Page 88 of Winterveil

In the midst of her panic, Nadiya’s gaze flitted to Julian. He wasn’t pounding on the door or throwing himself against the glass. Instead, he stood motionless in the center of the room, hands clapped over his ears, eyes squeezed shut.

What was he hearing? Klaudia’s screams? Nadiya had seen the way he looked at her.

She didn’t know how much time passed before her body seemed to give up on her. Her muscles quivered; her bones turned wobbly. Though her mind was still racing and her heart was still pounding, she could fight no more.

For all her training, for all her discipline and strength, this had defeated her. Nadiya slumped against the wall and slid to the floor.

Julian was also huddled against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. His arms were braced over his head, still trying vainly to shut out the sound.

No real thoughts were running through Nadiya’s mind as she shifted along the wall. She moved in slow, aching increments until she was perfectly aligned with Julian, only the thick layer of glass between them. She could almost feel the pulsing warmth of his body as his shoulders trembled with soundless weeping.

Julian looked up. Tears washed his cheeks. His proud, aristocratic face was pale with terror.

Even if they had been able to hear each other, Nadiya’s throat was too raw to speak. She leaned her head wearily against the wall. On the other side, Julian did the same. They were two huddled masses in matching shapes, as if the glass were a mirror.

Tears trickled down Nadiya’s face. Giselle’s screams played through the speaker on a loop. But she didn’t call for Deckard. She remained still, shoulder to shoulder with Julian, who stayed unmoving and silent, too.

Thirty

Spring 2037

Camp Peary, Virginia

Klaudia felt numb as she descended the stairs. Her limbs were stiff and it all felt like the haze of some horrible dream.

Giselle followed her, whimpering. When they reached the great room, she let out a choked sob.

The door to the lodge was still open, the wood juddering in the wind. But the men had vanished into the snow and they’d otherwise left no trace, no indication they’d ever been there at all. Half-finished glasses of water remained undisturbed. The files had not been scattered or tipped onto the floor. Even the chessboard of Julian and Klaudia’s aborted game was untouched. Her gaze scanned the pieces. Julian had hung his queen. If they’d kept playing, her win was all but guaranteed.

The only proof that the strange men had come was that Nadiya and Julian were gone.

Giselle crossed the room and circled the table, hand reaching out to skim over the files, as if she might be able to feel some of Nadiya’s and Julian’s lingering presence. A swallow pulsed in her throat. Then she looked over at Klaudia, eyes glossy with unshed tears, and said, “Why didn’t they take me instead?”

It was not the question Klaudia had expected and for a moment she was unmoored. “We can’t know Deckard’s intentions.”

She didn’t like admitting that she was just as confused and felt just as helpless. Then Klaudia watched with no small amount of horror as Giselle sank to the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest, buried her face in her hands, and began to weep.

Klaudia froze. She was no more equipped for this situation than she was for a shoot-out or a parachute jump.

The sound of Giselle’s tears overwhelmed her intellectual capabilities. If she were kinder—if she were another person entirely—to kneel beside Giselle and comfort her would be second nature. But now Klaudia only stood mutely, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

Giselle’s tears wore on and Klaudia made herself move. Slowly, as if approaching a cornered animal. She knelt down and began having an internal argument with her own arm. Just touch her shoulder. That’s all you have to do. Just let her know you’re here. That you care.

It seemed such a pathetically difficult task. After another moment, she reached out and let her hand rest on Giselle’s shoulder.

Giselle looked up, tear-streaked face both despondent and shocked.

“It’s going to be okay,” Klaudia said. “We’ll get them back.”

She spoke with more confidence than she felt.

In a hoarse, pained voice, Giselle asked, “How?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

Klaudia let her hand slip from Giselle’s shoulder and she rose to her feet again. She hesitated, and then offered Giselle the same hand. Giselle took it, and Klaudia pulled her up to a standing position.

Now Klaudia cast her gaze around the room. Deckard’s men had left nothing; they had slipped in by the cover of night and then vanished again, as mysteriously as they’d arrived. It did not surprise her at all that Crispin was nowhere to be found. She was almost certain that he’d been a part of it, somehow.