Free The Stolen by Celia Thomson Page A

it sounds like a real gang war, from what you’re saying.”
    She hadn’t thought about it.
    She
really
hadn’t thought about any of it.
    She thought about it now, though, sinking into her pillows. They kept saying—
Sergei
kept saying—she could go back “as soon as the danger had passed” and Chloe just accepted it, repeating it, making it the truth by repetition. What did she expect? That the Tenth Blade would just give up after a while? That they would grow bored with hunting the supposed killer of one of their Order? That there was some sort of statute of limitations on accidental death in the middle of a five-thousand-year blood feud?
    Did she really believe that one day Sergei was going to come to her with an all-clear signal, hug her, let her go back home, and insist that she drop by once in a while? Now that she thought about it, no one ever acted like shewas going to be leaving at any point. Alyec never said anything one way or the other. She had a
job,
for Christ’s sake.
    â€œI don’t like the way this sounds, Chloe,” Amy said grimly. “I want to see you. Myself. If these people are so great, they shouldn’t mind letting you see your friends.”
    â€œAmy, now is not a good time….”
    â€œI mean it! Promise you’ll meet us. Or I’ll call in the cavalry. I call the police.
I’ll tell your mother
.”
    â€œAll right, all right, I promise!” Chloe agreed.
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œI don’t know! I’ll call you again when I can, okay?” She looked at the battery meter. About a quarter left. She didn’t have a charger with her and for some reason, once again, she didn’t feel comfortable asking for one. Come to think about it, no one in the Pride knew about her phone except for Alyec—and now Igor and Valerie—so unless they told anyone, that was it. Why did that make her feel better somehow?”
    â€œAll right. Call me by Saturday or it’s the cavalry. I mean it.”
    â€œAll right! I’ll see you later.”
    â€œâ€™Bye!” Paul shouted.
    Chloe flipped her phone closed and looked at it for a long time, sitting on the floor.
    â€œWell, that’s … weird … ,” Paul said, distractedly arranging Amy’s stuffed animals into extremely lewd positions.
    â€œStockholm syndrome,” Amy answered promptly, pleased with herself. “She has begun sympathizing with her own kidnappers. She’s beginning to really believe they are keeping her safe instead of just keeping her.”
    Paul looked up at her and narrowed his eyes. “Amy? What are you planning?” he asked evenly.
    â€œNothing,” Amy said, crossing her arms. “Yet.”
    But they both knew it wasn’t true.

“Well, well, my own son wants to have dinner with me,” Whit said, folding the painfully white linen napkin into his lap. “What an extraordinary honor.”
    Brian grimaced. Once again his father had managed to turn the tables so everything was to
his
advantage: Mr. Rezza had chosen the Ritz-Carlton’s restaurant for dinner, much to Brian’s dismay. It embodied everything that Brian did
not
want to get involved in during their discussion. Fussy place settings, crazy rich people, annoyingly perfect and subdued lighting, silent waiters, and worst of all, a dress code.
Technically
Brian wore the required “business attire,” but he saw that the maitre d’ was pissed at his Generation-Y interpretation: brown velvet pants, a leather suit-style jacket, and a Diesel shirt that he wore with a thrift store tie.
    â€œShall we start with a bottle of something? Maybe some Krug Grande Cuvée to celebrate the occasion?”
    Brian had an almost overwhelming urge to point outthat he wasn’t old enough to drink, but now was not the point in the conversation to start acting up.
    â€œWhatever. You know I like reds.”
    â€œOh, that’s