I hate watching everyone pretend they’re living it up in Vegas while what we’re really doing is sitting around waiting for this thing to happen, the moment that will define us. It’s maddening.
I temporarily lose Father, then find him again at the high-stakes table with that same woman. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.
The twins take Anna into the bathroom to clean her up, and then I hear her getting sick. Kope and I look at each other. He shakes his head. I know. I shouldn’t go in there. I can’t show concern.
When she starts to cry, my heart shatters and I ignore Kope’s outstretched hand to stop me. I push past Blake and burst into the bathroom. The twins silently try to stop me as well, but I know what I’m doing. I’ll be quiet. I have to comfort her.
Anna is on her knees under the running water, sitting back on her heels in the shower stall, soaking wet in her underwear. Her hands are on the tiles. She looks up at me with the saddest, reddest eyes. I quickly unbutton my dress shirt and throw it to the sink, followed by my undershirt. Then I open the stall door and crouch behind her, taking her in my arms. She sinks back into me, shaking. We sit there for the next twenty minutes with my arms around her while her bloodstream clears.
When she finally turns to look at me, her eyes are clear, and I nod.
I stand, dry my arms, and leave her to get ready.
I hate this night. It’s hard to imagine that things will look up from here. I can only imagine all the ways they can get worse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It’s Time
“We are the lions, free of the coliseums . . .
We’re the beginning of the end.”
—“Young Volcanoes” by Fall Out Boy
I knew things would get worse.
Whispered voices down the hall catch my attention, European accents. I hear the name Marek and I listen intently. It’s a language I don’t understand, but the man speaking sounds urgent. He slips into English at the end. “Find it.”
Footsteps head down the hall, our direction. It’s Marek, and I know what he’s after. I run to my duffel bag and yank out Anna’s bag from within, shoving it toward her.
“Here’s your bag. Get ready.” She stares at me like I’ve gone crazy. I sign, Hide the hilt! The son of Shax is coming!
She pales and opens the bag. We all watch, tense, as she pulls out a sack of wrapped sweets, looks around the room frantically, and then shoves the sack into the rubbish bin. The hilt has traveled the world, hidden in this fashion, with no notice, undetected by man-made machines. But something tells me the son of Theft will be harder to fool.
Moments later he’s at the door, with a whisperer following him in. Marek is matter-of-fact, completely at ease. It’s almost eerie the way Marek seems to know exactly what he’s looking for—the bag of taffies. He fishes it from the bin and opens it, removing the hilt.
He turns to me. “She had it all along. Don’t you know never to trust a pretty face?” His eyes scan me from top to bottom. I’m getting a sense from this guy that I can’t place. It’s nothing to do with the sensual way he takes me in. It’s in the way his eyes seem to be trying to communicate something more. I am rigid from the fact that he’s taking the Sword of Righteousness on his father’s orders, but something in his gaze tells me not to fight it.
When Marek and the whisperer leave, Shax gives him instructions: “Dispose of it. Bury it in the desert if you must.”
We’ve lost our solitary weapon, and it’s almost time to leave for the summit. Panic flares in my chest, and then oddly subsides. From the look on Anna’s face, she’s got enough anxiety for the both of us.
It’s not until an hour later, as Marek is checking us over at the door to the nightclub, that I figure out what’s strange about him—he gives off no evil vibes, no malicious intent. I don’t get the feeling from him that I get with the Dukes and sons of Thamuz and other likely suspects. Marek takes his time patting me down. When the metal detector blares at my boots, and he checks them over with care, I am not nervous. He wears a malevolent expression, but I am the king of masks, and his feels false.
Despite appearances, I have the feeling Marek is an ally. I think he knew how the hilt was hidden because Belial got ahold of him. When he glances up at me from where he’s crouched at my feet, we share the smallest of inconspicuous grins. He knows there are compartments in the underside of my boots, but he doesn’t open them. He merely stands and nods for me to move along. I don’t linger. I want to tell Anna my suspicions, to ease her mind, but it’s not safe. As we enter the club, I bloody hope I’m right about Marek. I hope the son of Theft has the hilt up his sleeve, ready to play.
I keep myself consistently buzzed with a constant stream of alcohol. I have to keep the bonds between me and Anna hidden from Astaroth. I wish I could stay sober, but I must remain on that cusp of fuzziness.
As promised, Father shows to walk Anna into the summit, ready to take full credit for her “capture.” He looks her over with a sneer, and I know what he’s thinking.
She looks the part—a badass mercenary in black leather with heeled boots, and bright blond hair flowing wildly. Her eyes are dark and her lips are red. She doesn’t back down from his stare.
Father turns to me with an abrasive glare. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said to get her different clothes.”
I don’t respond. He grabs her arm and yanks her toward the VIP room where the summit will take place. Anna turns her head to capture my gaze over her shoulder. She is afraid, but pushing forward. My brave girl. Anyone else, including me, would have tried to run from this fate.