Running the length of the hall, she ignored the tear of her flesh when she tripped on the metal banister, now ripped from its steel bolts and scattered along the hall.
The neighbor who’d pounded the door, now sprawled across the hallway, had a sweater on. Without thinking, she tore it off his limp limbs, briefly surprised at her strength and dexterity, and threw it over her head before rounding the corner of the doorway of Escobar’s apartment.
Her eyes flew wildly over the room, searching for her mother until they focused in on the area by the window where she caught movement.
Escobar still had Dianna in his wretched grip, and he was heading for that very window. Terror ripped through her, along with a rush of pure adrenaline. In what could only be called panic mode, she lunged for him, tearing at his back, grabbing her mother’s arm and yanking her away from the warlock.
Dianna fell to the floor hard, crashing into the couch with a grunt, struggling to rise the moment she gathered her wits.
But Escobar was quicker, faster, stronger than Martine would ever be. She might have caught him off guard, but it didn’t take long for him to get his bearings. In seconds, he had his thick arm wrapped around her neck and a shiny knife appeared out of nowhere, which he pointed at her throat.
“Take one more step and I’ll kill her, Dianna. I’ll slice her head off like I’m slicing bread!” Escobar roared.
Dianna crept close, her eyes ablaze. “Let her go, Escobar. Let her go or I’ll kill you!” she screamed, the demand hoarse and raw.
Martine dangled in his grip as her mother had, shrinking when Escobar screamed back, “Aw, you won’t do that, will you, Dianna? You won’t risk losing your daughter’s pretty head!”
Hold the phone. Escobar was talking to her mother as though he knew her, and Dianna was reciprocating.
Curious.
But none of that mattered. He would kill her and her mother if this went too far. She had to stop him somehow. An eerie calm invaded her, one Martine knew was borne of the realization that sometimes the jig was just up.
“Mom,” she begged, her eyes capturing Dianna’s. “Go. Go now. Don’t look back.”
The sharp point pressed to her neck made her legs tremble. Escobar’s words in her ear sent chills racing along her spine. “You know, I didn’t give you enough credit, did I, Martine? Who knew you’d have the chutzpah to escape? But now you’re just mucking up a perfectly good negotiation.”
Negotiation? Martine inhaled, gulping the acrid air as she struggled to think. “But I’m here now. Do whatever you want to me, just let my mother go!” Please.
Yet, rather than retreat, Dianna inched closer still, refusing to back down, utterly astounding Martine. “Let her go, Escobar,” she growled. “Let her go and take me in her place.”
Um, huh? Take her for what? “Mom—get out!”
Escobar clucked his tongue against the shell of her ear. “Now hold on there, my little familiar. I don’t want you anymore, Martine. I thought I made that clear when I brought you back here. But had I known your father was married to this woman—this gem—I’d have skipped his offer to purchase you entirely and insisted he give me your mother instead.”
Her mouth fell open. Purchase her? Everything was one big ball of tangled information she couldn’t parse. But one thing was clear. She’d been sold to Escobar. By her father.
Her pulse bobbled then sped up. What the hell?
But the only thing she managed to squeak out as his grip tightened around her neck was, “My father?”
Escobar’s sigh was put upon, his chest heaving against her back in a theatrical gasp of so-over-it. “Yes, kumquat. Surely you know how I ended up with you, don’t you?”
Martine trembled. Her feet, bloody and raw, ached as she clung to his forearm and shook her head. “No,” she whispered in horror. “I don’t know what you mean…” But she had an idea. A sick, twisted idea.
He sighed again, repositioning the shiny knife. “Your father sold you to me—for a tidy sum, too, I might add. Cost a fortune. And you were worth it. You served your purpose.”
Gavin had sold her to Escobar? Of all the horrible things her father had done, not in a million years would she have guessed even he was capable of something so treacherous—so heinous. “Why?” she husked out, raspy and raw. “Why did he sell me to you?”
His chuckle rumbled against her back, slipping from his throat in a slimy gurgle. “Why does your father do anything, Martine? Because he’s a helpless, useless drunk who actually believed me when I told him I’d help him get his immortality, with you as my guide. That’s why. Of course, your father, always looking for a buck, wanted money for you as part of our deal. Didn’t bat an eye when he offered you up, either. Gave me your exact location, in fact. Everything else was easy. I had someone follow you for a couple of days and then poof—you were mine.”