Page 20

CHAPTER 20

Maarja’s mind and body had been invaded, shoved from the top of the trapeze and flung into a series of flips and maneuvers that left her dream world in shambles. Every night she hated to go to sleep. She dreamed all the usual dreams: returning to high school and not knowing her locker combination, living in a house that stood on the sand and watching the ocean waves sweep the foundations away, seeing her mother but not being able to hear what she said after “On your life, remember this, Maarja.”

Ah, that was the worst. For years, that had been the worst.

Now, she also dreamed about Dante. Wonderful dreams, where he came to her as a supplicant, kissed her toes, her fingers, her mouth, her breasts, between her legs until she spasmed in ecstasy…

And there were dreams where he looked like Dante, but he wasn’t, and he raped her and slit her throat.

Every night was another procession of teen embarrassment or vivid horror or orgasm…then she rose in the morning and went to work.

The theft had been a blow to Saint Rees and his business; when moving fine art, trust was all.

Alex’s beating had both broken Maarja’s heart and ignited her anger. Despite Dante’s warning that dealing death required a callous touch, when she found Serene and her bevy of thugs, they would suffer for their crimes and brutality. She was determined of that.

For three weeks, Maarja worked too much, trained so hard in self-defense her master commanded her to step back, spent time at home reading Christmas books and girl-bonding stories, watched for clues to another heist, waited for the moment she could take vengeance and find justice for her sister, and talked to Octavia and Alex daily.

She also looked up chatte on Google Translate and discovered it did mean cat …and also cunt . She was not in any way surprised.

Yet on all the fine art moves across California, she saw nothing, heard nothing. She felt no hint of disturbance in any of the objects she handled. It was as if the crime had never happened…except that Alex lived in pain as she recovered from one treatment after another, one physical therapy appointment after another, prepared to face one surgery after another, and struggled to learn to walk again.

How long could a person remain on high alert? As the days ticked past with no word of the art being sold, Maarja began to believe the thieves had gone, vanished to Mexico or Canada or anywhere but California where they would be recognized and eliminated. Because no one could maintain that level of tension forever, she relaxed her constant vigilance.

Three weeks…

Then…she came home.

The house in Gothic had been built in the late 1930s: one bedroom, one bath, a kitchen, living area, front porch, back porch. It was spare, it suited Maarja, it was hers —her first home since the explosion that had killed her mother and Benoit, rocked her world, and changed her life. Sometimes she was gone for days, driving across Nevada or Pennsylvania or Texas with a load of rich people’s stuff, but when she stepped through her own door, security and comfort enfolded her.

Usually.

When she parked her car in the tiny garage off the alley, the sun had just set, twilight slid across the land, and the car clock said 7:09 p.m. She gathered her duffel bag with its three days of accumulated dirty laundry, trudged across the walk and up the steps onto the back porch. She dumped the bag and stripped off her white overalls; after three days, they were more grubby gray than white, and the shorts and pink T-shirt underneath were nothing to brag about, either.

She looked at the washer and dryer. Laundry. Tomorrow. Morning. It had to be done. But not now.

She untied her running shoes and replaced them with the wool slippers she kept by the back door, and inserted her key in the lock.

As soon as she stepped through the door into the kitchen, her senses clanged like a cracked bell.

Someone had been in the house.

An enemy. Someone who left a trail of gleeful malice from the back door into the kitchen and…where?

Someone had left her a message. And it wasn’t Happy holidays, enjoy your bookmarked Hallmark movie .

She flicked on the overhead light.

Nothing had moved. Nothing had changed. She checked her security system. No one had set off the alarm for the doors or windows. Her video showed no intruder.

She took a deep breath. Home and calm and happiness permeated the air.

Yet a current wicked intent shoved her toward the bureau in her bedroom. She turned on that overhead, too, and her bedside lamp.

Nothing lurked in the shadows. Whoever it was didn’t fear the light. Exposure meant nothing to them. Of course, because somehow they’d removed themselves from her security camera.

She looked around, up at the corners, at the fixtures and furniture, anywhere a camera could be hidden. Were they watching her now? Did they see her open the second drawer—she knew without a doubt it was the second drawer—gingerly lift her fuzzy blue wear-around-the-house socks—and find it?

The bottle. La Bouteille de Flamme. Ancient red glass, made in Murano, stoppered with wax and containing the blood of her ancestor.

She didn’t lift it; she didn’t have to. She knew it, its very existence had formed her life, and she knew what she had to do.

Call Dante Arundel.

She knew the number. Whether she wanted to or not, whether she thought she would ever have reason to call or not, she had repeated it every night before she went to sleep.

She dialed.

In less than one ring, Dante picked up. “Are we going to be parents?”

The assumption startled her. She hadn’t thought about that silly belief of his, and if she did, which she didn’t, no way, she thought he’d realize how ridiculous he was being. “No, I… No, it’s not that.”

“Then what?” Clearly he couldn’t imagine what else she would call him for.

“Not something so…” She had to steady her breathing before she could speak. “The bottle is here.”

He didn’t answer.

She said, “The red bottle.”

“I know what you mean.” His voice was emotionless, unreadable. “In your house?”

“In my house. In my home. In my sock drawer.” Like it made a difference whether it was her socks or her silverware.

“Is it real?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there at once. Don’t touch it.”

She spoke into the phone. “Like I would be that stupid.”

He had hung up.

No, she wouldn’t put a fingerprint on that bottle.