Chapter Twenty
Maren
W hen my vision returns, it isn’t good.
I choke as the bag comes off my head, gasping at how cold the air feels compared to the trapped heat of my breath. I hardly have my bearings. It’s dark, wherever we are. Indoors. And I’m shoved into a seat.
Before I can even register any details, I wrench my arms around fruitlessly. My wrists are lashed behind me. There’s a buzz and a click overhead as a lightbulb flickers to life, casting jaundiced-looking light around wherever I am. It’s practically a cell—cinder blocks, dirty floor, drop ceiling. A papered-over window to my right, must peek out from below grade. A heavy door swung open before me.
My mind is reeling. Imagination spinning. Trying to chart out any enemies who could have taken me here. What the gambit is. If they’re trying to get to Rob. If I can somehow persuade them to pay ransom for me instead of the bounty on his life—
Then I see who’s turned on the light.
And it all becomes moot.
“The prettiest mechanic in all of Sherwood County,” drawls Sheriff Wheatley.
He steps in. Heavy footfalls. Whistling inhales. Sipping from a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “And she keeps getting herself into trouble.”
At first, I’m too confused—too shocked—to speak.
Did he pay off the hunters? The guys who grabbed me? A prisoner exchange? A life for a life?
No, I realize with a sudden stab of clarity. Those were his guys.
To get me here.
Maybe not even Rob at all.
“Let me go,” I say. “Please, I’ve got—there’s nothing I can do for you. I won’t take you to them. I won’t give them up.”
My mind flashes to Guy. To his mother. To everything they were after.
“I won’t let you use me. To—to channel this place. My power is mine.”
The sheriff blinks his watery little eyes. “I beg your pardon?” he says, like I’ve just spoken out of turn at a dinner party.
Well, tough. I’m going for fucking broke here.
“I won’t do it,” I say. “I won’t be a piece in this scheme. I—I know all about it. What Guy was trying to do. Or what his mother was, anyway. And it’s wrong. I mean, not even illegal—it’s just—it’s perverse. It’s unnatural. These channels of power. The convergence—”
Something in the expression on his face, like I’m a TV he accidentally set to Spanish, makes me trail off.
“Miss Maren,” he says slowly, “I do not know what those boys in the woods have been givin’ you, or sayin’ to you, or doin’ to you...” He pauses. “But I can assure you that none of that...whatever they were makin’ up and fillin’ your head with.” He shakes his head. “It isn’t gonna matter to you anymore.”
Not going to matter? I think. But that’s what this is all about .
My heartbeat is squeezing in my throat.
“What did he promise you?” I snarl. “Guy. What was he gonna do?”
At this, the sheriff laughs, and I feel strangely...embarrassed. The way he’s laughing, on top of everything else.
“Pardon my French, but shit , Miss Maren. I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talkin’ about.”
He hooks a thumb in his belt loop.
“That man was one of many men who turn up with big thoughts and a big ol’ bank account to make ’em happen. Me? I’m just a sleepy little county sheriff tryin’ to look after my own. Do what’s right, by the right kind of people.” He rocks forward and back on his feet. “And I gotta say—the right kind of people? Is not the people you’ve been with.”
Realization trickles in slowly, like ice water down my back.
None of that mattered to him. Magic. Ley lines. Legacy. A convergence of supernatural power. Whatever.
The sheriff is just human. And humans aren’t that complicated.
Sex. Money. Power.
It’s as simple and as awful—as that.
A tear rolls down my cheek. Unbidden. Unwanted.
“You’ve really been making yourself a lot of headlines,” he goes on. “Never really thought you had it in you, if I’m bein’ completely honest.” He pauses, tips his forehead toward me. “The way your uncle talked about you, said you were not right ...”
“I’m fine ,” I manage, even though my chin is quivering. “I’ve never been not right . It was—”
I cut myself off.
Why bother trying to explain? He doesn’t care.
“I figured if you did end up hitched to Gisbourne, maybe that’d settle things,” he goes on. “Nice normal life for you, a little happy ending. But guess that was too easy for you, wasn’t it?”
He smiles faintly.
“That was pretty ugly, what those boys did to him.”
