“Mom? It’s me.” Like she wouldn’t know. Who else would call her “Mom”?
She mumbled something incoherent. I breathed a sigh of relief, both that she was awake, and that the bad guys hadn’t gotten to her. I knocked one more time, just to make sure she didn’t decide she was dreaming and go back to sleep. She said something else—I think, maybe, “Coming!”—and I heard footsteps approaching the door.
At the same moment, my skin started to prickle and the cameo, tucked under the neck of my shirt, started to heat. Just as my mom’s door swung open, I realized what that meant. But it was too late.
Someone shoved me from behind, sending me flying through the door and into my mother’s room. I slammed into Mom, and we both fell to the floor. By the time I managed to roll off of her and get to my feet, someone had closed the door and turned on the light.
Dread clenching in my gut, I turned to see who had just ambushed me.
Aunt Grace lounged in the doorway, looking terribly proud of herself. By her side, a disembodied arm floated in the air, holding a gun pointed at my mom. On the floor under the arm—about where you’d expect a person’s feet to be—were a pair of shoes. I gaped. Grace laughed and reached into the seemingly empty air. A moment later, the arm and the shoes were attached to a smallish, human-looking guy wearing a hooded black cloak. A cloak just like the one Aunt Grace was wearing.
“The cloaks only work when the hoods are up,” Aunt Grace explained, like we were having a friendly conversation. “And they only hide what’s behind the fabric, so one needs to keep one’s limbs tucked under to be completely unseen. They cost me a small fortune, but they were worth it.”
I couldn’t think of anything clever and witty to say, so I just stood there staring at the gun, hoping Grace’s friend didn’t have an itchy trigger finger. I swallowed hard, wishing I’d let Ethan come up to the room with me after all. Then again, I doubted Ethan was a match for Grace, and he certainly wasn’t a match for that gun.
“What do you want?” I asked, and I was surprised that I sounded almost calm. My pulse was galloping, and I’d broken out in a sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature.
She arched one graceful brow. “Don’t you know, dear?”
“You want your very own pet Faeriewalker. Well, let me tell you, your methods of winning me over aren’t lighting my fire.” Gee, that sounded kinda brave. Now, if my hands would only stop shaking, Aunt Grace might actually believe I was as brave as I sounded.
She gave me a marrow-freezing glare. “Obviously your mother didn’t teach you any manners.”
I crossed my arms over my chest—more to hide the shaking hands than to be defiant. “Apparently yours didn’t either. Or do you consider kidnapping your own niece polite?”
Grace moved so fast I couldn’t have stopped her if I’d tried. Her hand flew at my face and landed a bell-ringing slap on my cheek. I gasped, and tears misted over my eyes. My face felt like it had just had a run-in with a truck.
I swallowed the tears as best I could, gritting my teeth and ordering myself not to cry over one little slap. I thought about what kind of pain Finn must have gone through during his encounter with the Knights. If he could endure that without complaint, then I could force myself not to give Grace the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
“I’ve been wanting to do that almost from the first moment you opened your mouth,” she growled at me. “And I would be happy to do it again if you have any more cutting remarks you’d like to make.”
I managed to hold off the tears, and I didn’t put my hand against my aching, burning cheek. But I wasn’t anxious for a repeat performance, so I kept quiet.
“Kirk,” Aunt Grace said to her henchman, motioning him toward my mom, who was just starting to come to.
“Keep away from her!” I cried as he bent down toward her, but he ignored me, and with that gun in his hand, I didn’t dare make a move to stop him. All Keane’s fancy moves were useless when the enemy had a weapon—and a hostage.
Kirk grabbed my mom and shoved her onto the bed. She made a puzzled little “Huh?” sound, but she was still really out of it. Kirk tucked his gun in his belt and flipped my mom onto her stomach, then tied her hands behind her back. When he was done, he took the gun out again and put the muzzle against her head.
“You and I are going to take a walk, dear,” Aunt Grace said to me, taking hold of my arm. “Behave yourself, and your mother will come to no harm.” With her other hand, she pulled a cell phone out of the handbag that was slung diagonally across her body. With one hand, she dialed a number.
“Cathy Hathaway’s room, please,” she said pleasantly when someone answered.
The room phone rang, and Kirk picked up the receiver and laid it on the nightstand.
“Can you hear me all right?” Grace asked, and we could all hear her voice buzzing from the room phone. “Perfect!”
She pushed me toward the door, brandishing her cell phone. “If I give the order, or if this connection is cut, Kirk will shoot your mother in the head. Don’t have any illusions that he won’t do as he’s told—he’s a professional. So you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do at all times. Understand?”
I looked at my mother, lying trussed up and facedown on the bed with a gun to her head. She was absolutely helpless, and this time, I couldn’t blame it on the alcohol. Had she been stone cold sober, she’d still be in the same mess. And it would still be my fault.