In a Faraway Land

by Blair Babylon

  The van crouched and leaped forward, speeding through the chaos in the street and into traffic beyond the courthouse.

  Dieter held his head in his hands as his mind spun.

  No, Raphael held his head in his hands.

  His fingertips inched up his temples to his short hair, trying to make sense of himself.

  Dieter had sold his soul to save Flicka, every last shred of it.

  And Raphael had to come to terms with that.

  Valerian Mirabaud

  Flicka von Hannover

  I should have seen the similarity

  in their gray eyes

  years ago,

  but they had always looked so different.

  Inside the van, Flicka grabbed a seat and fell backward into it, staring around herself.

  Her eyes fixed on the white-haired man in front of her. She’d met him several times before, of course: her wedding, two Shooting Star Cotillions when he’d chaperoned his nieces, and dozens of other events. “Valerian? What are you doing here?”

  “Saving my son,” Valerian said, “and saving the woman who was supposed to be his wife, but I’m very surprised to see that is you, Flicka.”

  “But who were those guys?” She looked over to where Dieter sat. She’d figured out “Raphael” was one of the Mirabauds, but Valerian was the head of the Geneva Trust board. Discovering that Dieter was Valerian Mirabaud’s son was exactly like a revelation that Pierre Grimaldi was not just some guy from southern France but the heir to the throne of Monaco.

  Dieter was holding his head in his hands like his world was ending.

  She asked, “Dieter?”

  “No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Not Dieter. Raphael. I’m Raphael Mirabaud.”

  A hollowness in his voice made her reach out for his shoulder, but he flinched away.

  Dieter said, “We need to get Flicka to her brother, Wulfram von Hannover. She’ll be safe there.”

  Valerian Mirabaud didn’t even blink his dark gray eyes. “Why would we do that, Raphael?”

  “She’s a client,” he said. “You wouldn’t want one of my clients in Geneva with us. It would be a distraction.”

  Valerian smiled at him. Somehow, even though the curve of his lips over his straight, ivory teeth was shaped exactly like Dieter’s smile, Valerian’s expression sent chills up Flicka’s spine. “She’s not just a client, Raphael.”

  “Of course, she is,” Dieter said. “I take pride in my job as a bodyguard. She’s just a client. Actually, her brother is the client. She’s the principal.”

  Another man’s voice called from the back of the van, “Friederike von Hannover is not just your client. Is she, Raphael?”

  Flicka twisted in her seat and looked over the high back as the van rocked around a corner.

  The man sitting in the third row of seats was hunched over, clasping his hands between his knees, but Flicka knew him. The sun glinted on the white-and-gold hair of the silver fox who’d perched on one of her barstools every day at the Silver Horseshoe for months. “Bastien?”

  The older man nodded, still bent over, and he crossed his arms over his thin chest.

  Dieter turned in his seat. “Uncle Bast?”

  Bastien shrugged without unwinding his arms.

  Dieter asked her, “How the hell do you know Bastien?”

  “He came into my casino every day. First, the Monaco, and then he found me at the Silver Horseshoe. He signed my residency affidavit.”

  “And it didn’t occur to you to tell me that a guy named Bastien Mirabaud had been hanging around?” He sounded more desperate than angry.

  “I didn’t know his last name. He never said, and I couldn’t read his signature. I didn’t even notice where he’d printed it.”

  From behind them, Bastien said, “I kept my back to you, Raphael, and stayed out of your line of sight. I wasn’t too bad at it, evidently. The crowds helped. I’ve always been good at being overlooked, and I probably appear a little different than when you left.” He touched the crown of his head where his hair was the thinnest.

  Dieter turned back to him. “What are you doing here?”

  “A lot has happened since you left,” Bastien said, not looking up.

  As Dieter talked to Bastien, the name clicked in her head. She’d never met Anaïs Mirabaud’s father, Bastien Mirabaud, because he had been called away on business right before every event of the Shooting Star Cotillion she had thrown. Anaïs’s uncle, Valerian, had stepped in for every one of the events and meetings.

