"Relax," Butch said. "Breathe. Slowly. In and out. Steady. But stay silent. He's coming."
The intruder remained strangely quiet as he moved toward the bed. Not even the softest sigh of a footstep reached her impeccably attuned ears.
Kiara held her breath as he stopped at her bedside. She had the sudden urge to grab his ankles, like a real monster under the bed. She bet his boots would thud and squeak as he jumped away, giving him a taste of the terror he was trying to inflict upon her. But Butch clasped her hand in his wrinkled fingers. She frowned, irritated she would not get the satisfaction.
A hiss and rustle of sheets filled the air, followed by a few pillows falling onto the floor. Then she heard him flipping through the book she had fallen asleep reading, yet another history on Leonardo da Vinci. The intruder sighed and stepped back.
He strode to the center of her room and knelt. Slowly, he lifted the hatch door off the floor. Light beaconed from the hole, blasting the chandelier directly above and causing the crystal pieces to refract like tiny stars skittering about the room.
He wore no cloak now, only dark pants, a hoodie, and gloves.
In one fluid motion, he dropped through the hatch too quickly to have used the ladder. There was no thud from an impact below.
"How is he doing that?" Kiara whispered. "Maybe he's a ghost."
Giddiness fluttered over her skin, helping abate her initial panic, but she quickly crawled out from under the bed and rolled onto her back, happy for the open space. She sucked in deep breaths and worked to calm her racing heart.
Butch scooched out and stood, tucking the flannel shirt into his jeans and smoothing his sparse grey hair back before readjusting the cowboy hat back onto his head. Kiara smiled. Even in moments of danger, he liked to keep a neat appearance.
The delicate material of her nightgown clung to her small, slender body, but under her pale skin was a mass of sinewy muscle. She had delicate features, fine bones. The classic, serene beauty of a high society debutante in her late teens or early twenties. But looks could be deceiving.
Butch rolled his eyes. "If he was a ghost, why would he have opened the doors?"
"Good point." Flipping the long French braid of her dark hair over her shoulder, Kiara army-crawled for the hatch. "Do you think he knows he broke into the Palace of the Undead? How stupid do you have to be? We've got every kind of walking corpse imaginable down there. All hungry."
"Not stupid a'tall." His southern drawl came out harder in stress filled moments. "It would take weeks of research and surveillance, not to mention skill, to get in here." Butch leaned his frail body against the heaviest dresser and made an unsuccessful attempt to move it. "Close the hatch and lock it. Quietly. We'll put this over it."
"Or we can follow him. Quietly."
Kiara peered over the edge of the hatch. An orange-gold light warmed Leontes' library beneath, but she did not see the intruder.
"No, no, no." Butch rushed to stop her.
"Too late!"
Kiara hurried down the ladder, mindful of the books stacked on the steps. She was far too curious and bored to play it safe. Mostly bored. Being a ward of the Queen of the Undead was surprisingly uneventful.
The library was painfully empty. Bookcases were stuffed to their limits, with more volumes piled precariously on top. A polished wood desk overflowed with more books, a laptop, and papers. A case of scrolls hung open. Books and pillows were strewn all over the floor. Someone really needed to clean up after her before Leontes came home. He did not like things messy.
The bottom of the ladder leading down from her hatch opened up to four lanes between the chaotic jumble of bookcases. One path led to a heavy wooden door, the others to the far ends of the room where cozy sitting nooks awaited.
Kiara took a step toward the door, but Butch caught her arm and tugged her behind one of the bookcases. At her look, he put a finger to his lips and pointed. Through a bookshelf, she could see the hooded intruder tread out cautiously.
"Nice save, Butch," Kiara whispered. "Doesn't he look like Leontes?"
Butch gripped her arm to keep her from stepping out. "That is not your guardian."
"I know."
She could not see the intruder's face, but his hoodie was too large for his slender frame. His head came almost to the top of the towering bookcases, much like her guardian's did. The intruder clutched a syringe in his lithe fingers. A big one. It contained a dark liquid with shiny flecks swirling within.
That looked ominous. And deadly. Not something Leontes would have. Nor a thief. But an assassin would.