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“You want good news or bad news first?” Dec asked over the radio.
“Good.”
“Most of the imperial security forces are at the train station, and the city is under lockdown. Irithys made it out—she vanished into the countryside. Off to wherever.”
“I gave her instructions on where to go—what to do,” Lidia said quietly. But then asked, “What’s the bad news?”
“Mordoc and two dozen dreadwolves also made it out of the southwestern gate before it shut. I think they’ve figured out you’re headed for the coast.”
“Fuck,” Athalar spat from the back seat.
“Flynn?” Lidia asked.
“Flynn’s behind them. Mordoc and company are crossing onto your road. They’ll be on your tail within ten minutes at your current speed. So go faster.”
“I’m already driving at top speed.”
“Then you’ll have to find a way to ditch them.”
Cold washed through Ruhn that had nothing to do with his injuries or bleeding arm. He dared himself to look at Lidia—really look at her.
She merely stared at the road ahead. The wind ripped strands of her golden hair free from the chignon high on her head. Calculation swirled in her eyes.
Baxian said over the wind, “They’ll have every guard between here and the coast watching the road.”
And they’d just lost their machine gun. Lidia reached for the holster at her thigh and handed her sidearm back to Athalar.
“That’s all we have?” Athalar demanded, checking the bullets. Ruhn didn’t need to look to know there weren’t enough in the gun to get them through this.
“If I’d packed more, someone would have been suspicious,” Lidia said coolly.
Declan’s voice crackled over the radio. “What’s the plan, Daybright?”
Ruhn watched her beautiful, perfect face. Watched as determination set her features. “Have the ship at the planned coordinates,” she told Declan. “Ready the hatch for an aerial landing.”
34
The Autumn King stayed holed up in his study for the rest of the day, so Bryce took the opportunity to go poking about. First in the kitchen, which was utilitarian enough that it was clearly built for a team of chefs. The walk-in fridge was, thankfully, stocked with freshly cooked food. She helped herself to some poached trout and herbed rice for lunch, along with a glass of the fanciest champagne she could find—swiped from a cold case in the massive wine cellar—and tried all the door handles to the outside once before settling for a walk through the villa halls.
She wandered past white columns and soaring atriums, expanses of floor-to-ceiling windows, and artfully concealed panels for tech. She’d opened a few of the latter as she walked, hoping for something to connect her to the outside world, but so far they had revealed only controls for the radiant flooring, the automatic blinds, and the air conditioner.
Bryce swigged directly from the bottle as she meandered through the basement. A gym, steam room, massage room, and a sauna occupied one wing. The other wing held an indoor lap pool, a screening room, and what seemed to be the Autumn King’s security office. All the computers and cameras were dark and locked. No amount of trying to turn them on worked.
He’d thought of everything.
Cursing him to darkest Hel, she wandered through the ground level: a formal living room, the dining room, his study—doors shut in a quiet message to keep the fuck out—the kitchen again, a den, and a game room complete with a pool table and shuffleboard table.
None of the TVs worked. A check revealed that their power cords were missing. No interweb routers to be found, either.
She tried not to picture her mom here, young and innocent and trusting.
On the next level up, doors had been left open to reveal various guest rooms, all as beautiful and bland as her own. One wing was locked—surely her father’s private suite.
Yet the double doors at the end of the other wing had been left unlocked. She opened them to a familiar scent that had her heart clenching.
Ruhn.
Posters of rock bands still hung on the walls. The massive four-poster bed with its black silk sheets was really the only sign of princely wealth. The rest screamed rebellious youth: ticket stubs taped by the mirror, a record of all the concerts he’d ever been to. A closet full of black shirts and jeans and boots, mixed with a jumble of discarded knives and swords.
