Then Sir Roger straightened and pierced her with a probing glare. “So—what do you think of all this nonsense your uncle has been spouting? It’s all totally preposterous of course.”
“I’m sorry?” The change in tact caught her by surprise.
“He seems intent on creating a panic over a few unfortunate mishaps. I mean really, a couple of fires and a few accidental deaths…” He puffed out his chest. “They hardly constitute a return to The Troubles.”
“I think it’s a little more serious than a few accidents, Excellency.” She struggled to keep her tone even. “My uncle isn’t one for paranoid panic, and my Uncle Nicolae was one of those murdered.”
“True, but the French Intelligence division did a thorough investigation into the whole matter. They reported he’d made a few enemies of late. Apparently he was having an affair with a married woman and her husband has been detained as a suspect.”
Antoinette chewed her lower lip. Did Sergei know this? She caught Lucian’s sympathetic expression. He thought the same.
Sir Roger seemed oblivious to her distress. “Do you know where this information is coming from?”
Lucian tensed and looked at her.
“Uncle Sergei hasn’t shared his confidences with me.” It wasn’t a lie—not exactly.
“So why did you come here?” Sir Roger asked.
“My brother took up an R&D position with the Guild, London office. Uncle Sergei thought the conference might be a good opportunity to have a look at the graduating class.” She looked Sir Roger in the eye, squaring her shoulders, daring him to disagree. “I need a new tech.”
After a few tense seconds, his face broke into a smile and he slapped Lucian on the back.
“Good. We need more young people with your dedication. Come have a nightcap with me before you return to the party.”
Antoinette’s feet hurt, her heavy head already swam in an alcoholic haze. The last thing she needed was another drink with this pompous asshole.
“Thank you, Excellency, we’ll be happy to,” Lucian said before she had a chance to beg off.
The elevator doors opened to an empty hall on Sir Roger’s floor. Antoinette shivered—a cold knot formed in her stomach. She shook it off, putting it down to her earlier moment of panic and the effects of the champagne.
The two beefy bodyguards took up their posts either side of the door as Sir Roger let them into his luxurious suite. A bottle of champagne sat chilling on the sideboard in the living room area. The Ambassador walked around the ivory damask chaise lounge and straight to the ice bucket. He lifted the bottle and began peeling back the foil cap, then indicated that Antoinette should take a seat.
A chill swept goose bumps up her arms. She caught the slight movement of the balcony drapes out of the corner of her eye and reached for the knife she’d stashed in her garter. A large pop rang out as the ambassador pulled the cork and she spun toward the sound.
His eyes went wide and his head rocked back, the bottle falling from his hands. A red dot appeared on his forehead before he collapsed to the floor, the wall behind him now painted red.
Lucian reached inside his jacket but another silencer-muffled pop fired from beyond the balcony drapes before he could withdraw his weapon. A scarlet bloom appeared on his white dress shirt under the right side of his jacket.
It all happened in less than a blink of an eye. Antoinette crouched and threw her knife at the shape emerging from the curtains and was rewarded with a meaty thud followed by a grunt.
The assailant looked down at the handle, a familiar grin forming at the corners of his mouth. The second their eyes locked, Antoinette was immediately reduced to a six-year-old child again.
He’s here.
And this time she knew it wasn’t a dream. Somehow—impossibly—her mother’s murderer stood before her. She froze, the same cold dread chilling her veins, just as it had over sixteen years ago.
Dante’s fingers wrapped around the protruding handle and he drew it out, slow and steady, his evil grin unwavering. Then he ran the blood-smeared blade across his tongue before tossing it out the balcony door.
Damn, the blade was steel, not silver. As Antoinette reached up to pull the twin stilettos from her hair, he slammed her against the wall. His face closed in, inches from hers and he pinned her wrists above her head with his left hand. The pistol fell to the floor with a thud and he ran his hand up her bare arm and across her breast.
“Well now, little-one—you’re all grown up.” His cold voice sent ripples of fear through her body. He ran the back of his finger up her cheek and twisted it in one of her curls. “What a fine trophy you’d make.”
His gaze swept down to the swell of her breasts and up again to meet her eyes. Christian had done the same thing during their dance and had made her heart flutter, but Dante sent a liquid nitrogen chill through her blood.
A familiar iciness crept over her mind. He pressed his body even closer—she could feel his excitement hard against her hip.
“It can’t be—” She finally found her voice, barely above a whisper. “You’re dead.”
His chuckle was as humorless as his dead eyes. “Luckily I know a good doctor.”
He leaned closer. Antoinette twisted her face away from his breath against her lips—he drew his tongue, wet and slimy, up her cheek. She shuddered as the saliva dried like foul bugs crawling on her skin.
“You taste just as sweet as your mother did.”
She stopped struggling. Pure hot rage exploded in her chest. Hate swelled like a tidal wave, crashing against her, drowning her fear and clearing her mind. She was no longer a child—no longer helpless. He’d tormented her memories and her nightmares long enough; it all stopped now.
She opened her mouth and screamed.
