“Leave Bastien out of it. You think I can’t handle it?” Her light mockery didn’t bring one of Peter’s infrequent smiles.
“You can handle anything, Isobel. I just don’t know if you want to. You’ve changed.”
She blinked. “I doubt it. I’m the same cold-blooded professional I’ve always been. You’re just seeing things differently since you’ve been seduced by True Love.”
He didn’t bother to respond, just raised an eyebrow, and she wasn’t going to argue. Why waste her breath lying to him, lying to herself? Sometime in the last five years, when she hadn’t been looking, her nerve had begun to shred. Her emotionless practicality had turned into nothing more than an icy veneer, and beneath it ugly, painful emotions were beginning to roil. The Ice Queen was developing cracks in her facade.
And she wasn’t going to argue. She was going to do what needed to be done. “How much time do we have?”
“Not much,” he said. “Too many people want Serafin’s head. The sooner we get him out the better.”
She nodded, all business. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“It can wait a few days….”
“A few days won’t make any difference,” she said. A few years wouldn’t make any difference. She had to keep going. If she stopped too long she’d start to think, start to feel, and then she might as well be dead. “Tomorrow.”
Peter looked at her for a long hard moment, then nodded. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
She closed the door to her office, sinking down in the leather chair and closing her eyes. She needed a cigarette more than she needed air to breathe. The thought amused her. She certainly wasn’t giving up cigarettes to prolong her life—she wasn’t in the right profession to worry about longevity.
She didn’t like the weakness. Didn’t like the need. She reached forward and punched up the computer screen with the files that Peter had uploaded for her. A grainy photo of Josef Serafin popped up, and she glanced at it. Peter had used his computer tricks to clean it up, sharpen the focus, and suddenly her gaze narrowed. She leaned forward, her heart smashing against her ribs.
“Killian,” she whispered. And the day went black.
2
Then
She’d been a wild child, with a tangled mane of curly red hair, a stubborn streak a mile wide, a passionate heart and an innocent soul. At the age of nineteen she’d shoved her belongings into a backpack, taken the first cheap flight to England and prepared to make her way to Paris and the Cordon Bleu at her own leisurely pace.
There was no longer anyone back home in Vermont to worry about her—her mother had died young and her father had a new family. Mary Isobel Curwen was simply a reminder of another lifetime. She didn’t belong with them.
She wasn’t stupidly reckless back then, just clueless. If she hadn’t decided to hike around England before school started, if she’d waited to go with her friends, if she’d had enough sense not to go out into the slums of Plymouth in the middle of the night…If, if, if. She was older and wiser now, and hindsight was a bitch.
She hadn’t realized someone was following her that night. A group of someones, silent, predatory, moving through the darkness like a pack of starving wolves. When she finally realized she wasn’t alone it was too late—she’d taken the wrong turn when leaving the pub, and was getting farther and farther away from the youth hostel where she’d left her backpack and sleeping bag.
She heard the scrape of a boot, a whispered laugh, and cold, icy fear had slid through her. She’d reached the end of the street and darted left, planning to disappear into the darkness of the alleyway. Only to find it was a dead end, lit by the fitful August moon.
And then they were there. A handful of them, some younger than she was, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking they were harmless. They were blocking her escape, and she froze, a thousand thoughts running through her mind. If she disappeared, no one would notice, no one would ask. Her father had already forgotten about her, and while her friends back in Vermont might worry, it would be too late when they realized something was wrong.
No one was going to save her, no one was going to miss her. She was on her own, and she was either going to die or be hurt very, very badly.
“I don’t have much money,” she said in a deceptively calm voice.
“Not interested in money,” one of them said, as they crowded together, advancing on her. “Who wants first go?”
“Me,” said one of the younger ones, a skinny little rat with bad teeth and a feral look in his eyes. He was already reaching for his belt, and she opened her mouth to scream for help.
They were on her, slamming her onto the littered street, pawing at her, pressing her down, and no matter how she tried to kick or punch, someone always managed to stop her. She felt something sharp against her throat, and the young one grinned down at her. “I don’t mind cutting your throat first. I ain’t picky. I like a good fight, but if you want to lie there and bleed while I do you I’m not arguing.”
“Please,” she whispered, feeling the blade against her skin. She felt hands pulling at her jeans, trying to yank them down, and she kicked out, connecting with something painful, judging by the yelp of agony.
The boy straddling her turned and snarled, like a dog whose meal is threatened, and for a moment the pressure of the knife lessened. She slammed her head against his, feeling the blade knick her skin, knocking him off her and trying to roll away. But there were too many hands, too many bodies, and she knew there was nothing she could do but—
“Move away from her.” The voice was cool, deadly and blessedly American. Enough of a shock to stop the pack of teenagers from ripping at her.
The ringleader rolled off her, peering into the night. “And who’s going to stop us? There’s one of you and seven of us, and I think you’d be smart to just keep on the way you were going. You can have a taste of what’s left.”