“He brought it on himself,” I growl. “Him and his mother. They both did.”
“Well, now, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” the sheriff says apologetically, still smiling. “But that sure did get everyone all worried again, didn’t it?”
His voice gets imperceptibly tighter, even in its lazy drawl.
“Sayin’ this place is dangerous. Needs oversight. That I can’t do my job .”
I’m not stupid. I can paint by numbers and I see where this is going.
“You just want to return me to John,” I say, hiccupping, babbling . “That’s it, right? Find the nice missing white girl. Cash in your little career win, everyone goes home happy.”
Except me , I think. But that clearly doesn’t fucking matter to him.
The sheriff sucks in a breath through his teeth, takes another sip of coffee, shakes his head.
“I’ll admit,” he says, wagging a finger, “I overcomplicated it. Made matters worse, letting your uncle there fund that price on the head of your little boyfriend. A miscalculation.” His voice carries a note of regret. “But it happens to the best of us.”
I can’t believe it. Talking about a hit job paid for with dirty money like it’s a fender bender or sleeping through your alarm?
“No, it fucking doesn’t happen ,” I mutter quietly.
I think I’ve said it too low for him to hear.
But he freezes. His eyes narrow.
“What did you say?” he asks, voice suddenly cold.
“I said—”
He doesn’t wait for me to finish.
He takes two puffing steps and upends the Styrofoam cup right above my bare legs. Scalding liquid rains down on my skin.
“Ah—!” I wince, kicking fruitlessly, twisting and turning to get away when I can’t. Angry pink welts bloom over my skin. And I wish—desperately—that my hands were free. That I could heal myself.
I think of LJ. His words.
You can’t heal yourself if you’re dead.
A sob chokes in my throat.
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my tone even, despite the searing pain on my legs and the pounding in my head and the uncontrollable tears. “ Okay . I get it. You’ve made your point.”
I gulp in a breath, nodding.
I don’t like it. I hate it, in fact.
But John’s a known quantity. Something I can escape from. Again.
The four of them will find me.
“I’m afraid not.” His smile is bigger now. A grin spreading the edge of his mustache wide. “You see, if I rescue you? That’s just clean-up, isn’t it. Too little, too late. It becomes a question of—why did it take so long? And why didn’t they do this, why didn’t they do that? People askin’ you questions you have no business answerin’.”
His eyes fix on mine.
“But if a girl gets murdered, and the perpetrators are brought to justice...now that’s a tragedy, to be sure. But also the kind of thing that gives a man a legacy.”
I freeze. Too startled, too frightened even to cry. Even the smarting pain on my thighs feels distant.
Dread, cold and heavy, settles over me like concrete.
“No,” I say quickly. I lick my lips, breathing shaky. “No. Please. No, you just—”
The bindings bristle as I twist, cut into my skin, and I can’t help but think of Will and his stupid silk cuffs.
How gentle he was. How different from this.
How maybe that was it. The last time I’ll see him.
Any of them.
“No!”
I start to cry again, harder.
“It’s an ugly world,” he says, shaking his head, folding his hands at the small of his back. “Hard to get by. Especially for a girl like you who can’t seem to tell right from wrong.”
“I—” My voice catches. “You can’t. You wouldn’t. You’re too chickenshit to kill me.”
“Plenty of people out there’d do anything for a little payday,” the sheriff goes on. “Not me, mind you. I’ve got a steady job. Good pension coming my way. But some other folks...”
He lets out a low whistle.
“Wouldn’t take much to make ’em turn violent, now, would it?”
Panic clots in my throat.
“I don’t—” I say. “Don’t. Please. I’m begging you.”
Outside the door, I hear footsteps.
No. No, God, please. This can’t be it—a killer, a thug, a weapon out to hit me—I can’t even—
I screw my eyes shut, because I’m a coward.
Then open them, because I can’t help it.
And it’s not any of those things.
It’s John.
Dressed neat and tidy, like he’s headed to teach Sunday school.
“Speak of the devil,” the sheriff says, and shakes his hand. “We all arranged?”
John nods. Holds up a folder.
“Last will and testament of Maren de Mornay,” he says. “Just needs a signature.”