Chapter Eight
In which there is pigeon and bullets.
Luna…
Looking around the opulent suite, I suck in a deep breath and hold it. After losing my parents, I learned to stave off anxiety attacks by holding my breath until sparkles flitted through my vision, and then I’d let it out in a long exhale. If I did it long enough, I wouldn’t cry and rock in the corner of my room while Aunt Martha yelled at me to shut up.
I haven’t been alone since waking up yesterday morning on my lumpy mattress at the hostel in London. The sudden silence is jarring.
For the first time, I let the sheer unreality of the last twenty-four hours sweep over me. I swear, I’ve been so careful, reading all the warnings for women traveling alone, all the horror stories about being kidnapped by human traffickers. The warnings never included a private island, a mansion, and a nauseating array of murderous, wealthy sociopaths chasing suckers like me through the woods.
Shuddering, I have to accept that so far, I’ve been lucky. Wallace is likely no better than his fellow “Lords,” but he protected me from Deacon, and apparently, he knew where Marla was hidden all this time and didn’t send anyone after her.
Pacing the room, I try to come up with a plan. Could I steal that yacht still tied up to the dock? It’s a brilliant idea, aside from the fact that I know nothing about boats. Do they drive like a car? The closest I’ve ever come to a watercraft is a beat-up canoe that Pop used for fishing.
Wait.
Guns. These are definitely the kind of people who would stockpile weapons. Hurrying over to the desk, I yank open the top drawer. Nothing there but a collection of pens. The next three drawers are empty, but the bottom one is locked, presumably to keep me from his iPad.
I don’t know how to pick a lock.
Shit.
I’ve been so busy working to keep myself fed and housed that I’ve missed out on some crucial life skills, like lock-picking and boat driving. The bedroom doesn’t offer much more. It’s clear that Wallace uses this place as a pit-stop or a fuck palace, there’s nothing but some changes of clothing and bottles of scotch. I look under the bed, go through all the drawers in the bureau, even check under the marble bathroom vanity to see if he’s taped something there.
“Why are you sitting on the bathroom floor?”
Ah, crap. He’s back.
“I do my best thinking here.”
My captor is leaning against the doorway, arms folded and bulging biceps on display. He’s eyeing me like I’m a particularly fascinating strain of bacteria.
Trying to regain my dignity as I stand up, I ask, “Do they know?”
Frowning, he nods. “That’s why I’m here. It’s about to get ugly. I brought up some food for you. You’ll be staying in the suite. Same rules apply. Dinna answer the door for anyone but me.”
“Trust me, I do not want to be in the middle of this nightmare,” I agree fervently.
“Good.”
He turns to leave, and I blurt out, “Wait!”
The man is holding on to the last of his patience; I can see it. “What?”
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask. “Is there any chance they’ll figure out that it was you?”
That half-smile again. “Ah, lass. Are you worried about me?”
“Of course,” I say without thinking. “You’re all I have.”
He laughs, even while looking a little surprised about it. Maybe he’s never experienced an actual emotion before.
Our little moment is cut off abruptly when someone starts pounding on the door like they’re trying to break it down.
“Hold off, you dumb fuck!” Wallace shouts as he strides for the door. “What the hell do you-”
There’s another giant of a man standing there, dressed in a guard’s uniform. Not as tall or broad as Wallace, but I’d still not want to run into him in a dark alley. “Pardon the interruption, Sir,” he intones, “but your presence and that of your female companion is requested for dinner.”
“Not fucking likely,” Wallace snarls, “she’s mine, and she’s staying here. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Two more guards materialize next to the first one, hands hovering over the guns holstered on their hips. They’re the first firearms I’ve seen since I’ve been in the UK. You couldn’t go a day without running into some asshole brandishing their pistol back home in Iowa, but seeing them here feels shocking.
“The other Lords and Mr. Armstrong are waiting for you,” the first guard says. “Everyone left on the island will be in attendance.”
Wallace looks back at me, his eyes are cold as an iceberg. “Come along.”
My best friend Carlie used to make me see films with her that she considered “high art.” Some were ridiculous, like the ninety-minute ordeal where we watched a man consume a bust of Selena Gomez that he’d sculpted from fudge.
I specifically hated the films that were deeply unsettling, like the one with a deranged chef who killed off his most ardent diners at a private party. I remember the feeling of nausea as they all sat at their beautifully decorated tables and realized that they were going to die.
This is worse.
This is happening right here.
To me.
There are other innocents here, our terrified servers, including the nice woman I fished out of the pool last night. She’s carrying a tray of crystal goblets to the table, and her hands are shaking so much that the glasses are chiming in warning, a high-pitched clatter that makes one of the Lords - Trent, I think - scream at her to get the hell out.
Go, sweetie. Run as fast as you can , I think. Take your chances in the ocean.
If I didn’t know we were in a hellscape of wealthy psychopaths who enjoyed killing people, this scene would be right out of one of those fancy shows on BBC. The fifteen-foot-long mahogany dining table is groaning under the strain of endless dishes, flower arrangements, and two silver candelabras dripping wax on the snowy white linen cloth.
Three other girls are seated at the table, and two of them are Brittany and Canary. They must be in the rarified inner circle of these wealthy fuckfaces. Brittany’s glaring at me, sneering whenever I glance in her direction. All the (currently living) Lords of Chaos are here, along with one of the male party-goers from last night. Someone beat the living shit out of him, but he’s plowing through his food like his missing front tooth is not a problem.
And then there’s Grayson Armstrong.
He lost a son last night, and while I believe Wallace did a solid for all mankind by killing Deacon, I’d think his father would be undone, weeping and mourning his death. I guess the obscenely wealthy handle grief differently than us regular folk. Armstrong doesn’t touch his food, though a fresh glass of whiskey appears at his elbow the minute the one in his grasp is empty. Still, the man can hold his drink. His mask of pleasant affability never slips.
After consuming nothing today but my captor’s punishing sandwiches filled with that hideous protein paste, I’m freaking starving. The food they’re serving us is wildly elaborate: Cornish Dover Sole, prawns with green figs and lemon, and something that I think is quail decorated with fancy mushrooms.
But my throat is clenched in a mixture of terror and dread, and the thought of trying to force down food is enough to make me choke. I hide it behind my starched linen napkin, but Wallace looks at me with a faint frown.
Brittany, who clearly never understood the art of Read the Room, blurts out, “This pigeon is delicious. So tender.”
I hastily bring my napkin back up to my mouth, gagging.
Pigeon.
All I can think about are the pigeons I watched in London, chasing after garbage scraps and eating each other’s droppings.
“A toast!” Richard stands, clumsily knocking over his chair. His dad may be able to drink half a gallon of booze without any noticeable impact, but he can’t. “To my bloody brother! The craziest son of a bitch in the UK. He should…” His fire leaves him, and his shoulders slump. “He should be here.”
“I wouldn’t wish to spoil anyone’s appetite, but it is time we discussed my son’s murder, yes?” Grayson’s tone is calm, but his eyes are alight like the fires of hell.
If evil were a stench, it would be choking me right now.