Chapter Nine Saylor
Chapter Nine
Saylor
Thirty-seven seconds is apparently how long it takes for dignity to lose a fight with hunger. I’m still standing outside those
glass doors when my stomach decides to stage a rebellion. It growls loud enough to echo off the stone terrace, reminding me
that I haven’t eaten since . . . well . . . I don’t even know when.
Fine. Dinner it is.
The dining room Blue leads me to is cozy but also intimidating. Dark wood paneling climbs halfway up the walls before giving
way to deep green wallpaper. A table for twenty sits in the center, set for two with more silverware than any reasonable meal
requires.
“Not quite what you expected?” Blue asks, pulling out a chair.
“It’s very . . . formal.” I settle into the chair, which is surprisingly comfortable despite looking like it was designed
to make people sit up straight and confess their sins.
Wren appears from what must be the kitchen, carrying a silver soup tureen. She ladles something red into my bowl.
“Tomato bisque,” she announces. “With cream and fresh basil.”
I take a tentative sip. It’s good. Actually good, which somehow makes this whole situation more irritating. If you’re going
to be held captive, the least your captor could do is serve terrible food.
“You look disappointed,” Blue observes, settling into the chair across from me. “Were you hoping for gruel? Maybe some moldy
bread to really sell the whole prisoner experience?”
“I was hoping for a way out of here.”
“Hmm. Wren’s many talents don’t extend to lockpicking lessons.” Blue starts on his soup. “Although she did suggest chloroform
again if you became difficult.”
“Charming.” I focus on my soup, trying to ignore the way the candlelight flickers across his face.
A crystal chandelier hangs overhead, but tonight Blue has chosen to dine by candles—candelabras scattered around the room casting everything in moving shadows.
It should feel romantic. Instead, it’s like dining in a tomb.
“Tell me something—do you always drug your guests, or am I special?”
“Oh, you’re definitely special.” His smile turns predatory. “Most of my dinner companions don’t require quite such . . . creative
transportation.”
“Sure. Because most people probably come here willingly.” I wave my spoon around the room. “Who wouldn’t want to visit Castle
Psychopath?”
Blue actually laughs at that, a genuine sound that transforms his whole face. “Castle Psychopath. I like that. Much better
than what the locals call it.”
“Which is?”
“You’ll have to ask the locals when you meet them.” He takes a slurp of his soup. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to share all
the town gossip about Maison Rouge.”
Wren returns with the next course—a beautifully plated steak that’s been pre-cut into bite-size pieces, accompanied by roasted
vegetables that smell like heaven. There are no knives on the table. Not even butter knives.
“Afraid I’ll stab you?” I ask, picking up my fork.
“House rules.” Blue’s casual appearance doesn’t change as he picks up a piece of his own pre-cut steak. “When your usual dinner
guests include people with anger management issues and homicidal tendencies, sharp objects at the table become a liability.
I learned long ago that dinner parties go more smoothly when deadly objects are kept to a minimum.”
“Dinner parties. Right.” I try to picture it—this formal dining room filled with the people Blue considers friends. “What
kind of people exactly?”
“The kind who need somewhere safe to eat a meal,” he says, his tone taking on an almost wistful quality. “Grimlock attracts
a certain type of individual.” He pauses, swirling his wine. “They’re all a little broken, a little strange, a little too
much for the regular world. So we gather here, at my table, and for a few hours we’re not the misfits. We’re just . . . family.”
Something dark moves across his face. “For those of us who’ve lost ours, or never had one to begin with.”
There is a sudden shift in his tone. For a moment, he sounds almost . . . sad.
“Like my father,” I say quietly.
“Like your father.” Blue nods. “Peter was one of the few people who could make me laugh. Did you know he once convinced an
entire wedding party that he was the groom’s long-lost twin brother?”
I nearly choke on my beef. “What?”
“Your father was working a case—needed to get close to the father of the bride who was being threatened by some very dangerous
people. Peter was trying to help the man’s family disappear before his enemies found them. But he showed up at the wrong church,
different wedding entirely.” Blue’s face lit up with the memory. “Instead of leaving, he claimed he was the groom’s twin who’d
been raised separately after their parents’ messy divorce. Spent the entire reception giving a heartfelt speech about how
he’d searched the world to find his ‘brother’ on his special day.”