  She asked Dieter, “Bastien is your uncle?”

  Dieter nodded.

  “You were at the Shooting Star Cotillion the year that Anaïs made her debut,” she said to Dieter.

  Valerian raised his eyebrows at Dieter.

  “Valerian was there,” she said, pointing at the older man.

  Dieter nodded. “I saw him.”

  “I didn’t see you,” Valerian said.

  Dieter shrugged and leaned back in his seat. “I was standing against the walls in the shadows, watching for threats. I wasn’t on the floor, dancing.”

  Yes, Dieter had refused to dance with her that night, no matter how she’d wheedled. Pierre had rescued her from being a wallflower at her own cotillion.

  A square of sunlight traveled across the van’s blue carpeting as they leaned around a corner.

  Even with all her problems with her own father, Flicka could sense something terrible was going on between Dieter and Valerian.

  Valerian said, “Now that it’s settled that Prinzessin Friederike Augusta will be accompanying us back to Geneva,” Valerian said, “let’s retrieve Alina from that babysitter who lives next door to you before we take the Geneva Trust jet home to Switzerland, shall we?”

  Dieter closed his eyes, and his throat worked as he swallowed. The lines around his eyes deepened. “Just let her stay there. The babysitter will call someone to take her. It’s all settled.”

  “She’s my grandchild. Of course, Alina simply must come to Geneva with us.”

  A chill settled over Flicka’s skin, and she rubbed her arms. She’d never felt much warmth from Valerian Mirabaud, but Dieter’s reaction—even suggesting that Alina should go live with Wulf and Rae rather than come with them—scared her.

  Outside the window, the squat city of Las Vegas rolled behind them as they drove toward the airport.

  Flicka knew she was being kidnapped, and Dieter couldn’t save her this time.

  Flicka escaped and survived

  In A Faraway Land,

  but the story gets darker

  At Midnight.

  Read more about

  At Midnight

  at Kobo.

  Raphael Mirabaud

  My whole life circled back to this,

  to him.

  Raphael sat in his father’s office at the bank Geneva Trust and tried not to fear what was happening to Flicka and his child back at his family’s house.

  The Geneva Trust building was located in the downtown section of Geneva, naturally, in an area near the financial district. Geneva Trust had been located in this crenellated building for over a century. When the other banks and financial services companies had moved their locations to the mirrored behemoths a few miles away, Geneva Trust stood on tradition and retained its lovely, antique building in the heart of the city.

  The bank had upgraded its security to be on par with Fort Knox, however. The building was laced with steel, alarms, cameras, and motion-detecting laser beams. Dieter Schwarz would never have tried to break into it.

  The ground floor of the Geneva Trust building was rented to a florist and a coffee shop, one of which supplied the bank’s office with fresh flowers, while the other was critical to Geneva Trust’s daily operations. Outside, pedestrian chatter drifted through the open window from the wide sidewalks below on this unseasonably warm autumn day. A tram zinged down the cables on the street.

  Other offices and meeting rooms comprised the top four floors of the building,
plus one well-secured room for safety-deposit boxes. The windows had balconies with teeming flower boxes affixed to the black, wrought-iron railing. The Swiss breeze ruffled the late-autumn blooms of pink and peach dahlias, daisies, and sage, and it carried just a bite of the alpine snow beyond the city.

  Raphael’s father, Valerian Mirabaud, controlled the board of trustees and the majority of the voting shares, and his office spanned the top floor of the building. He sat with his hands steepled on his desk, scrutinizing Raphael with his cold, gray eyes.

  Raphael crossed his legs and stared back at his father. He didn’t worry about blinking, but he didn’t look away.

  “This time,” his father said, “things will be different.”

  Raphael prepared himself to listen.

  “You, Friederike, and Alina will remain in the guest suite of our house.”

