“Hey, is that like, his job?” I asked, glancing at the man holding paper towel like a weapon. “Does he just stand there all day and guard the glass?”
“Ah, Kaya, still sassy as ever,” Carl laughed and gave me a tight hug.
I loved his spicy cologne and was happy to see the familiar fishing cap he always wore still perched on his head. When I was a kid, it was always a great game to hide it.
“So, only one sidekick with you today? No Davis?”
“He’s in the tub.”
“And Stephan? He obviously doesn’t know you’re here, right? Otherwise I would have gotten a call.”
I looked at Oliver, who looked at his feet.
“Anyway…” Old Carl said with a grin. “How are things?”
“Um, can I speak to you in private?” I asked, looking around the busy room full of people. “It’s a personal matter.”
Carl snapped his fingers. Annoyed Assistant made no attempt to challenge his authority, and the room became as quiet as a tomb with the exception of a dozen humming computers. Every square inch of the estate was watched and monitored from here—the gardens, the hallways, the kitchens, the ballrooms, and offices, the pool. Carl saw everything.
He pointed toward a chair in the far corner. “You can have a seat over there,” he said to Oliver, but as fully expected, Oliver didn’t budge an inch from my side. “Like a bloody dog, you are,” he muttered under his breath, and then he returned his focus to me. “So, what’s up?” he said with a sigh.
I pulled the picture of Rayna out of my pocket, my hand shaking. “I need your help finding someone, and since you’ve been here since the beginning of time… maybe even longer… I figured you might know who this is.”
“Oh I probably do,” he said smugly.
When I handed him the photograph, his posture crumpled like I’d punched him in the gut. His voice seemed strained when he spoke. “Nope. Don’t know her at all,” he said, quickly trying to brush off the subject, and placed the photo back in my hands.
“I think she might be my mother,” I said carefully.
Carl cleared his throat like he always did when he was uncomfortable. “What are you talking about, Kaya?”
“This picture was in the north section, in the lobby. Do you know anything about it? Or her? She looks like me.”
I held it up next to my face and his skin paled by nearly four shades. “No. I have never seen that woman before.”
He was lying.
“How far back do you keep the security tapes?” Oliver asked. “You were here when the hotel was open and operational, right? Wasn’t everyone who came and went recorded?”
The bulletproof room suddenly became super stuffy. If Carl wouldn’t help me, then I was on my own.
He adjusted his fishing cap in a gesture that usually meant the conversation was over, and then a strange look fell over his grey face. “Actually, maybe she does seem a little familiar,” he said, suddenly becoming agreeable. “The tapes are stored in the records room downstairs, although Master Lowen doesn’t allow anyone near there. I guess I could see what I could find out, though.”
“Thank you,” I said, holding back tears of relief.
“It may take a while,” he added, “maybe even months. I can’t just wander down there whenever I want; it’s locked and completely off limits. I have to wait until the time is right. You must have patience.”
I nodded and kissed him on the cheek.
When I was about to turn away, he grabbed my hands firmly, his weathered skin rough against my own. “Just don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, especially Stephan… You know how he worries—”
“I won’t,” I said and crossed my fingers behind my back.
“You know, Kaya, some things are best left alone,” Carl added, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Henry had said that exact thing, and suddenly, everything about those same words coming from Old Carl made me feel uneasy, like I was Little Red Riding Hood visiting The Big Bad Wolf—but that was ridiculous. Old Carl was gentle, sweet, and had always been good to me.
Oliver whistled an eerie tune as we walked back to my room. It echoed through the banquet halls, and then it got swallowed up in the carpeted walkways. He held my hand tighter than usual, too. “I don’t trust that sly old bastard,” he mumbled.
And the snowy months crawled by.
It took many months to come to terms with the fact that I may never know the identity of the woman in the picture. Rayna proved to be elusive—all of my searches for her on the internet yielded no information, and after five months of waiting, Carl turned out to be of no help. Oliver had grown sick of the subject, and I was tired of hiding all of it from Stephan. There was only one piece of the puzzle in my hands, and it wasn’t even a corner. So, I decided not to forget about it—because I could never forget about it—but to put it aside and occupy my mind with something more tangible.
With a light breeze of spring air wafting through my bedroom window, I right clicked the computer mouse, and then I hit enter, giggling to myself when my laptop made that satisfying little whooshing sound. Within seconds, a message came up on my screen.
Congratulations! You are officially entered into The Death Race. Train hard!
A buzz of excitement rushed over me. Twenty-four hours of running outside in the mountains on my own—no maids, no guards, no walls—and all I had to do was get Henry to agree. Security was so amped up from recent death threats made towards him I was never sneaking out again, and it was well known that Sindra never made idle threats. If I could get their blessing, it would be a dream come true.
The bedroom door swung open, and a red-faced maid scurried in. I quickly closed the computer.“Whoa, what’s the rush?” I asked.
“Too many things to do, not enough time… big party starting soon… lots of work to do, lots and lots…” she mumbled. She then emptied the garbage cans and left as quickly as she came.
Right. My eighteenth birthday party. Tonight.
