CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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With cat-like tread,
Upon our prey we steal. . . .
—Ibid, Act II
“Bart?” I asked, goose bumps marching up my arms at the cold smile he gave me. “Or do you prefer to be called Paul?”
His smile didn’t fade one little bit. “Ye may use either, lass.”
“I think I’ll stick to Bart, if you don’t mind. How did you get here?”
“I’ve me ways. And don’t be thinkin’ to yell for help,” he added as I glanced out of the corner of my eye toward Renata’s house. “I’ve plans for ye yet, but they can be rearranged if I have to kill ye now.”
I crossed my arms. “So, what exactly do you want from me?”
“Right now, ye’re goin’ to come with me. As for later”—his gaze scanned me in a way that left my skin crawling—“well, I’m thinkin’ I’d like to know what charms ye have to keep
