Bitter Spirits
Page 71
“Do you think it’s that tong Mr. Wu told us about? The Hive?” she asked, closing her eyes. His arms were strong and safe, and she was so . . . very . . . drowsy.
He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, then his deep voice whispered near her face. “Whoever it was, they won’t be alive when I get my hands on them, I promise you that.”
TWENTY-FOUR
THE LAUDANUM BECKONED HER TO SLEEP AGAIN, AND SHE GAVE in, waking up briefly during the car ride, the side of her head sweating against Winter’s shoulder as he held her in his lap.
When she woke again, it was inside the Magnusson elevator, and she was being carried again. “A girl could get used to this,” she said, her voice rough, “but I need to find a cheap hotel. And I might need to borrow a couple of dollars.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Winter replied. “If I have to lock you up in the turret attic, I will. Consider yourself my prisoner.”
She was too weak to argue. “Do prisoners get baths? Because I can’t stand the stink of smoke all over me. It’s burning my eyes.”
“Yes, prisoners get baths.”
“Will you bathe me?”
A throat cleared. Aida tilted her head to see cold-as-ice Greta operating the elevator in a housecoat, a scarf tied around her head. Wonderful. God only knew what she thought of all this.
The elevator groaned to a stop.
“Thank you, Greta. I’ll ring if I need you,” Winter said. “Get some sleep.”
Aida smelled orange oil. Wood paneled walls blurred by. Then she found herself being carried into a sumptuous, warm bedroom with rosewood flooring, window seats, and a lavish Nile green rug. “Where is this?”
“My room.”
“O-oh, it’s even nicer than the Fairmont. We should’ve been coming here.”
He set her on the biggest bed she’d ever seen, covers pulled back, sheets wrinkled. A dragonfly-patterned Tiffany lamp cast muted light from a bedside table. He struggled to get her out of her coat. “We’ll have this sent to the cleaners. Get the smoke out.”
“I need to find out if anything survived the fire,” she said.
“Don’t worry about that now,” Winter said. He knelt down and inspected her foot. “A little swollen. Could be sprained. Can you move it?”
She could. It was tight, but any pain she felt was far, far away in the distance.
A new voice startled her. “You want me to call a doctor?” It was Bo. He set some first aid supplies on a mahogany chest of drawers with modern, sleek lines. Her handbag hung from one of the drawer pulls.
Winter shook his head. “He’d just elevate it and give her more drugs, which she doesn’t need. We’ll call someone in the morning. Go ahead and alert the warehouses about the fire, in case someone tries that trick again.”
“Already called Frank. And there’s something you should know.”
Winter sighed heavily. “What is it?”
“The fortune-teller from the temple. Same time Aida’s apartment was being set on fire, Mr. Wu jumped from his apartment window and killed himself.”
The news sobered Aida for a moment. “Oh no.”
“Christ,” Winter said.
“Charlie was on shift watching him. Said he saw the man racing into his apartment like he was trying to outrun something. Charlie checked the stairwell, windows—nothing was there. Then he heard screams outside, and that’s when he went out and saw him on the sidewalk. Neighbors had already found him. Stuck around until the police came, just in case someone else showed up. Never saw anything else.”
“Ghosts,” Winter mumbled. “Or some other kind of black magic.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Bo said. “Charlie sounded unnerved. He also mentioned that he heard Wu repeating something when he was running into his apartment—‘beekeeper.’”
Winter’s jaw shifted to one side. “The Hive.”
“Maybe that’s what the leader calls himself?”
“Maybe.”
“Regardless, it rules Wu out for the fire,” Bo said. “Not that I really suspected him.”
“Poor bastard.”
A wave of sadness washed over Aida. She had rather liked the depressed old fortune-teller, even if he had poisoned Winter. Maybe he’d found his dead wife beyond the veil. She hoped so.
Winter talked with Bo in soft murmurs outside his room for several moments before he dismissed him and shut the door, turning his attention back to her. “Still with me?”
She nodded. He stripped off her laudanum-stained nightgown and left her naked on the bed, while he stepped into the adjoining room and started running a bath.
Several framed photographs crowded the back of his bedside table. The most prominent was a family photo in front of a fishing pier: a couple who could only be his parents, Astrid as a younger girl, a blond man about Bo’s age—his brother, the archaeologist—and Winter, looking several years younger, smiling, squinting into the sun with no scar.
Happier times.
Behind that photograph was a smaller one, a posed portrait of a strikingly beautiful blond woman, her long hair pinned up, porcelain skin, and a stoic look on her face.
Winter strolled back into the bedroom, barefoot and shirt stripped off, wearing nothing but pants and suspenders over a sleeveless white undershirt. The unyielding breadth of his mighty bare shoulders and well-muscled boxer’s arms made her heart skip a beat.
