The Conspiracy of Us (The Conspiracy of Us 1)

“I know.” Luc kissed her on the cheek, and she wiped a thumb across her face with a pretend scowl. “Be safe,” he said.

“It’s perfectly routine.”

“Then I expect you back by the time we leave, new clue to the mandate in hand,” Luc said with a wry smile.

I covered the sharp breath I drew in with a cough.

“I’ll be right back,” Luc said to me, and slipped his arm through Elodie’s.

They walked away, and after I made sure no one was watching me, I perched on one of the tall bar stools and pulled out my phone. On the plane, Stellan had turned on my international roaming and entered his, Elodie’s, and Luc’s phone numbers—and my number in their phones. In case something happened, he said, but it was probably so he could keep track of me. Now I was about to pull up Google when I saw I had a missed call from my mom’s cell phone. Thank God.

I dialed my voice mail and plugged my free ear with my finger to drown out the music. “Avery. Sweetheart.” My mom sounded understandably tense. “Yes, we do have a lot to talk about, and I wish I could have told you sooner. Please stay right where you are and be very careful. I’m coming to get you.”

No. I held the phone in a death grip. She thought I was in France, which meant she probably knew where the Dauphins lived and was headed there. I dialed her number, only to get an immediate chime on her voice mail. “This is Carol West,” her tinny voice said. “I’m not available . . .”

I cursed under my breath. She couldn’t go to the Dauphins’. She might be in danger from the Order, too—or she could get recognized by my father, whoever he was.

“Mom,” I said, “don’t—” I was poised to leave the whole story on the message, but stopped. What if Stellan had done something else to my phone, like bugged it? I glanced around the club and lowered my voice. I didn’t trust anybody anymore.

“Mom, don’t come,” I said simply, my voice tight. “Call me back. Or I’ll call you. Just don’t come to France.”

The voice mail picking up on the first ring meant her phone was off. She might be on a plane already. If so, I wouldn’t be able to reach her until morning.

I looked over my shoulder again. Besides a couple of guys wearing too much hair product who smiled smarmily at me from the next table, no one was watching me. I Googled “Emerson Fitzpatrick.”

Too many results, none of them him. I added “Istanbul” to the search. “Emerson Fitzpatrick, volunteer docent at the Hagia Sophia,” it said, with a photo of his smiling face. I pictured the postcard. It was like Mr. Emerson was trying to send me clues about who he really was.

But there was nothing else. No personal phone-book entry or anything. I hunched my shoulders over the phone and pulled up a map of Istanbul. If I had to, I could get to the Hagia Sophia, hide until morning, and find someone who knew him. Maybe he’d even be there. If I was going to do that, though, I should probably not try to escape the club quite yet. I’d rather not camp on the street for longer than necessary.

I looked up to find Stellan strolling toward my table. A spasm of adrenaline shot through me, and I stuffed my phone into the bottom of my bag. This was the first time we’d been alone since Prada, and I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

“All by yourself, little doll?” Stellan set down a glass of something clear and leaned his elbows on the tall bar table. He didn’t raise his voice, but the smooth, low tones of his accent easily undercut the electronic beat of the music. “I’m surprised. Aren’t you afraid something else might happen?”

Yes. My fists clenched on my bag and I forced myself not to look over my shoulder. That was one good thing, I guess—I had less of a chance of being killed with Stellan nearby.

I gave him a tight smile. “No,” I said. “Not worried. Luc said it was an accident.”

The DJ, silhouetted against a spill of neon lines cascading down the wall, pumped a fist in the air. Stellan watched him. “I suppose it is impressive how easily you got away from that Order operative,” he mused. “Maybe you don’t have anything to worry about.”

I touched my bandaged shoulder. If that had been getting away easily, I wouldn’t want to find out what “hard” looked like.

“And at least you understand now why I need a weapon for a weekend of meetings and parties.” Stellan’s face was half obscured by shadow, half flashing neon blue. I searched for his knife and saw a bulge under the right side of his slate-gray jacket, and another on the left. He saw me looking and flicked the jacket open. A gun.

I swallowed. “Why do you need both? A gun seems pretty effective.”

“It takes more effort to kill with a dagger.” He rebuttoned his jacket. “You have to do it on purpose. Guns make it too easy.”

I was surprised he’d care about that. “It didn’t seem very hard for you to kill Frederic at Prada.”

Stellan swirled the drink he hadn’t so much as sipped and gave me a thin smile. I couldn’t help but remember the rage in his face at Prada.

I folded my arms across my chest. “I still don’t know why you killed him. I know you don’t care about me that much.”

“Ah, but I do care about being punished for something happening to our guest.”

Oh.

Stellan pulled out the other bar stool and sat. My feet dangled, but his rested solidly on the floor.

“What’s Elodie doing?” I said, because I didn’t want to talk about killing anymore.

“There’s a wealthy businessman here in Istanbul with an ancient Greek art collection. She’s infiltrating.”

That explained the trip to a club on the other side of the continent. I wondered how often Elodie had to “infiltrate.” That was one disadvantage of being ridiculously beautiful.

“Didn’t you say she’s Madame Dauphin’s assistant?” I said. “Is this a normal part of the job?”

Stellan strummed a stack of cocktail napkins with his thumb. “There are no female Keepers. Sometimes a task comes up that’s better suited to a girl.”

I felt a sting of indignation. “So guys do the important work, but you bring in girls when you need to seduce somebody? Don’t you think that’s a little sexist?”

Stellan gave me a one-sided smile, and my jaw clenched in anticipation of the offensive thing about to come out of his mouth.