  Under Valerian’s control, always in danger.

  “If any of you go out, you will take our security with you.”

  So they could guarantee Raphael’s abject loyalty by threatening Flicka and Alina and making sure they couldn’t escape or be rescued.

  “You will be assigned the title of a Vice President of Geneva Trust.”

  So he would be implicated in all business dealings.

  “You will be given a chance to atone, to come back into the fold.”

  Folds were for sheep.

  “If you don’t, I cannot guarantee any of your safety. The Ilyin account—”

  Not the Ilyin Bratva, not the Ilyin crime syndicate, but the Ilyin account. The Mirabauds were financiers, after all.

  “—has indicated that they would be willing to reconsider their former position, if you were sufficiently contrite, if you apologized, and if you proved you had integrated yourself into the business.”

  If Raphael groveled, and if he committed crimes and allowed Flicka and Alina to be held hostage for his good behavior.

  “Then, the Ilyin account would cease their concern with you.”

  The death sentence they had made sure every Bratva member knew about.

  Valerian’s gray eyes softened. “Raphael, I’m trying to save your life. If the Ilyins had found you first, you would be dead in the sun on a Las Vegas street. If we reintegrate you into the bank and the business, you’ll be safe. Flicka and Alina will be safe.”

  He meant that if Raphael gave up everything he believed, everything he had become, Flicka and Alina would be safe from Valerian’s and the Ilyins’ revenge.

  “They will be safe from everything,” Valerian continued. “Even Pierre Grimaldi won’t be able to touch Flicka, if certain people make it known that he should stop that pursuit.”

  This was actually true, that Valerian and the Ilyin Bratva could protect Flicka even from Pierre. After all, the Russian crime syndicates were more powerful than most governments. Maybe all governments.

  “It will take some time to make sure that everyone understands that you’re to be trusted now, but after a suitable amount of time has elapsed, Flicka could resume her usual social life. She could manage her charities and chair the Shooting Star Cotillion.”

  Bribery in addition to threats. Raphael would have done the same thing.

  “You could have your life back, Raphael. You could take your place in the family and in the bank. It’s really best for all involved.”

  It really was perfect, everything he could have asked for and more, which meant he couldn’t trust any of it at all. His father was lying to him, probably about everything.

  “I understand,” Raphael said, “and I agree. But how long do you expect Flicka and Alina to live in a small suite in someone else’s house?”

  Raphael wanted them anywhere else, safe, and preferably under Wulfram’s roof.

  “As long as I think it’s necessary,” Valerian said, sitting back in his chair. His gaze sharpened. “You can begin with your apology for betraying the family and me, personally, and then we’ll arrange for you to apologize to Piotr Ilyin.”

  Raphael had thought he would have more time to prepare a proper speech of contrition, but he had become good at lying in the last few years. He had lied about his name every day, and he had done it in a voice that sounded alien to his own ears. Everything about him was a lie, and he was nothing but a hollow shell.

  “Father,” Raphael said, “You were always right. I apologize for doubting you and for my actions. In the future, I will do what is asked of me by the bank and by my family. You have my loyalty.”

  Right up until Raphael staged a coup to take control of Geneva Trust and broke that chain forever.

  Flicka escaped and survived

  In A Faraway Land,

  but the story gets darker

  At Midnight.

  Read more about

  At Midnight

  at Kobo.

  A Note from Blair Babylon

  Hello again,

  So, the cliche is that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but that’s not always the case, right?

  (Yes, I managed to avoid referencing that for the whole book. Somebody pat me on the head.)

  I got married in Las Vegas. It was a kinda-elopement. We were in graduate school at the time and neither of us come from any sort of wealth, and we couldn’t afford much. We did it on a serious, very limited budget.

  We called our families and friends a few months ahead of time and said, “Meet us in Vegas on March 12th if you want to see us get married.”

  And a lot of them did. Vegas was driving distance from my hometown, so a lot of my relatives showed up. It was a flight from where we were going to college, but several of our friends made the trip because I planned it for our spring break.