Henry had decided to tempt fate again. After the blood bath during my sixteenth birthday, and John Marchessa’s warnings sent in the form of daisies or hit men, I thought the whole idea of a party was pretty risky. But I would go along with it. I would put on a fake smile, say polite things, and be on my best behavior because—more than anything—I needed Henry to be in an agreeable mood when I sprung The Death Race idea on him.
Sindra had picked out my dress for the occasion, and Stephan fussed over my hair and makeup until I looked like a shiny new penny. I felt like a princess as I entered the ballroom, moonlight streaming through the west-facing windows with Davis on one arm and Oliver on the other. The emerald-green satin gown matched my eyes and hugged my body, clinging tight to my hips. It flowed out around my legs so I could walk, and shimmering waves of fabric floated up with every step—it was a far cry from my usual sweat pants and T-shirts. I actually felt pretty, which made me think of Angela. She would have been proud.
We made our way into a crowd of at least two-hundred guests. I smiled. I said hello and good evening. I complimented an older lady on her pink, velvet pantsuit and gave a nod to the chief of police, knowing who he was from his picture in the newspaper this morning. Cocktails were served on silver trays as well as fancy food on sticks. I tasted and sipped, almost happy as I wandered through the chaos, until I realized no one had a clue who I was.
A waiter offered me champagne, and then he wandered off without a word. A group of elderly ladies gave me the once over, and then they whispered among themselves. A few reporters asked me where the birthday girl was, and I jokingly said I didn’t know. They believed me.
I was in a room full of people, all here for me, and yet I was a stranger.
Sindra sauntered over in the most revealing dress I had ever seen—some sheer black thing, with just enough sequins to prevent it from being rated X and a neckline plunging so deep I could see her belly button. There wasn’t much covering her glittering skin. This would have look
ed slutty on anyone else, but somehow the mighty Sindra wore it elegantly. She hugged me politely, leaving behind a trail of patchouli-scented oil.
“Did you see that mountain of gifts?” she said excitedly, pointing to the back of the room where a massive, columned archway rose up over a table overflowing with boxes.
My stomach turned. “I told you I didn’t want anything,” I said, and then I reminded myself that it was important to stay on Sindra’s good side.
“Oh come on, Kaya. Every girl likes presents,” she said, beaming, her almost-black eyes shining beneath a fringe of thick lashes. She was dripping in diamonds—from her ears, neck, and wrists—making her appear even more beautiful than she already was. But, I knew the tiger underneath the glamorous exterior, the woman who led men around by their noses by day.
“If you don’t want presents, then what is it that you do want?” she asked with an inquisitive head tilt in Oliver’s direction.
Was Sindra playing with me? I could never tell if she was actually being nice or if it was part of her professional demeanor to give me a false sense of camaraderie. I shrugged my shoulders at her question, but then I thought, why not tell her? What did I have to lose? I just hoped the noise of the crowd and violins playing Beethoven would keep my words safely from everyone else’s ears—especially Oliver’s. “I want to compete in The Death Race,” I whispered.
Her smile was replaced with a look of shock. Clearly, I hadn’t given her the answer she was hoping for. “What? Are you serious?”
“Yes. I really want to do it, Sindra—more than anything.”
She gave me an odd smile and shook her head. “I admire your spunk, Kaya. It’s good to have dreams, but maybe you should focus on realistic ones, darling—safe ones—because you know that little fantasy will never happen.”
She patted me on the shoulder with a sad little nod, and then she pranced away, her long black hair swinging after her like a horse’s tail. I felt like I’d shrunk three feet; if I didn’t have Sindra on my side, I would never get Henry to agree. Her influence was paramount.
“What was that about?” Oliver asked.
“Uh, nothing, don’t worry about it,” I said harshly.
Sindra had me rattled. As I moved mindlessly through the mass of people, anxiety started creeping in. At the far end of the room was a mammoth-sized table of sweets, and I made a beeline for it, hoping to drown my sorrows in chocolate, but Oliver and Davis clung to me as tightly as my green dress. “Maybe you guys could just back off a bit?” I said irritably.
They both nodded and slightly detached themselves from my hip. I turned my attention to the rainbow of pretty confections and tried to ignore the jittery claustrophobic feeling that was beginning to consume me. The desserts were individual works of art in their own right, much like the priceless, gold framed paintings that hung on the ornate walls, but it was the chocolate fountain that caught my eye. An elderly bald man and his wife were dunking in little purple cakes. I reached for an orange slice.
“When is the spoiled little birthday girl going to be here?” the man asked me.
“Who cares?” I said sarcastically.
He laughed like I had told the best joke he’d ever heard, as did his wife—a red-faced hag stuffed into a hideous pink dress. If it burst, I imagined her guts would be nothing but sugar and butter. “We don’t care about the brat, either,” she snorted, “We’re just here for the food. I doubt if Henry even has a daughter; he probably hired a professional to act the part, when really he’d made it all up. He’s playing the family man card to win back support from the community, but he’s already got my vote if I can get more of this cake.”
“Henry, a family man? Ha!” laughed Baldy who I suddenly discovered was incredibly ugly as the dripping purple mess disappeared into his face. When he spoke, crumbs fell from his mouth. “We even had to bring a present. What the hell do you get an invisible, rich brat… a new servant? A pony?”
