Now he gently woke her. “Rosamund. We have to go.”
She moaned and stretched as sensuously as a cat. She kissed his shoulders and murmured, “I just went to sleep.”
“Two hours ago. It’s past midnight. We need to go.”
“No. Not yet. I want you again.”
“You, my little virgin, are through for the evening.” But he knew that in the dark, he wore a stupid grin. She was warm and satisfied, and he had done that. He had made her first time good. “Besides, we have a prophecy to chase.”
“Oh. No. Darling.” Her fingers slid through his hair at the back of his neck. “Another few hours won’t hurt anything.”
He helped her sit up. “We’re not going to get another few hours in Louis Fournier’s guest closet. Somebody’s going to find us.” Remembering Pinhead Number Two’s reptilian looks provided Aaron with a shot of adrenaline. He covered her and stood up. “In fact, we’re running on borrowed time now.” He groped his way to the door. “Close your eyes. I’m going to turn on the light.”
“Okay.” She sounded sulky.
He flicked the switch and glanced her way. She was nothing but a tumble of carrot-colored hair peeking out of a pile of coats.
Good. She was concealed.
In a series of rapid forays through the chest of drawers, he found them both jeans, tops, and socks. He managed to locate a pair of boyleg panties he thought would fit her—although it went against his inclination to let her wear underwear at all—and after flipping through a bunch of bras and realizing he couldn’t begin to guess what would be comfortable, he grabbed an exercise bra that involved no snaps or cups, just pure elastic that pulled over the head.
“What are you doing?” She peeked at him from beneath the coats.
“Being a guy. I mean, I understand about sizes, but how do you women know which bra to use when?” He tossed her the clothes. “Do you think you can dress without showing any skin?”
“Sure. It’s like camping in Alaska. Duck under the covers and rumble around. It simply has to be done with care.”
He dressed, found a pair of boots that fit and laced them on, and all the while he watched as the coats rose and fell, twisted and flipped, and when she rose, Rosamund had once more been transformed. No longer the prim librarian, no longer the oblivious man-trap, she was now Rosamund, the adventurer, and she fit this role as easily as the others. The first time he’d seen her, he’d placed her in the niche of a dreamer. Then he’d seen the sadness she used as a barrier between her and the world, and he wondered what had broken her spirit.
Now the sadness was vanquished; her face was alight with eagerness for life, with passion for him, with love as yet undeclared.
Helpless to stop himself, he strode across the closet and kissed her.
And when he did, the lights blinked out.
They pulled apart, startled.
“Did you do that?” she asked.
“No.” More important, rich men like Fournier owned generators and power companies. They didn’t have power outages, and he didn’t like what this might portend.
“Stay here.” As he walked to the door, his mind leaped from one scenario to another.
Fujimoto had found him.
Louis was playing games.
The closet was monitored by the Pinhead Security Team, and they were moving in for the kill.
The Others had tracked them down.
Shoving the coat away from the bottom of the door, he knelt and listened, straining to hear what was happening beyond the closet. He heard distant screams from the ballroom. Running feet. Men shouting.
“Oh, no.” She had heard them, too.
“Rosamund, I don’t care how, but find some boots that fit and a coat, and put them on.” He knocked out orders like a general. “I’m going out to recon noiter.”
She comprehended the urgency in his voice all too well. They had lingered when they should have gone.
But God, how sweet this interlude had been.
She fumbled for her glasses, found them on a shelf above the coatrack and put them on, then groped her way toward the pile of shoes on the floor. “I’ll find gloves and hats for us both, too. Did you find a coat?”
He didn’t answer.
The lights blinked on again.
She glanced around. Stared.
He was gone.
“Aaron?” She hadn’t heard him open the door and shut it behind him. Had she really been so focused on those boots? “Aaron . . .” Apparently he’d somehow slipped away.
Very well. She would wait for him, and question him later.
Meanwhile, the light made it easier to find her shoe size, and within a few minutes she was ready to go, and had put aside down-filled coats for them both. She found a travel pack, too, similar to the one she’d worn from New York to Casablanca and then to Paris, and she transferred Bala’s Stone from her purse to the pack. She was strapping it around her waist when there was a light tap on the door.
She took a quick, frightened breath.
Aaron stepped in and shut the door behind him. She’d never seen him look so bleak, but before she could question him, he said in clipped tones, “We’re going to make a run for the car Fournier left us. The house must be running on a generator, or maybe there’s a fire somewhere, because the light out there is misty and dark.”
“Okay. That’s weird.” She was referring to the fact that he wasn’t telling her what they were screaming about out there.
