Page 19

CHAPTER 19

Like most graveside services in California, Mrs. Arundel’s took place on an incongruously sunny day under dappled leaves of the old and gracious Alta Mesa Memorial Park. Maarja arrived late, hoping to miss any pontifications and testimonials, and in that she succeeded, but she never expected the large crowd of black-clad mourners to still be pacing past, examining the contents of the coffin, dropping flowers onto the body, then lingering in clumps around the site and speaking in low voices. It had been ten days since the explosion; Maarja supposed that length of time made it possible for the Arundels to gather from far and near.

As she approached, she saw Dante sat under the awning that protected the family from the sun, scrutinizing each person in the line from under heavy-lidded eyes…and waiting for something, although Maarja couldn’t imagine what. Not her, because although she felt his gaze touch her, he showed no recognition or approval.

Not a problem. She was here to show her respects to Mrs. Arundel, not to bow to him.

A red-nosed Béatrice sat beside Dante, sniffing into her wrinkled handkerchief. Andere sat beside her, looking more like the undertaker than the undertaker, and Fedelma sat beside him, head high, expression blank. Maarja had witnessed Fedelma’s tears for Mrs. Arundel; she wondered now at her stoicism. Had she perhaps too often been a participant in an Arundel family funeral?

A suit-clad Jack sat on Dante’s other side, at the end of the row, also observing, but in an analytical way. He seemed to be watching for twitches and tells, and to Maarja’s casual, uninformed eyes, there were plenty of those: older men and women who smirked inappropriately, older men and women who looked almost too grieved, young men and women who watched Dante watch them, bored young men and women who were there because by Arundel protocol they were required to be.

Behind the immediate family, Nate stood with his arms crossed over his chest, scrutinizing the entire scene.

This funeral line, so filled with French aristocrats, all holding single red and white roses, seemed to Maarja like the lineup for execution by guillotine. Somebody, and maybe a few somebodies, were going to end up dead.

On that thought, she joined the line and, with down-turned head, she inched forward. She wished so fervently she’d thought to bring a rose that at first she didn’t notice the hush that rippled up the line, then over the rest of the crowd. All she wanted was to get past the coffin, pay her respects, and return to Sacramento to help care for Alex. Yet when she could hear the rustle of leaves and bees humming as they visited the fragrant funeral wreaths, she realized all the low-toned conversations had died. Except for two hissed words that wafted from deep inside the crowd. “Benoit’s assassin…”

She lifted her head and glanced around.

Every eye was fixed on her. Critical eyes. Cruel eyes. They were like a single entity, a cobra waiting to strike.

For the first time she recognized what she was to these people.

Romani. Daire. Enemy. Prey.

How had they discovered she was the one who’d been Benoit’s executioner? Had Dante told them?

No. He would never hand over information to the unworthy.

Maarja allowed her gaze to probe deeper into the crowd.

There she was. Tabitha. The temp who eavesdropped. Tabitha smiled as if she’d won the prize.

Maarja had told herself the old ways didn’t concern her.

Dante had made it clear she was a fool. Why hadn’t she believed him? She should have stayed away. Now she stood alone, thinking she could easily accompany Mrs. Arundel into the open grave, and no one would ever know.

She met Dante’s gaze.

Nothing stirred in those dark cold eyes, yet he lifted his hand and gestured as if blessing her—and the people in line in front of her moved back, grudgingly, one at a time, allowing her to go ahead of them to the casket to view the body.

The hair on her arms and the back of her neck lifted. Sweat trickled down her spine. If a trapped animal gave off the scent of fear, she was exuding it. She walked slowly, because she wanted to run. She breathed carefully, because she wanted to gasp. She looked ahead rather than around to meet the dozens of hostile eyes.

She reached the coffin, and at the sight of Mrs. Arundel, she stopped and stared. They’d dressed her in a lovely dark blue silk gown, and the roses covered her in scattered profusion from her shoulders to her feet. Her crossed hands held a rosary, and she looked good. Pleasant, as if her passing had been painless.

Maarja’s own sob caught her by surprise, loud in the hostile silence, and she whipped out a tissue and pressed it to her lips. She glanced up at Dante, who tilted his head back toward the way she had come. She leaned over the coffin, placed her palm over Mrs. Arundel’s cold hands in a last, fond farewell. She lingered an instant, then began her trek back across the lawn, walking around the line as it moved back into place, meeting no gazes, ignoring the prickling, back-of-the-neck knowledge that danger stalked her, and this crowd with their knives and kicks and jeers would assure she died slowly and in agony.

She passed the last of the crowd, she thought she’d escaped without hurt, when she heard running feet thumping behind her. She half turned—and Dante’s cousin Connor Arundel caught her arm and whipped her to face him. “What did you do with the bottle?”

Out of the corner of her peripheral vision, she saw Dante rise and stride toward them. She kept her attention on Connor: blond, blue-eyed, smooth skinned, and as scary as a fight-trained pit bull. She knew better than to lose eye contact. “ La Bouteille de Flamme , the holy bottle, was stolen in transport.”

“Arranged by you.”

“By me? My sister was on that truck. She was almost killed!”

“She isn’t your real sister, she’s not your kin, and close almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” Connor was so angry she stepped back, not out of fear but to escape the flecks of saliva flying at her. “The bottle is gone. It’s ours, our family’s. Your mother gave it up for the chance to kill our leader. To murder Benoit Arundel. The bitch murdered him!”

She stepped forward again, into spittle range, and went toe to toe with Connor. “ My mother died in that blast. My whole family, real or not, has suffered to protect the bottle containing the blood of J?nos, the revered founder of my tribe, he who fought evil and won. I don’t know who has stolen it, but the curse will strike them down as it struck—”

Dante grabbed Connor by the arm and yanked him back hard enough to make him stumble. “You will not dishonor my mother’s remains or the woman who saved her from the blast. Back off, boy , or take the consequences.”

Now Connor stepped forward to go toe to toe with Dante, but he hadn’t a chance against the man who had, as Benoit’s heir, forcibly moved his criminal family into legitimacy.

“Maarja, go with Andere,” Dante instructed.

She glanced around, surprised to see Andere beside her.

“Come, Miss Daire, I’ll walk you to your car.” Andere took her hand with calm assurance, put it on his arm, and covered it with his own. “Which way?”

“I’m parked there.” She pointed and Andere began to walk, and she had no choice but to walk with him. “But—” She glanced back at Dante and Connor.

Dante spoke to Connor, then with one hard fist, he smashed his cousin in the face.

Connor’s head cracked back, he went down hard, and he didn’t stir.

Dante looked at her, his eyes glowing with a dark unholy cruelty tinged with bitter brown.

She turned around and kept walking.

He didn’t want her here.

She had caused problems at his mother’s funeral, and she hoped never to see him again.