Page 21

T he dinner guests would be arriving soon and Quinn swallowed hard. Even though she was ready to get this over with, her nerves twisted in anxiety and she paced back and forth in her room. Pausing in front of the large monumental fireplace, she looked up, studying the butterfly carved in the stone. It was part of a beautiful, intricate design and she remembered seeing the same butterfly on the fireplace downstairs, too.

Papillon . It was the French word for butterfly, and the moment the thought filled her head, she thought of the infamous French assassin who went by the same name. After all, Papillon had been her biggest influence when Quinn had gone on the run and created her own persona, the Cardinal.

Not much was known about Papillon other than her precision when it came to killing. She’d been swift and ruthless, and no one had ever managed to catch her or reveal her true identity. Granted, it could have been a man. But Quinn had always believed the assassinations had been carried out by a woman because of their nature—her modus operandi had always been poison.

Untraceable, effective and deadly.

The assassin disappeared years ago and everyone assumed she’d finally met her match and been bested by an opponent, her body never to be found.

“Fuck me,” Quinn hissed, hightailing it over to the large window. Her gaze swept the grounds, trying to get a glimpse of the small cemetery they’d passed on the way in. She couldn’t see it, though. A strange idea began bouncing around in her head, and she decided to go investigate.

Grabbing her leather jacket, she slipped it on, snuck down the back staircase and hurried outside. A crisp wind blew her red hair up around her face as she jogged around the house and stepped into the edge of the woods. Using it for cover, she made her way down a path until she saw the small clustering of gravestones.

She moved quickly across the grass and walked up to the headstones. The name Julien Mercier was etched into the first one and a rose lay at its base. She sucked in a sharp breath, quite familiar with the deadly assassin’s work. He and his twin sister Camille had been an infamous duo who she’d often competed with for jobs. But, unlike Quinn, who only chose to take out scum, the Mercier twins had bloodlust burning in their veins. They would eliminate anyone—innocent or guilty.

Quinn knew Ex Nihilo had taken care of the twins. Gray had shot Julien after he and Camille attacked him and Saint down at Mesa’s island compound near the Bahamas. And Camille had fallen into a tank of acid and met her demise after kidnapping Harper and River.

Expecting to see Camille’s name on the second headstone, she was surprised to see a different name. Monique Annette Mercier. And a butterfly, just like the ones etched on every fireplace inside the manor, decorated her tombstone.

The same swirling butterfly associated with Papillon.

Questions swirled through her head as she pulled her phone out and hit Brax’s number.

“Quinn,” he immediately answered, and she heard the click as he put her on speaker. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but I’m outside, standing at the family gravesite, and I have a lot more questions than answers.”

“Like what?”

“Julien Mercier is buried out here along with a woman named Monique Annette Mercier. Ring any bells?”

“Mercier?” Ryland echoed. “As in the Toxic Twins?”

“Banshee, see what you can find on her,” Brax said.

“Have him check into Papillon, too, the French assassin,” Quinn said.

“On it,” Zane responded.

“Why isn’t there a grave for Camille?” she wondered aloud.

“Probably because her ass got eaten up in a tank of acid,” Saint replied dryly.

“Acid doesn’t eat flesh,” Harper stated. “Camille took great pleasure in telling us it burns. She said the burning will cause agonizing pain as the acid extracts the water from your body.”

“So you could technically survive falling into a vat of acid?” Quinn asked.

Silence. As everyone came to a collective oh, shit moment, Quinn thought of the mysterious, shrouded woman…covered head to toe…hiding every portion of her body and lighting candles for the twin brother she lost.

“I think Camille’s alive,” Quinn announced. “And I think she’s the mysterious Lady in Black.”

“Fucking great,” Saint growled.

“Camille being alive is not good for us,” Inda stated gravely.

“I found some info on Papillon,” Zane announced. “Rumors vary on what happened, but most seem to agree the assassin was a woman. Some claim Papillon met her demise when a job went south and others say she quietly retired after becoming pregnant.”

“This is a working theory,” Quinn said, her thoughts racing, “but I think Monique Mercier might’ve been Papillon.”

“If Monique Mercier was the Toxic Twins’ mother then it makes perfect sense why they were so good at killing,” Gray said.

“Trained by one of the world’s best assassins,” Quinn murmured.

“Coming from the Cardinal, that’s high praise,” Saint muttered. “No offense, Quinn.”

“None taken. But, you’re right. Papillon was a legend who dropped off the face of the earth.”

Brax swore. “Q, tonight at dinner, don’t touch anything—silverware, glasses, doorknobs. Don’t eat or drink anything. We think Zaitsev might be making a Novichok powder, and it could be on anything.”

Poison , she thought. The same way Papillon had taken out her victims. Was it a coincidence? She didn’t think so.

“Roger.” Although she had no idea how she was supposed to eat dinner and not touch anything. “What about the guests? Have you found a link between them or a reason Cross would want them eliminated?”

“Still working on it,” Zane replied.

Quinn pulled her attention off the gravestones and looked over at the manor house. “It’s getting late. I have to get ready.”

“We’re leaving soon,” Brax told her. “One way or another, this is ending tonight.”

“Be careful,” she whispered.

“You, too. I’ll see you soon,” he promised.

After hanging up, Quinn let out a low breath and glanced up at the darkening sky. It looked like a storm was brewing and she hoped it wasn’t a foreshadowing of what was to come. As long as Cross didn’t know she was helping Ex Nihilo, she’d be safe. At the moment, her concern was for Brax and his team more than for herself.

