it sounds like a real gang war, from what youâre saying.â
She hadnât thought about it.
She
really
hadnât thought about any of it.
She thought about it now, though, sinking into her pillows. They kept sayingâ
Sergei
kept sayingâshe could go back âas soon as the danger had passedâ 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 Christâs sake.
âI donât like the way this sounds, Chloe,â Amy said grimly. âI want to see you. Myself. If these people are so great, they shouldnât mind letting you see your friends.â
âAmy, now is not a good timeâ¦.â
âI mean it! Promise youâll meet us. Or Iâll call in the cavalry. I call the police.
Iâll tell your mother
.â
âAll right, all right, I promise!â Chloe agreed.
âWhen?â
âI donât know! Iâll call you again when I can, okay?â She looked at the battery meter. About a quarter left. She didnât have a charger with her and for some reason, once again, she didnât feel comfortable asking for one. Come to think about it, no one in the Pride knew about her phone except for Alyecâand now Igor and Valerieâso unless they told anyone, that was it. Why did that make her feel better somehow?â
âAll right. Call me by Saturday or itâs the cavalry. I mean it.â
âAll right! Iâll see you later.â
ââBye!â Paul shouted.
Chloe flipped her phone closed and looked at it for a long time, sitting on the floor.
âWell, thatâs ⦠weird ⦠,â Paul said, distractedly arranging Amyâs stuffed animals into extremely lewd positions.
âStockholm syndrome,â Amy answered promptly, pleased with herself. âShe has begun sympathizing with her own kidnappers. Sheâs beginning to really believe they are keeping her safe instead of just keeping her.â
Paul looked up at her and narrowed his eyes. âAmy? What are you planning?â he asked evenly.
âNothing,â Amy said, crossing her arms. âYet.â
But they both knew it wasnât true.
âWell, well, my own son wants to have dinner with me,â Whit said, folding the painfully white linen napkin into his lap. âWhat an extraordinary honor.â
Brian grimaced. Once again his father had managed to turn the tables so everything was to
his
advantage: Mr. Rezza had chosen the Ritz-Carltonâs restaurant for dinner, much to Brianâs 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 âbusiness attire,â but he saw that the maitre dâ 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.
âShall we start with a bottle of something? Maybe some Krug Grande Cuvée to celebrate the occasion?â
Brian had an almost overwhelming urge to point outthat he wasnât old enough to drink, but now was not the point in the conversation to start acting up.
âWhatever. You know I like reds.â
âOh, thatâs
The Science of Leonardo: Inside the Mind of the Great Genius of the Renaissance