“How about a dolphin?” I said flatly.
They roared over that. The hag’s over-sprayed hair moved like a helmet as her jowls shook. She mumbled about getting on with dinner between mouthfuls, and I felt the walls close in. A panicked feeling started to build… the people around me became a storm, their voices the howling wind…
I steadied myself against the table; I was about to have an anxiety attack.
I had to get out.
Turning to leave, I walked into a wall of Oliver and Davis, and that was the icing on the proverbial cake. I ran for the garden doors as my lungs started to constrict and bumped into a waiter, spilling the martinis on his precariously balanced tray and almost falling into a table of hideous mermaid ice sculptures. Oliver, of course, was already there to catch me.
“Just get out of my way!” I yelled at him.
He stared, unblinking and unfazed—his usual reaction to my bouts of anxiety. He wrapped his hand tightly around my upper arm as everything in view became hazy and my heart pounded harder. I yelled at the door guards to move aside, but they didn’t budge. Oliver’s grip tightened and the volume of the string quartet attempted to drown out the desperation in my voice.
“Oliver, let me go! Tell them to move aside… I need to get out for a minute, please!”
I tried to pull free. Guests were starting to stare.
“Just let her go,” said Davis, stepping between us to put a hand on Oliver’s arm. “Don’t cause a scene, bro.”
Oliver hesitantly unwrapped his fingers, and then he nodded to the guards. Seizing my freedom, I burst through the doors and ran out into the warm night. The garden was blooming, and the scent of the newly open blossoms hung heavily in the air. I breathed deeply, trying to calm myself down, as I made my way past heirloom roses, weigela, peonies, and lush flowering trees. The heels of my shoes clicked on the stone path until I came to the end, where a twelve-foot stone fence stood as a barrier between the garden and the steep cliff. Breathless, I looked up. The stars twinkled and shone.
Clear sky. Not even a hint of a cloud. Clear sky. No wind. Everything is perfectly fine… I told myself this, but still, I had to sit down.
The old bench where I’d spent many happy hours with Anne as a child nestled under our favorite Mayday tree, the smell of its flowers heady. I remembered the day Anne pared an apple with a small knife and then carved our initials in the trunk. I reached for the markings that still remained, letting my fingers linger over the crude etching of the letters.
“What the hell am I doing?” I said aloud to no one.
Something moved behind the tree. Leaves fluttered, and there was the slightest crunching sound. “Were you talking to me?” said a man’s voice.
I jumped up and backed away from the tree, not because my private moment was invaded but because of the timbre of the voice. It sent a strange shiver up my spine. “I thought I was alone. I’m sorry. I was just mumbling to myself,” I said into the dark.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. Is everything okay?” the man asked, and then he emerged from behind the branches. He moved slowly, as if worried he might scare me even more, and even though I should have been concerned for my safety, I wasn’t.
“Yes, everything’s all right. Thanks for asking,” I said, still trying to catch my breath, “I just had to get away from all the pompous people in that stuffy room.”
At that, he laughed. It was a melodic, rich sound that made the hair on my arms rise. Then, I realized he was probably one of the stuffy guests I said I was escaping from. “I didn’t mean it that way…”
He took a step closer, but his face was still hidden in the shadows. He was tall—I would guess around six foot three—and of athletic build. I was relieved to see the familiar security card clipped to his jacket, but something about it didn’t seem right. “You didn’t offend me; I’m just hired help. One of the, uh, new gardeners here,” he said.
“And they have you working in the dark while wearing a suit?” I asked, still trying to get my lungs to cooperate. The anxiety had taper
ed off but not completely.
“You know, big party and all, everyone has to look respectable.”
He was lying. I didn’t care. He was probably extra undercover security. I tried to make out his features as he stepped out onto the stone path, but the light still missed his face. I continued talking to him, hoping to draw him out even farther into the light, “I have a great respect for gardeners,” I said. “They protect and create art with Mother Nature. Her ways are some of the few things I can actually pretend to understand.”
I was still breathing fast, like I’d been running, and now my legs had started to shake. I looked up, but it seemed like the sky started to rattle, and shutting my eyes, I stumbled backward. The gardener lunged for my elbow.
“Hey, maybe you should sit down for a minute,” he said gently.
My skin tingled beneath his touch. I let him help me to the bench, mostly because passing out would have been super embarrassing.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked again.
“Yeah. Probably too much champagne.” I rubbed my forehead and realized my hands were shaking; something about this guy made me nervous, but in a good way. I expected him to walk away, but instead, he parked himself on the bench beside me.
“So, you got roped into going to the party?” he asked.
I laughed. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Obviously, he didn’t know who I was. He picked a blossom with tiny white petals from a branch hanging over our heads and held it out. “A flower for your thoughts?”
As I took it from his hands, my anxiety started to slip away, and something else was taking its place. I slowly turned to look at him, apprehensive about what I might see, and I almost choked—he was stunning. I quickly looked away, hoping he didn’t see my jaw drop to the ground.
Serenade (The Nightmusic Trilogy Book 1) Page 9