradise,” he hissed.

“I can understand why you hesitate,” the male said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Indeed, she is precious.”

Her father turned back around. “You must go.”

The male dropped down to one knee and bowed his head, putting one hand over his heart and lifting the other, open palmed, up to the heavens.

In the Old Language, he said softly, “I hereby swear upon our common ancestry that I shall bring no harm to you, your blooded daughter, or any living thing within these walls—or may the Scribe Virgin cut my life off afore your very eyes.”

Her father looked back at her and slashed his arm through the air, an order for her to get out and stay gone.

She put her hands up and nodded, all, Okay, okay, okaaaaay.

Moving quickly, she went back into the library and across to the panels by the fireplace. Reaching under the third shelf from the floor to the hidden trigger point, she pressed the lever and was able to push the entire load of books out and over on the well-oiled track. With a quick slip, she emerged into the fully finished hallway that ran in a square around the first floor of the house, providing access, both visual and actual, to every room through hidden doors and viewpoints.

It was like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

Closing herself in, Paradise went to the shallow stairs that were all the way in the back, and as she ascended them, she wished she could hear what they were saying. As usual, though, she was in the dark; her father never told her anything about anything.