“Looks like a bloody goat man to me,” she said, and struck out through the crowd.
From a far corner of the room, I let my gaze roam over every face I could see, but it was so crowded and the partygoers were constantly shifting. Panic began to squeeze my chest.
Too many people. Too many. I’ll never find him. Getting hard to breathe.
As I stood beneath one of the cherry trees that dotted the ballroom, pink petals fell over me in a constant flutter. I cupped my palms, filling them with the velvety blossoms. Then, eyes closed, I raised them to my face and forced myself to breathe in the sweet, tantalizing fragrance.
Slowly, I exhaled. I looked up, and straight into a familiar pair of blue and green eyes a stone’s throw away. For a long instant, everything and everyone else blurred around us.
We had so many obstacles. So many scary things that had to be discussed.
But it was my first, maybe my only, ball. And the boy I loved was standing only twenty yards away.
You’re killing me, he mouthed.
I tried for a casual oh-well shrug, but as he wove through the crowd toward me, the thrill that had begun to thrum through my nerve endings was making it really hard to pull off.
“There you are,” I said as he approached.
“And there you are.”
The tabbed collar and white tie contrasted with his tanned face and neck. A tailed black jacket fit snugly across his shoulders. All the way to the shiny black shoes, Bran looked at ease and natural in his nineteenth-century garb.
His eyes took on that sleepy look I knew well, and a slow, sideways smile began to emerge as he held out a hand. “May I have the pleasure, Miss Walton?”
I glanced across the ballroom. Collum’s and Jonathan’s heads were tilted toward Phoebe. Tesla’s attention was fixed on the tall man standing beside Vanderbilt.
Soon they’d all be here, and my one chance to dance with Bran would be over.
“But Tesla and Collum will be here in a—”
“Hang Tesla and definitely hang MacPherson,” he said. “I think we deserve this, don’t you?”
I paused, but only for an instant. “I would be honored, Mr. Cameron.”
“Not here, though,” he said. “If Blasi notices . . .”
“Where?”
He grinned, and I was lost. “Come with me.”
The room we stepped into was a gallery, lit only by silver moonlight that streamed through three tall windows. At any other time, the historian in me would have stopped to examine the dozens of portraits that lined the long room. But I knew we had only moments, and after that, who could say what would happen?
Bran took my hand and led me into a patch of lustrous light. As we stood there I let my gaze drift down over the arched brows, past high cheekbones, over the too-long nose, to his lips.
As he moved closer, his scent sparked something inside me. I knew—from reading, of course—that people often confuse love with what is actually just a chemical reaction that sometimes occurs between two individuals. Was that all this was? Hormones that interacted with and complemented each other?
Then I looked up into his eyes, the blue and green washed in light until they were all but indistinguishable from each other.
And I remembered the first time I’d seen those eyes under the shimmer of the moon.
Bran held out his arms. The grin faded as he spoke in a smoky voice that made my stomach tighten. “Dance with me, Hope.”
The orchestra began the opening strains of the leisurely, somehow sensuous “Beautiful Dreamer,” by Stephen Foster. The music seeped through the walls. The vibrations of violin and cello rumbled through the floor and up my legs.
I stepped into Bran’s arms. His palm settled warmly at my waist. Taking my other hand in his, he slowly began to move me backwards across the room.
Having no clue how to waltz, and with my natural klutziness in full sway, I lost count of the times I stumbled or stepped on his toes. But his movements were patient and measured. As he counted quietly under his breath, I eventually caught the rhythm.
I don’t know how long we spun around the gallery. Time had decelerated into an adagio of shadows and light and heat. On every revolution Bran drew me in closer, until his arm was wrapped around my waist and our bodies were pressed together.
We eased to a stop in the center of the room, bodies half in and half out of shadow as we stared at each other, breathing hard. My head tilted back as he pulled me hard against him. I could feel the flat stomach and the firm muscles of his long legs pressed against me as he leaned down and kissed me.
