Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

It glinted off the jewels spread out on the carpet in front of me, making them look like they’d been dipped in blood. I’d had a vague idea about mementos for the girls, some slightly less creepy than the ones from Agnes’ apartment. I hadn’t made much progress, though.

I couldn’t seem to concentrate.

I picked up a necklace made of gold, with tiny seed pearls forming interlocking daisies. A lot of the sets were kind of heavy for young girls, but this one might work. It looked a little antiquated, like something out of the Victorian period, with little emerald-chip leaves and tiny diamond dew drops. Something Gertie might have worn as a girl. It was pretty. . . .

But I didn’t want it. It was nice, but I didn’t need it. I liked it, but I could give it away, because I didn’t get attached to things.

It was one reason I’d never minded living in a hotel room in Vegas, where few of the things surrounding me were actually mine. I suppose it would have bothered most people. It didn’t bother me.

I’d found out early on that if I liked something, Tony would find out and take it away if I displeased him. And I displeased him a lot. After a while, it was easier just to stay detached. That way, he didn’t know what was important and what wasn’t. And eventually, nothing was. I hadn’t had a problem running away and leaving everything behind because I didn’t get attached to things.

I didn’t get attached to people, either. Because they left, too. My parents, who died when I was four, my governess, who Tony had killed—my fault; I’d gotten too fond of her—virtually everyone I’d ever known before the last four months.

Pritkin . . .

Pritkin.

Pritkin.

No.

I was stuck. My head was stuck and it just . . . wouldn’t go there. I should be able to deal with this. I should be able to accept it. I should be able to add him to that list, the same list everybody went on, the same list I’d always known he’d end up on, too, because everybody did, everybody left. The reasons might vary, but that never did. Everybody left. . . .

No.

It was the problem I’d been having for more than a week, the problem I’d avoided even looking at, because I couldn’t deal with it. So I’d handled it the way I did everything I couldn’t deal with, and just ignored it. I’d find him; I’d get him back. It wouldn’t come to this.

And now that it had, I didn’t know what to do.

“She had some nice stuff.”

The massive shadow crouched on its haunches in front of me, each thigh bigger around than my body. He blocked out most of the light. I was oddly grateful for that.

“Yeah. I thought the girls might like . . . something.”

“What about you?” The big head tilted. “You don’t like jewelry?”

“For a long time, I couldn’t afford it, and then . . .” I touched Billy’s necklace. “Not much matches this.”

“No. Don’t suppose so.” A massive finger sorted through the expensive rubble. “Well, you’ve got plenty to choose from now.”

I laid my head on the side of the bed.

Marco observed me for a moment, and then joined me on the floor, settling back against the mattress and taking out one of his awful cigars. For a while, there was just the crinkle of celloph

ane as he rolled it between his hands, loosening the leaves. Marco liked to savor the whole experience, from the rolling to the unwrapping to the trimming to, finally, the drawing of deep, sweet-smelling smoke into a body that would never have to pay for it.

But he wasn’t smoking this one yet.

He was talking.

“Back when I was in the ring,” he said, talking about his time as a gladiator, “I knew this guy. Short. Scrawny. Even kind of clumsy. You’d look at him and think, yeah, hope I get matched with that one. That one’s a gimme. I’ll beat him in two minutes, then go drink wine and watch somebody else bleed.”

I adjusted my position to mirror his, and stared at the ceiling. “And did you?”

“No. Never got paired with him. Went out of my way to make sure I didn’t, after a couple of times watching him fight.”

I rolled my head over to look at him. “So he was good, after all?”