“That’s the least of your worries. I’ve said much worse.”
“I need a favor.”
She must detect the seriousness in my tone because the background noise melts away, a door clicking shut on the other end of the line. “What is it?”
“I just need you to drive me somewhere tomorrow.”
“Do I look like I’m running a taxi service?”
“I just want you to drive me somewhere in the morning and be on standby. I can pay you for petrol.”
“Don’t insult me.” She sighs, like I’m a toddler asking her for another round of a game. “Ophelia, if you need someone to die just leave it with us. You’ll make a fucking mess of it.”
I must be hormonal, because Belladonna being willing to kill for me shouldn’t be making me emotional. “I’m just meeting someone is all.”
“Who?”
“I … don’t know exactly who it is.”
The silence drags on, and I can practically hear her trying to make her mind up.
“Does Alex know about this?”
“No. That’s why I’m asking you and not your brother. Listen, last week … last week I stayed a night with Alex in London, and someone smashed into the house.”
“Were either of you hurt?”
“I was upstairs. It could’ve been bad for Alex. Whoever has been sending me these messages … they told me they’d hurt him, and I didn’t listen.”
Her voice carries a lethal edge when it next comes. “Okay, and your plan is …”
“Can you shoot?”
She laughs like she’s offended by the question.
“Whoever it is, I don’t want them dead, but I want them captured. But I’m supposed to be going alone, and …”
“If you contact the police, they won’t show.”
“Yeah.”
“This is a bad idea, you know that?”
I do know that, but I also can’t keep going on like this.
“It’s like my life is being dictated by someone else. I just want to know that I did what I could. Whoever is texting me clearly isn’t traceable. Alex’s investigators would’ve found them by now.”
Her voice quiets, softens around the edges. “I understand that.”
“I’m not asking you to put yourself in any danger. If it looks unsafe, just leave.”
“I won’t be in danger. Iamthe danger. I’ll swing by your room when I’m back from Raigmore later.”
SORROWSONG’S WILD GARDENSare glistening in a thin film of dew when I meet Belladonna outside the Nightshade mansion at four in the morning. She’s in black sweatpants and a hoodie, car keys dangling from her pinky as she types something on her phone. She doesn’t even look up, just bites out a frosty “Let’s go” and starts to lead the way up the gravel path.
We walk silently through the shrouded paths to the car park south of the castle, but I’m jittery, teeth chattering and hands clammy in my pockets. If there was any tiredness left in me when my alarm went off this morning, it’s been swallowed whole by the adrenaline that has my heart pounding beneath my ribs.
Belladonna unlocks her Bronco and slides into the driver’s seat, putting a steaming flask of coffee in the cupholder. “Still sure?”