His eyes rounded then narrowed dangerously. But the guards began pounding against the locked door. He released her so suddenly she lurched into the empty space he’d occupied, and noticed the gun on the floor beside her. Dropping to a squat she grabbed it and fired a shot after him. The bullet slammed into the wall a hair’s breadth from his head as he disappeared through the curtain. She followed at a run through to the balcony, and…nothing. Not one sign of him above or below. Shit.
The brightly lit street many floors below brimmed with people—he could be any one of them, or none. She’d lost him. Shit, shit.
She barely registered the splintering crash of the doorframe exploding. Someone touched her shoulder. She spun, pointing the gun, ready to kill.
“Antoinette, it’s me!” Christian said, holding up his hands in front of her face.
At first Christian wasn’t sure she’d heard him. She stood panting, gun in hand, eyes haunted, and she seemed unreachable. Then she blinked and focused. The gun shook and fell from her fingers.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. “Have you been shot?”
She shook her head and then her knees buckled. He caught her, sweeping her up against his chest. Instead of fighting him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his shoulder as he carried her back into the room.
Christian put her down on the sofa. Viktor appeared at the door, then went to consult one of the agents on bodyguard duty. Fine job they did.
“How’re the ambassador and Lucian?” Christian asked over his shoulder.
“Lucian has taken a bullet in the shoulder, and lives,” Viktor said. “Unfortunately, Sir Roger’s not so lucky.”
Christian noticed the other agent had grabbed a towel and now pressed it against Lucian’s shoulder. Viktor moved to join Christian and Antoinette.
“What happened?” Christian asked her.
Tears traced a path down her cheeks and it was few more minutes before she was able to talk. Finally she shook herself and took a deep hitching breath as she swiped her tears.
“He shot them from the balcony but…” She leaned closer, her eyes searching his. “Christian, it was him—Dante—the one who killed my mother.”
“Impossible,
” Viktor said. “He’s dead. I watched Dante’s burning body fall from the window of a burning building. The fire consumed everything except for a charred finger with the half-melted remains of his family crest ring.”
Antoinette turned pale and placed a hand over her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Christian grabbed a nearby trash bin, holding it while she emptied the contents of her stomach. Viktor disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a towel and a glass of water, handing both to her when she’d finished.
The EMTs arrived and rushed straight over to Lucian. Antoinette gave Christian and Viktor an embarrassed, shaky smile. “I’m not used to drinking.”
She wiped her face with the towel then took a sip of the water. Christian placed the soiled bin in the bathroom and closed the door.
“It’s shock more than the champagne.” He sat on the coffee table in front of her, his knees either side of hers. “Now—”
A woman appeared at the door, pale and ethereal. He recognized her immediately.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” Christian said, lowering his voice. With a quick glancing exchange, Viktor slid in beside Antoinette and put his arm around her shoulder.
Christian approached the newcomer. “Bianca.”
Bianca arched a pale eyebrow. “I didn’t expect you to be here already Christian. I’ve been called in to help retrieve her statement. The coroner’s office is sending over someone to look at the body.”
Speak of the devil. Kathryn Jordan, the forensic pathologist, appeared at the door carrying a large black bag.
“Christian,” the doctor said. “It’s been a while.”
“Good to see you, Kitt,” he replied, giving her a nod. “The body’s over there.”
The diminutive woman looked drawn. She nodded and moved past them to where the late ambassador lay.
Christian turned back to Bianca. “So, are you here to orb her?”
The white witch nodded.
“Go easy, okay. I think she’s had a severe shock; she’s not making much sense at the moment.”
“I’d better go question her.”
Christian touched her elbow. “Like I said—go easy. Please.”
The woman sat beside Antoinette on the sofa. “My name is Bianca Sin and I’m the head of thaumaturgical studies at the Academy. Because of the delicacy of this case I’ve been called in to consult.” She held up a small glass sphere. “This a reconstruction orb. It’s going to capture your experience of the incident while you recount it to me. Because of the subjective nature of the process it’s not admissible in court and is completely voluntary. But if you do submit to the procedure, it may give us invaluable insight into the crime, which you may not be able to consciously remember. Do you understand?”
Antoinette nodded.
“Good. Now, are you willing to undergo the procedure?” the witch asked.
Antoinette nodded again.
“Excellent, but first you have to sign a waiver.” She produced a form out of her briefcase. “Christian can be your witness.”
Antoinette stared blankly at the paper in her hand for a minute. The words seemed to dance around the page, just beyond her understanding. But anxious to get it over with, she signed.
After the paperwork was completed, the witch placed the cold glass orb into Antoinette’s hands. “Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
The orb warmed slightly. “Yes.”
The witch swore. “That may affect the results but we’ll just have to see what we get. Okay—in your own words, tell me what happened here tonight.”
As Antoinette talked the glass sphere grew milky and warmer, throbbing against her palms so by the time she’d finished it glowed and was almost too hot to hold.
“So—you fired the murder weapon?” Bianca asked, taking the globe and wrapping it in a black velvet cloth.
“Yes,” Antoinette said.
“Where is the gun now?”
