Chapter 15
Starlings didn’t ordinarily need burglar alarms, but Slavin was ingenious. Cursing himself for not having gone through a window, Race hurtled through a room and down a corridor. The next opened just before he got to it. With a thrill of fear he slammed to a stop in the corridor, then plunged through it.
Geremé Slavin stood smiling before him, wearing a gold-velvet dressing gown and shingle-sequined sock boots. Slender, elegant, shorter than Race, his olive skin as smooth as a child’s, his black hair beautifully waved, his black eyes gleaming. His handsome face lit with pleasure as he nodded to Race.
“Race Worden, late of the plantation of the Oroné, come for your sister, I presume.”
Race was breathing too hard to answer, though he had flown in. Nor did he feel like it; he kn