I can picture it perfectly. Dad had this way of rolling with any situation, turning disasters into adventures. “Please tell
me someone figured it out.”
“The actual groom was six inches shorter and had red hair.” Blue’s smile is genuine this time, softer around the edges. “But
your father was so convincing, so charming, that half the wedding party was in tears by the end of his speech.” He takes a
deep breath and smiles. “That was Peter. He could charm his way out of anything.”
“Except whatever got him killed.”
The lightness in Blue’s eyes vanishes. “The Crow aren’t a problem you can charm your way out of.” He clears his throat and
shifts in his seat. There’s an awkward pause and then Blue finally adds, “I want you to know that I had no idea you were Peter’s
daughter when we . . . I didn’t realize it the other night.”
Wren refills our wine glasses—when did I start drinking wine?—and disappears again like a well-dressed ghost. The beef is
perfect, practically melting on my tongue, but my appetite is fading.
“Tell me about them,” I say, wanting to change the conversation away from our hook up. “The Crow.”
Blue’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. He sets it down carefully, but doesn’t lean back. Instead, he reaches for his wine glass, taking a slow sip while studying my face.
“Why ruin a perfectly good dinner?”
“You said if I stayed for dinner, you’d answer my questions.” I lean forward slightly. “Well, here I am. And I have questions.”
Blue is quiet for a long moment, swirling the wine in his glass. “Not all answers are ones you want to hear.”
“Try me.”
He sighs, a sound that seems to come from somewhere deep and tired. “What exactly do you want to know?”
“Everything. Who they are, what they want, why they killed my father.” I set down my fork. “And don’t give me some vague explanation
about business. I want the truth.”
Blue leans back in his chair. In the candlelight, his beard catches hints of that impossible blue color. “They’re a crime
syndicate. Started in Seattle about twenty years ago, spread down the coast like cancer. They specialize in making problems
disappear.”
“What kind of problems?”
“They kill people.” His words are matter-of-fact, like he’s discussing the weather. “They’re very good at what they do. Very
thorough. And they don’t leave loose ends.”
“Which is what I am. A loose end.”
I stare at him across the table, trying to process this information. “I didn’t even know what my father really did for a living.
I thought he was an accountant. Some ordinary guy who helped people with their taxes and retirement plans.” My voice gets
smaller. “I thought my father was the most boring man on the planet. What exactly did he do? Who was he? What got him killed?”
“Peter was a pain in the Crow’s ass and to the uppers that hired them.” Blue picks up his wine glass. “He ran his own witness
protection program for people who couldn’t get help through official channels. When someone was marked for death by people
like the Crow, Peter gave them new identities, new lives, safe places to hide. He saved dozens of people over the years.”
“You mean he was one of the good guys.”
“He was the best of the good guys. The kind of man who’d risk everything to save a stranger.
Who’d spend his own money to keep families safe.
” Blue’s expression grows darker. “The only thing he hated about the work was that it put you in danger. He knew the Crow would come for his family eventually, and it ate at him.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s business.” He takes a sip. “Peter tried to get out of the life before it was too late. That’s why he asked me to look
after you—he knew his past was catching up with him.”
“He never mentioned you,” I say. “In all these years, he never once said he had a friend named Blue.”
“Peter was good at keeping secrets. He had to be, in our line of work.”
Wren appears again, this time with dessert—some kind of chocolate tart that is fancy-five-star-restaurant worthy. She serves
us both and vanishes without a word.
“And you were his partner?”
“I was his backup. When things got dangerous, when the Crow got too close to the people he was protecting, Peter called me.”
Blue’s smile turns wicked. “I used to be very good at making dangerous things go away.”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl. I remember the look he had at that cabin—not the calm control he’s showing me now,
but something hungry and barely restrained.
“Used to be?”
“I’m retired from that particular profession.”
“And how do you plan to protect me if you don’t . . . eliminate threats anymore?”
Blue’s expression shifts to something I can’t quite read. “I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”
“Hope isn’t a plan.” I set down my fork and look at him directly. “How many of them are there? The Crow in general?”
“Hard to say exactly. They operate in cells, keep things compartmentalized. Maybe thirty, forty active members along the coast.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“Some of them, yes.”
Something hot and vicious unfurls in my chest. “Good. I want them dead.”
Blue blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”