“Um…” Antoinette looked at her empty hands and around the floor. Oh God, I don’t know. Panic bubbled; this was all starting to get out of control. “I can’t—”
“She dropped it out on the balcony,” Christian said.
Antoinette stole a grateful glance at him. He put a hand on her shoulder and she actually found it comforting instead of disturbing.
“Excuse me for a minute.” Bianca pulled a cell phone from her jacket pocket and walked out onto the balcony.
A few moments later Bianca joined them, her face drawn and businesslike.
“I’m afraid they want you taken into VCU headquarters. Someone will be here to escort you shortly.”
Did they really think she did it? She was a victim here, and they were treating her like a suspect. She turned to look at Christian, but his expression said it all—there was nothing he could do.
14
The Aftermath
Antoinette had since skipped past scared and moved straight to pissed. For the hundredth time, she stood and paced the small interview room. It was rank with the scent of stale perspiration, aggression, and fear. None of it helped her mood. Her head throbbed and a foul post-drinking sourness coated her tongue; she’d kill for a toothbrush or a drink of water.
The image in the mirror screwed up its face; she barely recognized it as herself. Dark circles ringing her eyes and smudged makeup made her look like a panda in drag. The bright orange jumpsuit they’d given her to wear when they took her dress looked as unflattering as prison garb possibly could—and she hadn’t even been formally arrested. Yet.
They had poked and prodded, scraped and swabbed. Questioned her endlessly and then left her alone in this tiny room for well over two hours. Antoinette sat down again on the hard metal chair and leaned on the table bolted to the concrete floor. Nothing was soft in this room, including the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Leaning back in the chair, she glared directly at the mirror. “Bring it on,” she mouthed to whoever was behind it.
A few moments later the door opened and the huge agent from the party downstairs stepped inside carrying a folder she assumed was about her. He’d traded in his tuxedo for leathers, making him look like a cross between a biker and a rock star. Tall, dark, and menacing. His almost seven-foot frame made the small room even smaller.
“Ms. Petrescu.” His sarcastic tone immediately put her on the defensive.
She didn’t like him, not one little bit.
“I’m Oberon DuPrie, Special-Agent-in-Charge of Personal Security,” he said, dropping the file on the table across from her. An ursian, that accounted for his size.
He didn’t look like a typical agent in a black heavy metal T-shirt that stopped just above his navel, revealing an expanse of rippling abs. A line of dark hair started from his navel and disappeared behind the large Harley Davidson belt buckle. White gold or platinum and turquoise adorned his fingers and wrists, and secured his dark dreadlocks at the nape of his neck.
The door opened again and she slumped with relief when Christian and Viktor walked in. She’d never been so pleased to see an Aeternus in her life.
“What are you doing here, Laroque?” Oberon growled.
“We have a vested interest in this case, Oberon.” Christian pulled a folded document from inside his tuxedo jacket. “Here’s our authorization.”
Oberon scanned the pages, his expression growing darker. “I don’t like this, but there’s very little I can do about it. You’re not to interfere with my interrogation.” He locked eyes with Christian. “Understood?”
“Calm down, Oberon. We may work for different divisions but we’re all on the same side here.” Viktor tried to defuse the rapidly mounting tension between Oberon and Christian.
Antoinette watched the silent battle of wills as they stared each other down. Finally Oberon nodded but the scowl never left his face as he dropped his gaze to her.
“Let’s get down to business then.” He slid into the chair opposite and leaned his elbows on the table. Christian took the las
t remaining chair at the head of the table and Viktor leaned against the wall behind him near the door.
“Tell me what happened,” Oberon rumbled.
How many times would she have to go over this? She leaned back and crossed her arms. “The ambassador and Lucian Moretti were shot.”
He slammed his hand on the table and leaned in closer. “Don’t play games with me.”
“I have already gone over this several times with your colleagues.”
Oberon’s lips thinned above his goatee. “I want to hear it again—from you.”
Antoinette sighed and recounted how the attacker fired from the balcony leaving out, as she had done every time, the fact she recognized him as Dante Rubins—her mother’s murderer.
“Where were the men that were assigned to guard Sir Roger?” Oberon asked.
Antoinette humored him. “They were standing outside the door.”
“Why weren’t they in the room?” Oberon barked at her.
“You know damned well why. Sir Roger told you before we went upstairs he wouldn’t allow them inside.”
Oberon’s opened the file on the table, his lips thinning. “Your hands and clothing tested positive for gunshot residue. Why should I believe you didn’t shoot the two men yourself and just made up this mystery intruder?”
This bastard was after a confession. Antoinette raised her chin as she met his hostile expression, refusing to flinch.
“Oberon,” Christian said in an even voice. “She’s already admitted to firing the gun.”
She glanced at Christian out of the corner of her eye. The ticking muscles along his jaw were the only outward sign of emotion.
“I asked Ms. Petrescu the question.” Oberon pierced Christian with his intense coal black stare. “You’re here to observe. Keep your mouth shut or I’ll have you thrown out. Authorization or not, this is still my investigation.” Oberon swung his coal black eyes to her. “Now—why should I believe you?”
“Why would I want to shoot Sir Roger or Lucian?” she asked, incredulous.
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