  I did some prep work, like I found a chapel in a hotel and booked it for $20, decided on a hotel meeting room with a buffet (Mexican, good for the vegetarians among us,) and a cake. I bought a dress for $120, ivory with pale gold tapestry-like stuff because I turn bright lemon yellow when I wear stark white.

  The reception planning was just, “Check the boxes for what you want.” Mexican buffet: Salad, green; Salad, fruit; Tacos, chicken; Tacos, beef; Enchiladas, cheese; Rice, Spanish; Beans, refried; Flan, caramel. The food was really good, and so was the cake, which was Chocolate, chocolate filling, buttercream. Perfect.

  About a hundred people met us there, and we had a good party. My parents really appreciated not being conscripted to do a bunch of cooking or decorating. And then we went on a cruise out of L.A. with two other couples for our honeymoon, and that was one of the most fun times of my life.

  I don’t remember what kind of napkins we had. Maybe . . . white . . . ish.

  So, I’m the total opposite of Flicka, I guess.

  Flicka would have been perfectly polite at my wedding, I think. She always is, and she wouldn’t judge someone for lack of money. She understands that her level of privilege is exceedingly rare, nearly unique.

  Which is why it was interesting to write this book.

  The change in lifestyle while she is in hiding was a shock for Flicka, but she is resilient.

  Or at least she’s working on it.

  I, like most Americans, have been poor at certain times of my life. Not as poor as many people, but I’ve conserved food, making sure I had at least a little to eat every day until the next paycheck. I was working forty or more hours a week at two jobs and living in a studio apartment.

  I don’t want to get too much into politics, but I think it’s a shame that people who are working a normal work-week, at least 40 hours and then some, can’t provide for a family in most places in this country, that they can’t get decent health care due to both money and access, and that they have to conserve food to make sure that they can eat at least something every day until their next paycheck.

  Or that they let their kids eat, and then they eat the little bit left over and that’s all, because that is what some people have to do.

  People who are working full-time and more.

  My parents did it, when I was littl
e. I didn’t realize it at the time, but they did.

  In the next book, At Midnight, Flicka returns to something more like her usual life, but she has been changed by what she encountered in Nevada, by the way that people have to dodge the system to get by, by people who got sick and couldn’t afford medicine.

  I feel like my books are me reporting back to other working-class people about what I have seen out there, as I am from working-class roots. My parents were both teachers in the state that is 49th in the nation in teachers’ salaries, and my dad worked two other jobs after he taught school all day most of my life.

  So, two parents working, one working at least sixty hours a week, probably more.

  We qualified for free school lunch when I was a kid. My dad gardened in the backyard to add vegetables to our diet.

  The time he tried to grow one row of corn will go in a book someday. Everyone in the Midwest just laughed because they know exactly what happened.

  I still garden out of that innate sense of food insecurity. I like knowing there are a bunch of zucchini, cucumbers, eggplants, and butternuts out there. I feel safer.

  A lot of people have it much, much worse than I did.

  America is ostensibly the richest country in the world. Kids should not be hungry, especially when their parents are working multiple jobs but even if they’re not.

  Kids should not be hungry.

  So, I didn’t mean to turn this into a political rant, although “Kids should not be hungry,” really shouldn’t be considered a political rant. People who think that’s controversial really need to get some religion or some morals or a soul or something.

  There are some good charities out there that help people who are hungry. Most of them are local, so here’s a link to Charity Navigator, (Note: it’s a redirectable link through my website so that I can fix it if Charity Navigator changes their links,) a charity watchdog organization, that is a search for food banks and charities, all highly rated. On the left side of the page, there’s a drop-down menu to find your state. I encourage you to find your state or an area where you know people need help and send a few bucks their way. You can donate right through the site. Food banks really do an amazing job, and they can buy a lot of food for your couple of bucks. They’re experts at it.