Page 49 of Marked By Moonlight

Fucking Brexit,my dragon sighed.Used to be so much easier.

“What were you doing in Brussels?” Mina asked out of the blue.

I shook my head. “Unrelated.”

“The way I thought London was unrelated to Gordon’s other business dealings?”

She had a point there, so I amended my answer to, “That’s confidential. Sorry.”

I wished I could tell her how harmless that job truly had been, at least compared to Gordon’s sketchier assignments. Ironically, the one mission Mina had joined us on was the most dangerous job we’d done for Gordon. Brussels and the mission previous to that had been walks in the park in comparison. But Mina only had Mallorca to go on, so I couldn’t blame her for assuming everything we did was wildly illegal and hazardous.

She crossed her arms and sat in stony silence for the next forty minutes. Only when we exited the Channel Tunnel and emerged back into daylight did she reveal her plan — what little there was — for the day ahead. Walk a bit, visit an old lady, enjoy London. All perfectly innocent, but I knew better. If Gordon was involved, there was sure to be trouble.

“Now what?” Mina asked as the train pulled into St Pancras station.

I looked out the window. “We wait and watch.”

Passengers exited, flooding the platform, making it hard to spot Szabo. On the plus side, that would also make it hard for him to spot us, so after a quick look around, we joined the crowd, then started on a long series of meanders designed to reveal anyone tailing us.

I didn’t often miss Roux, Bene, and Henrik, but I would have loved to have had them around now.

Mina and I continued the game on the Underground, hopping from station to station until finally making our way to Hyde Park Corner. By then, it was noon, with only an hour until Mina’s appointment.

She led the way across the park to the address while I obsessively checked our surroundings.

“That’s it.” She pointed.

I looked up and whistled. “Nice place.”

We were just off Palace Gate, only a few blocks from Kensington Palace, a neighborhood dotted with embassies andhigh-end townhouses — the type where people decorated with genuine masterpieces, not cheap prints of Monet’s water lilies.

The building before us was divided into four units. Mina scanned the options, then rang a bell markedA. Petrova.

“Yes?” A voice came through the intercom.

“Hello. I’m Wilhelmina Durand, calling on behalf of Gordon Clervaud.”

“Third floor,” the woman replied, buzzing us in.

Mina craned her neck as we climbed the central stairway — a grand but squeaky stairway, like the one in Mina’s château. I doubted these residents did their own home repairs, though.

We climbed to the third-floor landing, where an apartment door opened — just a tiny sliver, though. It was secured by a laughably thin chain that wouldn’t hold up to a preschooler, let alone a dragon shifter. I could have kicked through it in an instant.

I didn’t, of course. Not after Mina had nagged me about good manners the whole way over.

An older woman studied us through that gap, though all I saw of her was one pale blue eye, a halo of white hair, and a few beads of her pearl necklace.

She eyed me suspiciously. “Gordon only mentioned his goddaughter.”

“This is…um…” Mina waved at me.

“Security detail, ma’am,” I said quickly.

The lady shut the door, and I couldn’t tell if I’d convinced her or blown the whole deal.

Then, whew. The woman fumbled with the chain, opened the door, and greeted Mina. “Anastasia Petrova — but please, call me Ana. Do come in.”

Her English was flawless but layered with a light Slavic accent. My mind put the clues together — old associate of Gordon’s, rich, plus the accent — and decidedwidow of aRussian oligarchwas most likely. That also fit the icons on display in the entryway and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with Cyrillic titles.