Lover At Last(109)

But she was not leaving without her money, goddamn it—

Abruptly, she smiled to herself, the solution becoming clear.

For many aeons in the course of human civilization, commerce had existed and thrived on the barter system. Which was to say one individual traded goods or services for those of like value.

For all the jobs she’d done, she’d never before considered adding up the aftermath ancillary costs to her targets: new safes, new security systems, more safety protocols. She could bet these were expensive—although not nearly as much as whatever she typically took. And she’d entered here taking for granted those additional costs were going to be borne by Benloise—kind of pecuniary damages for what he’d cheated her out of.

Now, though, they were the point.

On her way back to the stairs, she looked over the opportunities available to her…and in the end, she went over to a Degas sculpture of a little ballerina that had been placed off to the side in an alcove. The bronze depiction of the young girl was the kind of thing her grandmother would have loved, and maybe that was why, of all the art in the house, she zeroed in on it.

The light that had been mounted above the statue on the ceiling was off, but the masterpiece still managed to glow. Sola especially loved the skirting of the tutu, the delicate yet stiff explosion of tulle delineated by mesh metalwork that perfectly captured that which was supposed to be malleable.

Sola cozied up to the statue’s base, wrapped her arms around it, and threw all of her strength into rotating its position by no more than two inches.

Then she raced up the stairs, unclipped her router and laptop from the alarm panel in the master bedroom, relocked that door, and headed out of the window she’d cut the hole in.

She was back in her skis and slicing through the snow no more than four minutes later.

In spite of the fact that there was nothing in her pockets, she was smiling as she left the property.





THIRTY-EIGHT


When the Mercedes finally pulled up to the front entrance of the Brotherhood’s mansion, Qhuinn got out first and went to Layla’s door. As he opened it, her eyes lifted to meet his.

He knew he was never going to forget the way her face looked. Her skin was paper white and seemed just as thin, the beautiful bone structure straining against its covering of flesh. Eyes were sunken into her skull. Lips were flat and thin.

He had an idea in that moment of how she would look just as she died, however many decades or centuries that would happen in the future.

“I’m going to carry you,” he said, bending down and picking her up.

The way she didn’t argue told him exactly how little of her there was left.

As the vestibule doors were opened by Fritz, like the butler had been waiting for their arrival, Qhuinn regretted the whole thing: The dream that he’d briefly entertained during her needing. The hope he’d wasted. The physical pain she was in. The emotional anguish they were both going through.

You did this to her.

At the time, when he’d serviced her, he’d been solely focused on the positive outcome he’d been so sure of.

Now, on the far side, his shitkickers planted on the solid, foul-smelling earth of reality? Not worth it. Even the chance of a healthy young wasn’t worth this.

The worst was watching her suffer.

As he brought her into the house, he prayed there wasn’t a big audience. He just wanted to spare her something, anything, even if it was simply being paraded in front of a cast of sad, worried faces.

No one was around.

Qhuinn took the stairs two at a time, and as he came up to the second story, the wide-open double doors of Wrath’s study made him curse.

Then again, the king was blind.

As George let out a chuff of greeting, Qhuinn just strode by, gunning for Layla’s bedroom. Kicking open the door, he found that the doggen had been in and tidied up, the bed all made, the sheets undoubtedly changed, a fresh bouquet of flowers set on the bureau.

Looked like he wasn’t the only one who wanted to help in whatever way he could.

“Do you want to change?” he asked as he kicked the door shut.

“I want a shower—”

“Let’s get one started.”

“—except I’m too afraid. I don’t…want to see it, if you know what I mean.”

He laid her down and sat on the bed beside her. Putting his hand on her leg, he rubbed her knee with his thumb, back and forth.

“I’m so sorry,” she said roughly.

“Fuck—no, don’t do that. You don’t ever think that or say it, clear? This is not your fault.”

“Who else’s is it?”

“Not the point.”

Shit, he couldn’t believe the miscarrying thing was going to go on for another week or so. How was that possible—