Turning around, she made her way back over to the woods and skirted around to the rear of the house. Pulling the back door open, she stepped inside and walked over to the back staircase. Halfway up, a stair creaked behind her and, without warning, something pricked her neck.

Spinning around, Quinn saw a woman wearing all black, her face covered by a balaclava. The Lady in Black had traded her flowing garments for a more fitted outfit which allowed her to move freely without being hindered. She lowered her hand which held a syringe.

Quinn grabbed at the railing, growing dizzy. She couldn’t miss the rage in the woman’s eyes. “I told River Ex Nihilo’s women would die one by one to make up for Julien’s death. Guess you’re first.”

Quinn blinked hard, trying to stay alert, but some kind of sedative was pulling her under fast. The last thing she noticed before she slipped into unconsciousness was the woman had no eyebrows or eyelashes. Just hard, angry eyes filled with a pulsing hate. The small bits of visible skin looked puckered and discolored, as though something had eaten away at her face.

If Quinn had to guess, she’d say acid.

◆◆◆

Blinking her eyes open, Quinn lifted her chin off her chest and looked around. As the room slowly came into focus, she gave her groggy head a shake...and immediately wished she was still unconscious.

All kinds of old torture devices surrounded her, some familiar-looking and others a mystery she never wanted to solve. It was a macabre collection ranging from the very simple—like pincers used to rip flesh apart—to an actual guillotine.

A shiver tore through her as she studied the device’s tall, upright frame with an angled blade suspended at the top. A condemned person’s neck would be secured in the pillory at the bottom of the frame and then the blade would be released. Swift and forceful, it would decapitate the victim with a single, clean pass.

Her stomach soured and she pulled her attention away, letting it travel over thumbscrews, a rack, a garrote, a scourge with barbed balls and even an iron maiden laden with wicked-looking spikes. As her brain began to clear the fog from whatever drug she’d been given, she looked down and saw her wrists were tied to the armrests of a wooden chair. Not ideal, but she’d be able to break free after working on the bindings. Twisting and tugging at the ropes, she did her best to slowly loosen them. She’d learned long ago that panicking solves nothing and she’d been trained how to resist and survive enhanced interrogation.

She also knew one thing for certain—you didn’t need complicated machinery to cause incredible pain, and these medieval instruments would make a person scream in a very short amount of time.

If she had to guess, she was underground. A mustiness permeated the air and it felt slightly damp. A basement, maybe? Although it felt deeper. Like she was in some kind of subterranean tunnel. Or, the freaking bowels of hell.

Her mind wandered back to her run-in with the woman on the stairs. It had to be Camille Mercier. After falling into the acid, Quinn understood why she always covered up. The scars caused by the severe burns must be extraordinary. It was crazy to think she’d survived.

“Ah, look who’s finally awake.”

Malcolm Grendel approached and Quinn inwardly sighed. She hated his gangly, skeletal appearance. Saint called him Skeletor and she couldn’t think of anything more appropriate. Grendel had watery brown eyes and looked sickly.

But his true sickness involved the perverse pleasure he took in torturing his victims. Brax told her how Grendel had tortured Saint then locked him up in a box and left him to die. Luckily, Ex Nihilo had come to the rescue. God, she hoped history would repeat itself and his team would come storming in at any moment.

Now, seeing the thin-lipped grin he gave her sent a chill down her spine. She could only imagine what he had planned. The CIA had taught her techniques to deal with pain and torture, but that didn’t mean she wanted to put her knowledge to the test.

Cross Mills entered the room a moment after Grendel and Quinn decided to play indignant.

“What the hell is going on?” she demanded. “This is ridiculous. Untie me now before you really piss me off.”

“Enough of the bullshit,” Cross said. “I think we’re past lying to each other.”

“Alright,” she said calmly. “Then why don’t you explain your connection to the Mercier twins.”

“I’d rather hear how long you’ve been back in your ex-husband’s bed while pretending to be loyal to me.”

Shit. He knew.

No more pretenses.

“What the hell are you planning tonight?”

His face lit up. “So many good things. A lot of people are finally going to get what they deserve. Tonight, Camille and I are going to be judge, jury and executioner.”

“Guess she survived her acid bath,” Quinn said flatly.

His face turned thunderous. “The tank next to the acid was filled with water. I got there just in time to pull her out and save her. I was running through the back door while Ex Nihilo was running out the front.”

He turned his hands over and, for the first time, she noticed the extensive scarring.

“Saving her destroyed my hands. Luckily, the good doctor here is a surgical genius when it comes to reconstruction. While I’ve had several skin grafts, Camille has endured hundreds. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be burned by acid? How it feels as the acid eats away at the skin and muscle tissue, layer by layer? Sometimes, like with Camille, it can reach all the way to the bone, where it begins to disintegrate.”

Quinn didn’t say a word. Keeping her head held high, she did her best not to let the horror story affect her.

Cross stepped closer, his cobalt eyes darkening with a hate so palpable, it was rolling off him in waves.

“Her skin began to shrink.” He leaned closer, his face twisting in anger and pain. “Do you have any idea what it’s like holding your daughter while her skin steams like cooked rice?”

Shock pummeled through Quinn as she absorbed his words.

Camille Mercier was Cross’ daughter?

Oh, hell.