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Chapter Three
“I’m sure there is a suitable change of clothes for you among my things.”
“I’m good.”
Her eyebrow arches at the mud and mustard splattered on the hem of my dress. I’m sure I wouldn’t have to look hard to find smears of Tony’s blood too. “Suit yourself.” She shifts her attention back to her newspaper. She unfolded it as the plane’s engines revved for takeoff and is working her way through, page by page. Korsakov was the only other person I knew who would take the time to read a whole paper like that, rather than skim for interesting headlines.
When we emerged from the warehouse, the armed men were missing from their posts and the two guards with Sofie were waiting in the SUV, their hands drenched in blood. Any thoughts I might still have had about escape evaporated.
They exchanged no words, simply nodding at Sofie when she gave orders to take us to the airport. Now, they huddle in the pod of seats beside us, the sleeves of their black dress shirts rolled up, quietly cleaning and polishing an arsenal of blades with methodical precision.
There are daggers and swords of various lengths and shapes—some with a simple, functional hilt like the knife I lost tonight, and others with gilding and jewels that gleam under the light and would make Skully salivate. Propped up against the side of the cabin wall is a crossbow, a bundle of sleek quivers next to it.
“You don’t use guns.” It’s an internal thought that I don’t mean to blurt out loud.
“Where is the sport in that?” the man on the left says, his voice low and raspy. He pauses to regard me directly for the first time, allowing me to see the predatory gaze in his golden irises.
Though I never witnessed it myself, I know Korsakov killed people. He would rage at their betrayal and blame them for forcing him to exact retribution. But for weeks after someone disappeared, there would be a solemness to his demeanor. Somewhere very deep down, despite his justifications, I think ending a life haunted the man.
I see no hint of remorse in the eyes that stare back at me now, and the way they drag over my neck and chest makes me shrink into my wool blanket.
I shift my attention to the small portal window next to me, absorbing the constant hum of the engines. Far below, the city lights fade in the distance. I’ve never been on a plane before, let alone a private one. I couldn’t help the stir of intrigue when the white SUV pulled up beside it. “Where are we going?”
“My home.”
Belgium, if what she told me earlier is true. Despite everything, I feel a smile touch my lips.
“This pleases you.” Sofie peers over her newspaper again, watching me intently. The sociable, mischievous woman from the bar is gone. She guards her expressions and her tone so well, I can’t begin to read her mood.
“I’ve never been to Europe. I mean, I planned on going, someday.” Korsakov demanded that I always be within an hour’s reach unless I was robbing someone for him, so escapes to London and Rome weren’t an option. Truth be told, I think he worried that if I left, I wouldn’t come back.
I can’t believe he’s dead. I never liked the man, but I cared that he found value in me. Who knows what I’ll feel when this shock wears off, if there will be anything beyond relief.
“Fear not. You will see many new places, soon enough.” Sofie peers out her own window. “I didn’t leave my home city of Paris until I was twenty-one. Same age as you are now. That was when I met Elijah. He wanted to show me the world.”
And yet he’s never been to New York?
She knows how old I am. Or rather, the man who sent her knows. “So, you work for Malachi?” Saying that name out loud doesn’t trigger any familiarity.
“I serve him, yes. It will all make sense soon.” She pauses. “Romeria is a pretty name. Unique.”
I swallow against my unease. It’s been years since I answered to my real name, another lifetime ago. “It’s Romy.”
“I wonder why your parents chose it,” she muses, in a way that suggests she already has an idea.
“They never told me,” I lie. My mother said it came to her in a dream one night, before I was born.
“Did you know it means ‘pilgrimage’ in Spanish?”
“No. I’m sure it’s coincidence.” I doubt my parents could put ten Spanish words together between the two of them.
“‘One who journeys to a foreign land,’” she recites as if quoting a definition, her attention still out her window.
“Like Belgium?”
Her lips purse. “Though, the Spanish version would likely refer to the religious connotation. There was a time when humans routinely took long spiritual journeys in search of truth and meaning, and to make offerings to their god.” Ridicule touches her tone.
But it’s her word choice that makes my eyebrows pop. “Humans?”