Aaron misunderstood her. “The smoke or whatever it is makes it hard to see, and we want to get out as quickly as possible. Walk in front of me. Don’t talk to anyone. The people are panicked—they won’t notice us at all.”
“I hope not.” Something awful had happened, and Aaron wanted them out of here.
“We’re heading for the north entrance. Remember, I’ll be directly behind you.” He smiled at her, but it was a lopsided smile that only slightly eased the severity of his expression. “Listen to my instructions, and we’ll get through all right. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” And scared, but now wasn’t the time to admit it.
He stepped behind her. “Open the door now, and remember—walk steadily, don’t talk to anyone, and don’t look around at me.”
She put her hand on the knob and opened the door. As soon as she did, it was exactly as he said. A mist covered her vision, and it was as if she were looking through a screen or walking through smoke.
Aaron spoke directly into her ear. “To the right.”
It felt as if he was all around her, touching her everywhere as he had done when they made love. But now, he hurried her along as she walked down the corridor, away from the commotion in the ballroom. In grim silence, guards were running toward the noise. One guy, ugly and cold in a way that made the hair lift on her neck, walked along shouting, “Shut down the house. Shut down the house!” Guests had broken through the velvet rope, and were streaming away from the ballroom, babbling, “They say he’s dead.” “He is dead.” “They’re going to kill us all.”
Rosamund walked more quickly.
Then, coming toward them, she saw Fujimoto Akihiro, flanked by four men who looked tough and fast.
She took a frightened breath.
Fujimoto’s head turned. He stared right at them. Right through them.
She froze.
Aaron pushed her, and in a calm, quiet tone, he instructed, “Don’t say anything. Just walk.”
She stumbled along, watching Fujimoto, expecting at any moment to hear him shout and point, for the men around him to pull out guns and knives and kill Aaron.
But although Fujimoto’s eyes narrowed as if trying to read in low light, he seemed not to see them at all. Finally he turned away, and in a rapid burst of Japanese and with a wide gesture, he sent his men fanning out toward the ballroom.
“Why . . . ? How . . . ?” She didn’t understand. She and Aaron seemed to be invisible.
“It’s hard to discern things in this light.” Aaron’
s voice was soothing. “No one will see us. Now—turn here. We’re going to go down those stairs.”
She and Aaron reached the basement level without incident, and as Aaron promised, no one looked at them. No one noticed them at all.
“The servants’ quarters,” he said. “This is where it gets tricky. We have to go through the kitchen to get outside, but we don’t want to call attention to ourselves. So wait for the door to open . . . Now!”
He pushed her in past the butler who rushed out, and then steered her around the caterers and waitstaff. Without warning, one of the cooks turned toward them, a bubbling pot in her hands. She bumped—into Aaron?—bounced away, and screamed. Backed away and screamed again.
Aaron hissed as if in pain.
But when Rosamund tried to turn and look, he whispered, “No. Keep walking. A few more minutes and we’ll be outside.”
The staff raced to the aid of the shrieking cook; they acted as if Aaron and Rosamund weren’t even there.
“His ghost!” the cook screeched. “I saw the master ’s ghost!”
Rosamund didn’t know how or why, but the woman behaved just as Fujimoto had—as if Aaron and Rosamund were invisible.
As they reached the door, Aaron spoke in her ear again. “Open it.”
She did. Fresh night air washed around them. From somewhere in the front of the château, she heard sirens wailing.
Inside the kitchen, the cook’s screaming redoubled, and other voices joined hers.
Aaron paid no attention. “The car is right outside. Just go up the stairs and we’re there.”
The BMW M6 coupe was small and fast, and waiting with the keys on the console. Aaron opened the passenger door for her, then ran around and entered by the driver’s door. “Put on your seat belt,” he said, and started the car. The engine roared to life.
He put the gas pedal to the floor.
The Beemer spit gravel. The tires gripped the road. He whipped down the service drive like a bat out of hell, ending up on a narrow road that took them north and east.
When she knew they had escaped, and the road to the Alps stretched before them, she turned to Aaron and said, “All right. Tell me now. Who’s dead?”
“I’m sorry, Rosamund.” Aaron placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Louis Fournier was found murdered in his private library, his skull smashed with a marble bookend.”
Chapter 32
The narrow road wound through alpine passes blistered by winds. Aaron gripped the wheel, held the BMW steady, and wished he could assure Rosamund everything would be all right. But their escape from the château last night had rendered her silent and thoughtful. She was more determined than he had ever seen her, for the murder of Louis Fournier had again raised the barrier of sadness in her eyes.
She would find the Sacred Cave and read the prophetess’s last words. Nothing Aaron said had changed her mind. As far as she was concerned, she owed it to her friend Louis.
