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But now they—like perhaps someday her rotted flesh might do—would serve a purpose. Should the groundskeeper become greedy, or someone pry through the resting places of the dead to see what they might find, hopefully they would be satisfied with the small fortune they found and not look for the more important, more hidden prize in the far back.

Money bought action. It rarely bought loyalty.

“Where do we start?”Maggie had asked Gideon in his hotel room near Vatican City where he had taken her.

He had paused for a long time before simply responding, “I fear that’s up to you.” When she didn’t know what to say to that, he had smiled sadly, and simply said it was time to go. They had climbed into a black car, Gideon carrying his suitcase and another small bag that he said contained supplies for her. He spoke to the driver in perfect Italian, and off they went.

She had sat down on the expensive leather seats for exactly six seconds before she had let her head rest against the plush surface and fell asleep. She was so tired. So goddamn exhausted.

Well, to be fair, she’d smashed her undead-and-trapped-as-a-golden-skeleton father to pieces with a hammer, and then, in a fit of anger, freed an ancient vampire who set fire to the building.

She was pretty sure she had good reason to need some rest. She just wished her dreams hadn’t been so bizarre.

A hand on her shoulder gently shook her awake. Blinking, she let out a quiet “huh?” as she came back to reality. She didn’t know where, or when, she had just been. But she knew the dream wasn’t fiction.

At least now she knew she wasn’t insane. She was just an undead anomaly with broken memories haunted by a powerful lich who said he loved her.

Y’know.

Like y’do.

Insane or undead. The jury was still out on which one was worse.

Speaking of the powerful lich, Gideon was sitting next to her, a regretful smile on his face. “Sorry. But we’re here. You can get some more rest on the plane.”

More planes. More being shuttled off by people who wanted to use her for something. She rubbed her face. “Where’re we going?”

“As I said, that is your decision. But for now, I thought it would be a bad idea to stay here, what with you having had a hand in the burning of the Vatican’s vaults and releasing one of their most dangerous prisoners.” He smirked, a thin twist to his lips.

“What, you think they’re pissed about that?” She stretched and yawned. Algernon had been napping on her lap, and, as she moved, he did the exact same thing and mimicked her yawn. Damn it, a dead rat shouldn’t be that cute. She scratched the top of his head.

“Maybe a little. Religious types do tend to hold grudges.” He chuckled and watched her thoughtfully for a second. “I thought perhaps we could go to London. I have a home there that we can stay in while you decide on our next step. And you…” He broke off. His silver eyes grew dark, and his jaw twitched.

“What?” She frowned. “Tell me.”

“You seemed to like London last time we lived there.” He sighed heavily and climbed from the car. It was a hot day, and the heat from the tarmac instantly filled the small space. She followed him out after tucking Algernon back into her hood. It was stupid to wear a hoodie in the summer in Italy, and she was sweltering beneath the dark fabric, but she figured it was only a few hundred feet to the plane, and she’d survive.

Not like she could really die.

Not permanently, anyway.

“I take it that it ended poorly?” She took her own backpack from the trunk of the car. He reached for it first, but then pulled his hand back as if she had slapped him. He seemed so…afraid of her, sometimes. As if he were always waiting for her to scream at him. Or hit him.

“It always ends poorly.” That dark expression remained etched on his face as he began walking to the plane that idled on the tarmac, the stairs lowered, waiting for them.

“Maybe if you told me what was going on, it’d help.”

“I’ve tried that many times. Trust me.” He didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed firmly on the plane. “It goes just as poorly as when I don’t.”

She decided not to tell him about her dream, mostly because she didn’t even know what to say about it. Nothing made any sense. She had gone to the Vatican for answers, and she felt as though she had only placed the first piece of the jigsaw puzzle on the surface of the table.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he placed his hand on her arm to stop her. “I’m…sorry.”

“For what?” She looked up at him quizzically.

Finally, those silver eyes met hers. “Do I need to make a list? I didn’t bring enough paper. It might have to be a spreadsheet. Can I email it to you?”

That made her laugh. She didn’t know why. It wasn’t a big laugh, but it was something. She didn’t trust him. Her unknown past loomed over them like a terrible, dark cloud. But it was hard to kick a puppy that was already slinking around with its tail between its legs. “You said you regret what you did to my—to my father.”