She watched the second piece of hair fall on the floor. A good thing they were going to destroy her body, she thought from a great distance. It would be hard to have an open casket with her hair all different lengths.
She must be going into shock, if she could think of such frivolous things. Her parents would be upset—they’d never wanted her to go to Paris. They’d wanted her to stay home and become a doctor like everyone else in the family, and she wouldn’t listen. She’d been too squeamish to bear the sight of blood, and now it would be her own blood she had to watch, to smell. At least her parents would have the dubious benefit of knowing they were right.
In the end the person who’d suffer most was Sylvia. Her clothes were gone, she’d be responsible for the astronomical rent on the tiny apartment and the French police would ask her all sorts of questions about her missing roommate. Sylvia’s lifestyle didn’t bear too close a scrutiny, and Chloe could only think that it served her right. A little discomfort wasn’t quite a fair trade for sending her best friend to her death.
Of course she hadn’t—the pain is so fucking bad I’m going to pass out, but I can’t, because then he’ll kill me—hadn’t meant to endanger Chloe. But if she’d simply come herself then nothing would have happened. Sylvia was never interested in much beyond her own pretty nose. She’d never end up trapped here, with a monster pressing hot steel against her skin, while another, worse creature looked on.
She wasn’t going to scream. She bit down on her lip so hard she could taste the blood, but she wasn’t going to scream when he drew the tip of the blade across her skin, watching the beads of blood form and begin to trickle across her skin.
“I’ll finish her now,” Hakim said, grabbing her hair in one fist and bringing the knife up to her throat. “You can meet me back in the library—I’ll be along in a minute.”
Chloe closed her eyes, bracing herself. At least it would be over, and the darkness would be a blessed release. She tilted her head back to give him better access, desperate to have done with it, and Hakim laughed.
“You see how good I am, Bastien? I make them crave it.” And he plunged the knife downward.
The sound was strange, an odd sort of popping noise, and then she was smothered, weighted down, awash in blood and darkness and smelling of sour sweat. It wasn’t what she thought death would be like, but at least it didn’t hurt, and she held still, letting the night overtake her.
When suddenly the weight lifted and she could breathe again. She opened her eyes to see Hakim’s body sprawled out on the floor, in a pool of blood that wasn’t hers.
Bastien Toussaint was standing over her, his face cool and emotionless. He held out a hand to her—in the other he held a gun. “Life or death, Chloe. Make your choice.”
She put her hand in his, and let him pull her to her feet.
She was able to stand by sheer force of will. Pain shot through her arms, her legs, where Hakim had marked her. But Hakim was dead, she was alive, and even if she had to turn to the person she hated most in this world, she would do it. She didn’t want to die.
“There’s a back stairway that will bring us out near the garage. We’ll have to get past a handful of guards and the guard dogs, and you’ll have to be quiet and do everything I say. Otherwise I’ll shoot you and leave you behind.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. He sounded cool, unmoved, as if he hadn’t just killed a man, as if he weren’t anticipating killing others. Somewhere she could find the same coolness.
He kept hold of her arm, his fingers gripping tightly as he dragged her after him. She could barely manage to keep up with him—she was shaken, weak and dizzy, but asking him to slow down wasn’t an option. He’d probably put the gun to her head then and there if she held him back.
She stumbled after him, down the narrow, unlit stairway, out into the frosty December night. The fresh, cold air was so powerful that she almost choked, trying to inhale huge lungsful, trying to get the taste and smell of blood and fire out of her. She wanted more, but suddenly Bastien shoved her against the wall, covering her body with his until they both disappeared in the shadows.
His body was pressed up against hers, plastered against hers, she noted absently. He was very strong—she’d realized that, hadn’t she? She might hate him with a shocking ferocity, but when it came to being rescued it was good to have her rescuer be strong.
Chloe heard the muffled growl from a guard dog, followed by a quick admonishment. The guards were making their rounds, but they hadn’t yet realized something was wrong.
“I may have to shoot them. Don’t make me shoot you as well.” The words were only breathed in her ear, just a whisper of sound, but she nodded.
The guards had moved past them, but they would be back. “Just promise me one thing,” she whispered, a little louder than Bastien’s silent communication.
He slapped his hand over her mouth, and she fought back her cry of pain. “Be quiet,” he snapped, no longer lazy or charming.
She nodded, and he pulled his hand away. The guards were halfway across the wide expanse of formal garden by that point, and while bullets might reach them, the men themselves couldn’t.
Bastien pulled back from her, seemingly unmoved from having been pressed up against her. “Promise you what?” he asked finally.
“Don’t shoot the dogs.”
For a moment he just stared at her blankly. And then an odd expression flashed in his eyes, what she might have called, in another man, in other circumstances, amusement. But there was no room for amusement in a life-or-death situation. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “Come on.” And gripping her hand, he started to run.
10
The night had ceased to be real. Hakim had ensured the place was well-lit, and they had to dodge from shadow to shadow as they crossed the wide strip of lawn. Bastien seemed to have a preternatural instinct as to where to move, and she followed by sheer, iron will, refusing to think about the things she had seen, the things that had been done to her. Reality was long gone, and if this were a Hollywood movie she’d wake up in her own bed, sweating and horrified over the incredibly real-seeming nightmare.
She’d survived so far, but it was no dream, it was reality in all its ugliness and terror. She’d left home, left the family tradition because she couldn’t stand death and pain and the sight of blood. And now she was covered with the blood of a dead man.
Bastien left her twice, and she stayed in the shadows, numb, obedient, waiting until he returned to drag her after him. His Porsche was parked near the curving drive, and their final sprint used up the last ounce of her energy. He had to stuff her into the passenger seat like she was a dead body herself, and she sank into the leather, closing her eyes, feeling the darkness beginning to take over like a curtain being drawn across a stage.