Dangerous Games

25

“We will. In the meantime, keep your head in the game and stay focused. Call me if you get anything new, and see if you can find out your location. I’d like to get eyes on that safe house.”

I hear the concern in his voice. Obviously, neither one of us trusts Killian.

“I’ll holler at you when I have something.”

“Keep frosty till then, brother.”

“Will do. You too.”

Never one for long goodbyes—or even short ones—Connor disconnects.

Now the only thing left for me to do is wait.

And obsess over what Killian said before he left, which at the time seemed strange but now seems downright sinister.

“Some people are very skilled at playing two sides against each other without either side ever knowing what’s going on.”

Who the hell is he working for?

TEN

EVA

A different doctor than the one who set my arm on the plane comes to see me. He’s tall, gray haired, and thin as a whip, and he breathes garlic fumes into my face as he frowns over the stitches in my cheek. He gives my arm a cursory examination, nods in satisfaction, then rewraps the splint and tells me there’s nothing more he can do until the swelling goes down.

“Ice it. I’ll come back to see you tomorrow. Take one of these every three to four hours for the pain.”

He hands me an unmarked amber bottle of pills and leaves.

As soon as he’s gone, I pretend to swallow one of the pills, in case Dimitri’s watching. Then I cough it out into my palm and drop it into the toilet when I pee.

The mute maid left after applying a thin layer of antibiotic cream to my back and legs after my bath. She hasn’t returned since. I’m still not over the shock of seeing that mangled piece of flesh in her mouth. I have the horrifying thought that maybe all the servants in the manor are mute as well, but I decide it would be too much, even for Dimitri, to carve out the tongues of an entire staff of domestic workers.

I hope.

After I explore the room, the night tables and dresser drawers, and the enormous closet—finding nothing I could use to stab a man in the jugular—I go back into the bathroom and tap the console on the wall.

A woman’s pleasant, professional voice immediately answers in Russian. “Da, gospozha?”

She has a hint of a German accent in her speech, so I answer in German. I need to make all the friends I can get here at Dr. Frankenstein’s castle. “Good morning. I’m Evalina, and I’m starving. Will you please send in some food?”

After a surprised beat of silence, she answers back in German, her tone warm. “Yes, madam. Is there anything in particular you’d like?”

“Whatever’s easiest for you . . .”

“Astrid,” she supplies into my pause.

“Astrid. What a lovely name. Well, whatever you have that you don’t have to go to too much trouble for would be wonderful, Astrid. Thank you.”

“Ah . . . you’re welcome, madam.”

My politeness is taking her aback. I suppose she isn’t used to such niceties from the lord of the manor.

“Anything to drink?”

I almost say rum, but I remind myself alcohol wouldn’t be good for any baby Beastie I might have on board. “Water, I suppose. Or vegetable juice if you have it. But you should have a cocktail on me, Astrid. I’m sure you deserve it.”

I wish the console had a video camera. I’d love to see her expression. Her surprised silences are getting longer and longer.

“I . . . don’t believe I’m allowed, madam. But . . . thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Also if you’d please send a bucket of ice, I’d appreciate it very much.”

I disconnect, my limbs heavy with fatigue. How long has it been since I slept? I don’t know. Time has become elastic. It could be a day or a hundred years since I last felt Naz’s skin on mine. Since my heart took its last real beat.

I wander over to the window and stand looking at the lawn rolling away into mist. Dark figures prowl around the edges. Armed guards, hunting for trespassers through the trees.

When the food arrives, brought on a rolling table covered with a linen cloth and delivered by the mute maid, my stomach turns at the smell. I have to force myself to sit, chew, and swallow, knowing Dimitri’s eyes are in the walls.

When I can’t eat any more, I gather a fistful of ice into the middle of a linen napkin, fold the corners together, and press it against my cheek until I can’t stand the cold, then switch it to my arm. I take turns going back and forth between them until all the ice is melted.

Then I curl into a ball on top of the silk duvet on the king-size bed and drop into a dreamless sleep.

When I wake, it’s dark outside. The cart of food is gone and so is the nausea. My arm throbs so badly I’m tempted to take one of the painkillers, but I only pretend to instead. I wait, pacing and tense, for something to happen, for Dimitri to arrive and my debasement to begin, but he doesn’t come.

No one comes.

I’m left alone until the morning, when the garlicky doctor visits again. He must brush his teeth with the stuff.

“Much better,” he says after unwrapping the splint from my arm.

I don’t know how he can tell. All I see is black-and-blue skin, shiny and swollen like an overripe plum. “Do I need surgery?”

When he shakes his head, my heart sinks.

“Your fingers are working. The swelling is going down. I’ll put a cast on it tomorrow.”

No trip to the hospital, then. No chance to get near an unattended phone.