Soft and unhurried, the kiss soon deepened until we were panting not from dance, but with need. His lips found mine again and we surged together, the heat building until I didn’t even know my own name.
Outside the empty tree trunk, the little girl shivered, even though the little boy had long since removed his own meager cloak to wrap around her thin shoulders.
As he stood next to her, the wind riffled the boy’s tunic, making him shiver.
“You are cold,” the girl said. “Take your cloak with you. You need it.”
The little boy shook his head as he knelt in front of her. “You need it more than I, milady. Come, I will carry you. Wait for me inside the tree, where you will be safe. You shall have your Elizabeth for company and I shall return soon. When I do, I will have a nice fat rabbit for us to share.”
He had picked her up then, though he could not have weighed much more than she herself. When he set her down inside the great tree, he stared at her upturned face. Without warning, he leaned in and pressed his cold lips to hers.
“I will return to you,” he said in a voice she barely heard above the roar through the treetops. “This is my vow, milady Hope. I shall always, always return to you.”
I stepped backwards out of the circle of his arms.
“What?” he said, noticing my expression. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Well, everything. But I just realized that you really do keep your promises, don’t you?” I grabbed his hand and towed him toward the door.
Our hands still linked, he tugged me back to face him. “To you? Always.”
I smiled up at him. “I mean, except for that one.”
Slim eyebrows met over his nose as he frowned, quizzically.
“You promised me a rabbit when we were in the tree. I never got that rabbit,” I told him. “Just one measly old apple.”
He threw his head back. Our laughter twined together, bright as moonlight and light as helium as it floated toward the gallery’s high ceiling.
As we opened the door and stepped back into the ballroom, I said, “Bran, I talked to Gabriella. She told me all about Blasi.”
“Hello, Bran,” a voice said. “Been looking all over for you. And this must be the lovely Hope Walton. I’m curious, Hope. Given how you ladies love to chat, I’d be very interested to know what—exactly—my sweet Gabi had to say about me?”
Bran’s grin had vanished. My pulse began to speed for an entirely different reason. I recognized the man Gabriella was so afraid of, standing only feet away, head tilted as he smiled at Bran and me.
Chapter 41
WE’D RESEARCHED THE MAN PLENTY AFTER BRAN’S revelation at the Highland games. Young. Swedish. Secretive. By the age of twenty-three Gunnar Blasi held doctorates in three different physics fields. Considered a prodigy, he was recruited straight out of school by CERN. He’d worked for the international organization only a year before his employment was suddenly and inexplicably terminated. Even with Doug and Moira’s investigatory skills, we could only find rumors and speculation about his abrupt dismissal.
The few photos we’d managed to locate—including one that showed his CERN ID badge—portrayed a nondescript bearded guy with frameless glasses and stringy hair pulled back in a man bun.
The guy watching us now was anything but nondescript. Fit and trim. Handsome, with the blond Nordic features of his homelan
d. Blasi’s once-ratty hair was now cut fashionably short. He was clean-shaven, and the glasses—if they’d ever been anything but an affectation—were gone.
And though he maintained an almost friendly grin, as he approached, his impenetrable black eyes held all the warmth and charm of a cobra coiled to strike.
Bran positioned himself between us. “Blasi,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you too. If we might have a word, I can—”
The man walked right past him. “Hope.” He had only the barest accent. “I’m glad we’re having this chance. You see, I always enjoy knowing my competition. It makes winning so much more pleasurable. Don’t you agree?”
“I—”
“Blasi,” Bran said again. “I’ve already told you, I’m handling this.”
Gunnar Blasi glanced down at Bran’s hand on his sleeve. “Yes, you did say that.”
My eyes skittered frantically over the crowd, but I couldn’t see any of my people.
Where are you, Collum? Where are you, dammit?
