Page 17 of Crown of Death
Through the darkness last night, I couldn’t see that there are four long windows high up on the back wall. But now dull morning light creeps in throughthem.
Morning.
I’ve been here, tied to this chair, all nightlong.
My head whips to the side. Slumped in it, still chained and bound, is Eli. I watch him, and finally see his chest slowly rise andfall.
I look around, and there’s the woman, pacing the room. She fidgets, unsure what to do with her hands, so she twirls the stake she confiscated from Eli. There’s no sign ofEdmond.
“They’ll be back any minute,” she says, though she doesn’t look at me. Her eyes remain trained on that steel door, even as she paces back and forth. “I thought you might want to be awake and aware when they gethere.”
“They?” I ask. My voice is scratchy, rough. I realize my tongue is incredibly dry. My throat feelsuncomfortable.
“Edmond, and…him,” she says. “And anyone else he chooses to travelwith.”
Tiredness sweeps through me and my eyelids sag closed. My body feels sluggish andheavy.
What did they drug mewith?
“They’re almost here,” she says, and I hear something in her voice that sets me on alert, waking me up: fear. She shuffles, unsure of where to stand. She goes behind me, then seems to think better of it and goes to stand just before the door. “Wake up. You want to be fully aware forthis.”
“What…” I begin to question. But I hear tires on gravel. And then the sound of three car doorsclosing.
The woman takes a quick intake of breath and I can feel the terror rolling off ofher.
A cold, wet vice creeps up my chest. Up my throat. Around myarms.
Anxiety spills into every vein Ihave.
The breath catches in mythroat.
Because there is suddenly this…presence.
Ofdarkness.
Of…
The door opens, and that last emotion becomes crystalclear.
Power.
Every cell in my body has stopped replicating. Every hair has stopped growing. Every bit of oxygen has stopped flowing through mybody.
I am utterly still. Utterly frozen, as the door slides open, and a figure isrevealed.
I hardly even dare call him a man, the person who standsthere.
Black slacks hug toned legs. Cinch around a trim waist. A perfectly tailored suit jacket stretches over obviously strong shoulders and lean forearms. A black shirt is buttoned up to the neck, and he wears a blood redtie.
A perfectly sculpted jaw is covered by a short dusting of dark facial hair. He boasts a slightly too-full upper lip. A proud, straight nose. Incredibly thick, nearly black hair is styled modern and toprecision.
But it’s his eyes that pierce me down to mycore.
Dark eyes, that I realize are a dark, forest green, pinme.
He swears. He says it in something I think might be German, but somehow I know that heswears.
“Hello, LoganPierce.”