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Ares leans against the black sedan we drove here in, looking up at me. His expression is careful, measuring. As I stalk toward the car, Eros emerges from the house.
Ares pushes himself off the car, his gaze traveling between the two of us. “Did ye get a location out of him?”
“Sort of. He confessed that Constantine mentioned something vague about the beach and the States. I believe that he might mean New Orleans.”
Eros screws up his face. “New Orleans doesn’t have a beach. It’s a good distance from the coast, if I remember correctly.”
I reach the car and wrench the driver’s side door open. “Yeah, well. I’m going to drive to the nearest airport that will take our fake papers. And ye get on the phone and find out where Constantine could be taking Persephone.” I start to get in the car, then hesitate. “Persephone once mentioned that she and Constantine lived together on this beach. So… maybe try Etienne.”
Eros jogs up to the car, hand on his chin where I hit him. He silently opens the door and slides into the back seat, as sullen as a little boy.
Ares looks at me, lifting his brows. I just shake my head.
“Do we need to…” Ares pauses, looking back at the house. “Are we just going to leave the bugger here?”
“Eros took it upon himself to kill our last source.” I climb into the car. “Come on. Pick up the phone. I’ll work on getting us back to civilization.”
He jogs around to the passenger side, quickly letting himself in. He turns, quirking a brow at Eros. Eros flips him off and then looks away, staring out his window.
I let out a growl as I start the car.
I’m coming for you, Persephone. And I’m going to rain down hellfire when I find you.
With her face in my mind, I rev the engine and then take off at full speed.
Chapter25
Persephone
Idon’t see Constantine for the first couple of days after I am dragged back to the States. I was drugged some time during the final leg of my return. But when I wake up in a strange bedroom, woozy from the barbiturates and jet lagged beyond belief, I know exactly where I am.
The gentle wish-wash of the sea sighing just outside my window. The distinctive color and quality of the late afternoon sun, baking down on stripes of red clay and sandy gray soil. The bedroom itself, with its lofted white ceilings, smooth dark wood floors, and the choice of a black wrought iron bed frame with rough white linen sheets. It is no doubt designed to hint both at antebellum wealth and ancient Italian houses with grand columns two stories high out front. I may not know where I am, but I’ve been in this exact place a thousand times before.
In other words, I’m definitely in coastal Mississippi.
Head pounding, I sit up with a groan. I realize with a shiver that my loose black caftan is gone, replaced by a yellow sundress with skinny straps. The feeling of violation that washes over me brings a wave of nausea along with it. Not only did strangers probably see my lifeless body being carried through airports and into this house, but strange hands saw me naked and changed my clothes.
My fists curl at the same time that tears prick at my eyes. Fury and helplessness make me hang my head for a moment. I suck in cool breaths and try to contain my emotions; there is nothing helped by losing my temper just now.
At length, my stomach rumbles. It has been a while since I’ve had a proper meal. I push myself off the bed, standing a bit unsteadily at first. Whatever was in the pills the strange man gave me was very potent and it’s making it hard to think.
When I feel the baby kick, I relax just a little, the concern for all the drugs they gave me lingering.
Looking around the room, I see two soaring, impossibly huge windows that face out into the bright sun. Heading over to one, I brush aside the lacy white curtain, peering out.
We are right on the beach. Not three hundred yards from where I stand right now, waves lap gently at the shore, foamy water fanning out over the sandy ground and then retreating in a quiet rhythm.
I lean against the white window sash, blinking as I try to form a coherent thought. The brilliant blue sky seems to mock my drug-addled stillness. Out amongst the gray sand dunes, a white plastic bag whips back and forth, the wind pulling at it with frenzied, unseen fingers.
A loud noise from behind me makes me jump and whip my head around with wild eyes. The bedroom door bangs open, and I see a shiny silver clothing rack pushed into the room, swollen with sleek red and black clothing.
Constantine’s eyes glint when he sees me standing at the window. “Good. You’re up.”
A chill slides through my blood at his knowing smirk. “Constantine?—"
“Ah ah,” he says, holding up his hands.
My reaction to that correction — ah ah — is a physical shudder of horror. How many times did I hear that when I was in a relationship with this madman? Too many times to count. I feel acid sloshing around in the pit of my stomach.