Then my gaze snagged on Tesla, just emerging from a narrow doorway, followed by two men. The first was William Vanderbilt. The second I immediately recognized. John Jacob “JJ” Astor IV, then the richest man in the world, and the most famous passenger to die when—in seventeen years’ time—the RMS Titanic would sink beneath the icy waves of the North Atlantic.
Finally I spotted Collum, Phoebe, and Jonathan moving near the wall as Tesla chatted with the two tycoons. He kept touching his lapel as the men bowed and left.
Skirting the dance floor, Collum, Phoebe, Tesla, and Jonathan headed in our direction. An instant later a group of strangers intercepted them. Ringed them. Collum went stiff as one of them leaned in and spoke a few words. Phoebe’s head jerked toward the spot where she knew I was waiting. Our eyes met. After only a few seconds’ conversation, the group began to march across the ballroom and down the steps to the main entrance. At the top of the stairs, Collum pivoted, gaze skimming the crowd. I wanted to wave my arms, jump up and down, scream, “Where the hell are you going?”
Then I saw a metallic flash, as one of the strangers quietly and casually pushed the tip of a half-concealed pistol into the small of Collum’s back.
The guests, wrapped up in their drinking and dancing and socializing, hadn’t noticed a thing.
“Well, that went even smoother than I predicted.” Blasi, too, had been watching the scene at the top of the stairs. “Of course, my men probably warned yours that if they didn’t go along quietly, they’d just start shooting people. They’d have done it too. Barbarians have no clue about timelines.” He tsked.
His eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. “Ah, here comes my little dancing queen.”
“Gunnar.” Gabriella de Roca didn’t look at me as she limped past. “Did you see? That went well, did it not?”
“Hello, darling.” Blasi took hold of her shoulders and planted a lingering kiss on her lips. With his face only an inch from hers, he whispered, “So, what did you tell them?”
Gabriella smiled, but she was blinking furiously. “Tell who? I—I do not know what it is that you mean?”
“Sure you do. You opened your pretty little mouth, didn’t you?” Blasi tapped Gabriella on the tip of her slim nose and the skin on my back prickled with a sense of danger despite the man’s jovial tone.
“You had to go and get all gossipy on me, Gabi. What a shame. I should’ve known, I guess.” Blasi’s expression was open and pleasant, as if conversing about a favorite book. “But you were so good at . . .” He chuckled to himself. “Well, you know what you’re good at, don’t you? So good, in fact, that I didn’t even realize what a lying little whore you are until right now.”
“No.” Gabriella’s voice shook. “Please, Gunnar, te equivocas.”
“No, I don’t think I am mistaken, darling. I think it’s you who are mistaken.”
Bran had been growing increasingly tense up to this point, but now his hands fisted. His nostrils flared. His shoulders knotted, and I knew then that this was going to get very, very messy. His hand inched toward the gun I’d felt against my ribs when we danced.
Two men strolled up. Big. Balding. Almost interchangeable. “Everything okay here, Dr. Blasi?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Any trouble at the lab? Got that all wrapped up?”
The men nodded.
“Good. Time to go join them, I guess. Though I am having a marvelous time here. These Victorians really knew how to throw a party.” He sighed. “Let’s go get the professor and have him show me where he hid that damn enhancement. Then I want to watch while he and all the rest of you burn to a crisp in that fire.” Blasi clapped Bran on the shoulder. “Sorry about that, friend.”
He’d said it all so casually, so . . . pleasantly . . . that for a second I thought I had misheard.
Bran’s fingers found mine.
“Gunnar.” Gabriella cozied up to him, trying to drape her sinewy body over his.
He shoved her away. She stumbled on her bad leg and nearly fell before Blasi’s men caught her. “You know what? I think I’m done with her, too. She can join the rest. Make it easier to clean house when we get back.”
Another of Blasi’s men appeared at a nod from his boss and bundled Gabriella away before we could even process what was happening.
“You,” Bran said to Blasi in a mild, conversational tone, “are a psychotic fuck. Oh, and Hope . . . ?” he went on. “Run!”