He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, then his deep voice whispered near her face. “Whoever it was, they won’t be alive when I get my hands on them, I promise you that.”
TWENTY-FOUR
THE LAUDANUM BECKONED HER TO SLEEP AGAIN, AND SHE GAVE in, waking up briefly during the car ride, the side of her head sweating against Winter’s shoulder as he held her in his lap.
When she woke again, it was inside the Magnusson elevator, and she was being carried again. “A girl could get used to this,” she said, her voice rough, “but I need to find a cheap hotel. And I might need to borrow a couple of dollars.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Winter replied. “If I have to lock you up in the turret attic, I will. Consider yourself my prisoner.”
She was too weak to argue. “Do prisoners get baths? Because I can’t stand the stink of smoke all over me. It’s burning my eyes.”
“Yes, prisoners get baths.”
“Will you bathe me?”
A throat cleared. Aida tilted her head to see cold-as-ice Greta operating the elevator in a housecoat, a scarf tied around her head. Wonderful. God only knew what she thought of all this.
The elevator groaned to a stop.
“Thank you, Greta. I’ll ring if I need you,” Winter said. “Get some sleep.”
Aida smelled orange oil. Wood paneled walls blurred by. Then she found herself being carried into a sumptuous, warm bedroom with rosewood flooring, window seats, and a lavish Nile green rug. “Where is this?”
“My room.”
“O-oh, it’s even nicer than the Fairmont. We should’ve been coming here.”
He set her on the biggest bed she’d ever seen, covers pulled back, sheets wrinkled. A dragonfly-patterned Tiffany lamp cast muted light from a bedside table. He struggled to get her out of her coat. “We’ll have this sent to the cleaners. Get the smoke out.”
“I need to find out if anything survived the fire,” she said.
“Don’t worry about that now,” Winter said. He knelt down and inspected her foot. “A little swollen. Could be sprained. Can you move it?”
She could. It was tight, but any pain she felt was far, far away in the distance.
A new voice startled her. “You want me to call a doctor?” It was Bo. He set some first aid supplies on a mahogany chest of drawers with modern, sleek lines. Her handbag hung from one of the drawer pulls.
Winter shook his head. “He’d just elevate it and give her more drugs, which she doesn’t need. We’ll call someone in the morning. Go ahead and alert the warehouses about the fire, in case someone tries that trick again.”
“Already called Frank. And there’s something you should know.”
Winter sighed heavily. “What is it?”
“The fortune-teller from the temple. Same time Aida’s apartment was being set on fire, Mr. Wu jumped from his apartment window and killed himself.”
The news sobered Aida for a moment. “Oh no.”
“Christ,” Winter said.
“Charlie was on shift watching him. Said he saw the man racing into his apartment like he was trying to outrun something. Charlie checked the stairwell, windows—nothing was there. Then he heard screams outside, and that’s when he went out and saw him on the sidewalk. Neighbors had already found him. Stuck around until the police came, just in case someone else showed up. Never saw anything else.”
“Ghosts,” Winter mumbled. “Or some other kind of black magic.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Bo said. “Charlie sounded unnerved. He also mentioned that he heard Wu repeating something when he was running into his apartment—‘beekeeper.’”
Winter’s jaw shifted to one side. “The Hive.”
“Maybe that’s what the leader calls himself?”
“Maybe.”
“Regardless, it rules Wu out for the fire,” Bo said. “Not that I really suspected him.”
“Poor bastard.”
A wave of sadness washed over Aida. She had rather liked the depressed old fortune-teller, even if he had poisoned Winter. Maybe he’d found his dead wife beyond the veil. She hoped so.
Winter talked with Bo in soft murmurs outside his room for several moments before he dismissed him and shut the door, turning his attention back to her. “Still with me?”
She nodded. He stripped off her laudanum-stained nightgown and left her naked on the bed, while he stepped into the adjoining room and started running a bath.
Several framed photographs crowded the back of his bedside table. The most prominent was a family photo in front of a fishing pier: a couple who could only be his parents, Astrid as a younger girl, a blond man about Bo’s age—his brother, the archaeologist—and Winter, looking several years younger, smiling, squinting into the sun with no scar.
Happier times.
Behind that photograph was a smaller one, a posed portrait of a strikingly beautiful blond woman, her long hair pinned up, porcelain skin, and a stoic look on her face.
Winter strolled back into the bedroom, barefoot and shirt stripped off, wearing nothing but pants and suspenders over a sleeveless white undershirt. The unyielding breadth of his mighty bare shoulders and well-muscled boxer’s arms made her heart skip a beat.