They had driven all night on tiny, winding roads, and at last a small sign announced the crest of the pass. He steered around a corner, and saw it—the village of Sacre Barbare. A dozen small, quaint homes and businesses nestled into a valley surrounded by rocky peaks.
Deliberately, he broke the silence. “There it is.”
She looked behind them, then looked ahead. “If we can get on the path right away, we’ll be at the Sacred Cave before the sun sets.”
“We should wait until morning.” Or not go at all.
She looked at him. “I can’t wait. Tomorrow might never come.”
He hated that she was right. If they didn’t get this prophecy, tomorrow might never come.
Since they had fled Fournier’s, the wounds that had so miraculously healed now returned to pain Aaron full force. His bruises ached, his finger hurt, his ribs burned, the muscles of his thigh felt like hamburger that had been ground too long. Worse, as he and Rosamund made their escape through Fournier’s kitchen, the silly cook had branded him with her pot of boiling water.
He was not so foolish as to disregard the ill omen, or imagine it was an accident that the burn on his arm smoldered like an ember of hell.
He parked the car on the outskirts of Sacre Barbare, but then neither of them moved. They sat there in silence until she heaved a sigh and put her hand on the door handle.
“Do you remember what my father texted me?” she asked.
Far too well. “Run.”
“Do you know where he was going when he left me?”
“Into Guatemala, back to the cenote where your mother died.”
“That’s right. Do you know what the village where we stayed was called?” When he shook his head, she said, “Hogar Sagrado.”
“Sacred Home,” he translated. He followed her logic with no trouble. “You think the cenote was an entrance to the Sacred Cave?”
“I don’t know.” She stared out the windshield. “But I do think Father knew someone would come after me and once again, someone I loved would die.”
She was taking responsibility for Fournier’s death, and what was worse, it was possible she was right.
They’d seen Fujimoto and his henchmen at the party, but it seemed unlikely he would have the motivation to kill Fournier. No, he had been looking for Aaron. He had utilized the chaos surrounding Fournier’s death to search the mansion.
So who had killed Fournier?
The Others had tried to capture Rosamund in New York, and been thwarted. They wanted her and the prophecy, or at least they wanted to be sure she didn’t give the prophecy to the Chosen Ones. Somehow, the Others had followed them to Casablanca and tried to kill him, Rosamund’s protector. Then, despite his best efforts at secrecy, they’d tailed them to Paris and killed the man who had helped Rosamund with her quest. How were the bastards finding them? When this was over, he swore he would find out.
“It’s not that I think someone you love will die.” Aaron chose his words carefully. “My fear is that you’re the next victim.”
“I don’t care. It’s not death that frightens me. It’s being forever alone.” She turned and looked at him, eyes shocked as if her own words had surprised her.
“We are all afraid of that.”
“Yes, I suppose. But why does everyone I love die?” It was the cry of a seven-year-old girl who had lost her mother. Reaching across to him, she squeezed his arm. “For the love of God, Aaron, I need you to go with me to the Sacred Cave, and I know that you’re strong and versed in mountain lore, but be careful.” Then, avoiding his eyes, she opened the door and stepped out on the road.
Did she mean she loved him?
He stepped out of the car, too.
Or did she refer to their lovemaking last night?
He wanted to ask her, but she stood with her jaw clenched and her head high, and when he joined her she didn’t wait, but headed into the village square.
He followed close on her heels.
Time had left this place behind. The houses were two stories, brightly decorated with gingerbread trim. Signs swung outside the doors of the pub, the boulangerie, the souvenir shop. “This looks like the Hollywood set for the filming of Heidi,” Aaron said.
“Yes, except—where are the people?” Rosamund wondered.
As if to answer her question, a woman left the tiny shop holding a squat loaf of bread and a bottle of dark red wine, and walked toward them. She nodded to them pleasantly, and said, “Bonjour. Je suis Dr. Servais. Puis-je vous aider?”
Aaron put on his best smile and his best French, and said, “Merci, Dr. Servais. Could you tell us how to find the path to the Sacred Cave?”
The female’s geniality vanished as if it had never been. In harshly accented English, she said, “I don’t know how these rumors get started among you tourists. There is no such thing as this Sacred Cave. Go away!” She walked away, offense in every line of her dumpy figure.
“Wow. That didn’t go well. Maybe you should let me try.” Rosamund headed into the tap house.
Aaron
followed, and as they entered, the aroma of bacon and garlic wafted past. Aaron had had nothing since the hors d’oeuvres the night before, and his stomach rumbled. “We need to eat.”
“We don’t have time!”
“Trust me.” He took her arm. “An army doesn’t march on an empty stomach. If we’re going to climb to the Sacred Cave, we’re going to have to eat.”