Page 117 of Gates of Tartarus

Jorge nods and smiles briefly. “OK.”

We spend the next couple of hours reading, me a paperback, and Jorge some research and case files on his laptop. It’s all very companionable, and if my sinuses weren’t so bunged up, I’d say it was the perfect way to spend the day. As it is, my headache comes back, and I soon begin to feel as if I’ve slipped under water, everything a bit distant and hazy. I let the book close and my head fall back. Jorge looks up.

“Still not feeling any better? Maybe you should try to get some more sleep.”

I groan. “I don’t want a nap. I’m not tired,” I add petulantly.

“Yes, you are. You need to rest.” His voice is a little stern, and, in spite of my condition, I feel a flutter of excitement.

“Come lie down with me?” I open my eyes and bat my lashes at him pleadingly.

“Gracías, but I don’t want to catch thepeste.” Now he looks amused. He’s definitely been spending too much time with Emlyn.

“That’s not very nice. I’m sick,” I pout.

“Which is why,querida, you need to sleep. Now come on, close your eyes and get some rest.”

“Alright,” I grumble. “But you have to play guitar for me until I fall asleep.”

He looks a little surprised. “You want to listen to me play?”

“Mm-hmm. Please.” I burrow into the duvet as he gets his guitar. There’s the sound of a string being plucked and tuned, and another, and I nestle my head on my hands. Then a slow drumbeat of notes, just a few, insistent, repeating. It’s almost hypnotic. Then a waterfall of chords, thunderous, eddying. And I feel the music wash over and through me, lulling me into a reverie. I’m in stasis, not asleep but not entirely awake, intricate tapestries weaving around me, rich and darkly sonorous.

“I heard you playing the other day,” I whisper, eyes closed.

“Sí?”

“Mmm.” I rest for a little, content to listen. “Jorge?”

“Sí, Maela?” The music slows, coaxing, quivering.

“What’s going to happen? With Kronos? What does it all mean?”

“I don’t know,querida.” The music stops, and I feel a pang of loss, and then the mattress is dipping and the scent of bergamot, mahogany, and black pepper envelops me as his arm comes around my shoulders. “But we’ll figure it out. You’ll see something, and we’ll catch them. And bring those women home.”

“Maybe.” It seems a distant prospect.

“I have faith in you.” He kisses the top of my head. “Now rest,querida.”

I fall asleep as he strokes my hair.

???

I follow the sound of voices to the conservatory. Sixteen hours of sleep seem to have done the trick, and I woke up this morning feeling almost human again. I even managed to shower, get dressed, andput on make-upbefore coming downstairs for coffee.

I push open the door to see the guys sitting around the table, looking grim. Seef’s here too, speaking in low, urgent tones, and his face darkens when he sees me. I can almost taste the tension in the air. “Maela, have a seat. There’s something you need to hear.”

It’s bad. Sunday night, the US team found some of the trafficked women in a hole underground. Seef finally got a call from the US team yesterday morning, and he and Emlyn spent the whole day trying to coordinate and formulate a plan.

I gasp: “Are they? Are they–” I can’t bring myself to ask.

“Dead?” Seef shakes his head. “No, thank Christ. But they’re not in good shape.” And he recaps what he’s told the others, that Kronos appears to have infiltrated Gaia, using it as a front to lure and kidnap vulnerable women, women who won’t necessarily be missed. The US team is going to warn Elizabeth and try again to get her to accept a security detail. Background checks will be needed on all Gaia senior employees. It’s going to be a massive undertaking.

“Jesus,” I breathe. “Can the women identify anyone?”

Seef grimaces, dropping his head in his hand and rubbing his temple: “We can only wait and see. At the moment, they’re traumatized and barely coherent.”

I’m silent. This – it’s all too much to take in. My mind is literally blank.