We shoved through the door back into the gallery. Gritting his teeth, Bran held on to the door handles as Blasi and his men tried to ram their way in.
“Grab that fireplace poker!” Bran yelled.
I snatched it up and he ran it through the handles, buying us a few precious seconds. The glamour of the manor vanished as we darted into a service corridor. Here, the plaster walls were unadorned. Dust skimmed the baseboards of the scratched wooden floors. No expensive electricity for the servants. In this normally invisible part of the house, old-fashioned gas wall sconces flickered as we raced through pools of the dull yellow light.
A greasy-haired man in white cap and stained apron stepped around a corner in front of us, toting a tray of dirty dishes. We swerved around him, a lit cigarette dropping out of his mouth as we ran past and down the stairs.
At the end of a short hallway, a door to the outside had been left propped open with a chunk of broken brick. The scent of damp concrete and cigarette smoke drifted in. All I could see of the dark alley beyond was the blank wall of the next building.
Shouts rang out behind us. The cobblestones were slick, and I skidded as we pounded across them toward the street. Bran yanked me upright as we made for the sidewalk.
On the street outside the Vanderbilt manor, Bran hauled a dozing carriage driver down off his seat. When the man saw Bran’s pistol, he did not hesitate. “Take it, then. It ain’t mine, what er I care?”
Gunnar Blasi’s men burst through the door we had escaped through just as Bran whipped the team of horses into a full-bore run.
In the thin layer of silk, I was shaking from the cold. From shock. From fear of what might happen to my friends. Bran grasped the reins with one hand and yanked off his coat with the other. I draped it over my shoulders and clutched tightly to him as we careened around corners. We pounded down empty streets, and I saw the stars begin to fade above us.
“He’s got them, Bran. All of them. And you heard what he said . . . he wants to watch them burn.”
His concentration fixed on urging the horses faster and faster, he called, “Not going to happen. We know where he’s headed. He’s a sadistic bastard, but he’s arrogant. We can use that.”
We jounced and jolted through street after street until at last we pulled up to the rear of Tesla’s building. We jumped down from the carriage, secured it, and quietly rounded the corner. Something moved near the front of the building. Two crouched figures. I took off running.
“Wait!” Bran hissed, but I ignored him, because I knew who
I’d just seen. He ran to catch up.
On the shadowy New York sidewalk, Phoebe’s blade glinted in the latent glare from the new electric streetlights.
“Ready?” she was saying to someone as we approached. “And I swear by Saint Mary and Saint Bride, if they’ve touched a single hair on any of their heads, I’ll—”
“Hey.”
Phoebe and Collum wheeled, weapons raised. I held up my hands. “Whoa. Hold on. It’s just us.”
“Hope!” Phoebe threw herself at me. I didn’t dare move, not wanting her—in her exuberance—to accidentally stab me in the back.
“What happened?” I asked. “They took you and then you—”
“Got away,” Collum said. “As they were forcing us into the carriage. They took Jonathan and Tesla, but we ran. Stole some horses to get here. They marched them both into the building a couple of minutes ago.”
“We haven’t seen Peters or any of the other men,” said Phoebe. “But Doug and Mac are up there too.” She was breathing hard. “We—we have to go get them.”
Collum leaned out to peer around. He turned back to us and whispered, “There’s blood on the sidewalk.”
Chapter 42
WE DIDN’T HESITATE AS WE ROUNDED THE CORNER TO the front of the building. I barely registered the splatter of dark crimson that painted the bricks just outside the half-open door as we shoved through it and charged into the darkness of the narrow stairwell.
On the second step, my foot skidded in something wet. I thrust my bare hand out to break my fall. It landed on something soft, pliant, and sticky. With a stifled cry, I jerked back just as Collum stepped down the steps to shove the door the rest of the way open. He was cursing under his breath, but stopped when the streetlight revealed the first body.
The man was lying face-up, features half-shadowed, but I recognized him immediately.
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