Lucky Break
Page 26
Ethan made a sardonic sound, pulled out a chair for me. I sat down and began to stuff my face.
I didn’t stop until I’d had thirds, until I’d eaten enough to pooch out my stomach like I’d swallowed a volleyball. A delicious volleyball.
That’s when all the blood rushed to my stomach and my eyes began to close.
Gabriel pressed a napkin to his mouth, then tossed it onto the table. “You’d better get to bed before you fall into your food, Kitten. We’ll keep watch today.”
“You’re sure?” Ethan asked.
He nodded. “You’ve done your part to help us. Least we can do is return the favor. We’ll head out at dusk when you’re awake. I presume you’re going back tomorrow?”
Ethan nodded. “The jet will be waiting at dusk.”
“Perfect timing,” Gabriel said.
“Do you ever sleep?” I groggily wondered. Most supernaturals didn’t have vampires’ sensitivity to the sun but slept during the day, anyway. I’d assumed they wanted to be awake for the action—or the havoc.
“Not as much as you do,” Gabriel said, grinning. “We prefer cat naps.”
I smiled back, covered a yawn with the back of my hand. “Of course you do.”
“Get to bed.”
I didn’t argue with him. While Ethan cleaned up, I hit the bed in my clothes and was out before he returned.
6
I woke with a start, my body jolting upright. I blinked, oriented myself, realized I was very naked.
My clothes hung neatly on a bedside chair. Ethan must have taken them off before the sun rose.
The room was dark, shutters still over the windows, the sun’s journey though the sky not yet complete. Ethan slept soundly beside me, and the rest of the guesthouse was utterly silent, utterly still.
I rarely stirred before Ethan, and it was odd to experience twilight’s quiet while he slept soundly. The question was—why? I threw back the covers, scrubbed hands over my face, tried to remember the dream I’d been having or the noise that had stirred me.
I rose, walked into the bathroom, splashed freezing water on my face until my brain began to function, then walked back into the bedroom, looked around. My gaze kept shifting back to the Barrymore landscape, to the representation of the valley on canvas.
And then I thought of Christophe’s journal entry: Fiona is painting. She isn’t very good yet, but she is trying very diligently.
My heart began to pound. “Could it be that simple?” I asked, eyes widening.
“Sentinel?”
Ethan’s voice was groggy. When I looked back, he sat up, fingers combing through his hair, sheet pooled at his abdomen. “What’s wrong?”
I looked back at the painting. “I think I know what happened to Fiona McKenzie.”
***
We asked the pilot to hold the jet and gathered together on a rugged hill at the head of the valley, the same hill we’d emerged onto the night before. Tom, Rowan, and a few of his trusted shifters. Vincent and Nessa. Me and Ethan.
“Well, Merit,” Tom said. “This is your party. Go right ahead.”
I nodded, glanced at Vincent. “You said some of Fiona’s possessions were missing, so they believed she was dead. What was missing?”
Vincent frowned. “I don’t see how that would—”
“Just humor me,” I gently said.
“I don’t recall precisely. A sweater. The brooch. Her good boots.”
“What about art supplies—paints or sketchbooks?”
“Not that I recall,” Vincent said, frowning. “But she wasn’t an artist.”
“Actually, that’s not true,” I said. “Fiona was learning to paint. Taran had some of Christophe’s old papers, and Christophe mentioned it. Fiona knew how much Christophe loved the valley and the Barrymore paintings, and she knew that he planned to give her the brooch. She wanted to give him something in return. Something he’d appreciate.”
I paused, let that sink in for a moment. “I think she decided to give him the landscape that he loved. Both of the paintings—the big one and the little one—were of the valley and from this hill, slightly different angles. I think Fiona got up before Christophe and came out here with her good boots, her sweater, maybe the brooch because she thought it would be hers one day. Maybe for inspiration. She settled in to paint, and something happened.”
“What?” Vincent asked, obviously intrigued.
“I don’t know. But that’s what we’re here for.”
Very well done, Sentinel, Ethan said.
Thanks. Let’s see if we can do some “well done” for Fiona.
Tom looked at me, and everyone else looked at Tom, waiting for his verdict.
“You heard the lady,” Tom finally said. “Get out your flashlights, and let’s have our search party.”
***
We searched for an hour and found nothing. We’d picked carefully across the rugged terrain, across loose gravel, jagged rocks, and warrens of rabbits and foxes that had made the valley their home. We’d identified two more entrances to the mineshaft, the bones of what we believed was an elk, and very little else.
That is, until I literally stumbled onto it.
I mistook a rock for a shadow, my toe catching beneath the overhang. I fell forward and hit the ground on my hands, sending sharp pain radiating as tender skin met ragged gravel . . . and realized the rock was a long sheet of granite that partially sheltered a hole in the ground.
I didn’t stop until I’d had thirds, until I’d eaten enough to pooch out my stomach like I’d swallowed a volleyball. A delicious volleyball.
That’s when all the blood rushed to my stomach and my eyes began to close.
Gabriel pressed a napkin to his mouth, then tossed it onto the table. “You’d better get to bed before you fall into your food, Kitten. We’ll keep watch today.”
“You’re sure?” Ethan asked.
He nodded. “You’ve done your part to help us. Least we can do is return the favor. We’ll head out at dusk when you’re awake. I presume you’re going back tomorrow?”
Ethan nodded. “The jet will be waiting at dusk.”
“Perfect timing,” Gabriel said.
“Do you ever sleep?” I groggily wondered. Most supernaturals didn’t have vampires’ sensitivity to the sun but slept during the day, anyway. I’d assumed they wanted to be awake for the action—or the havoc.
“Not as much as you do,” Gabriel said, grinning. “We prefer cat naps.”
I smiled back, covered a yawn with the back of my hand. “Of course you do.”
“Get to bed.”
I didn’t argue with him. While Ethan cleaned up, I hit the bed in my clothes and was out before he returned.
6
I woke with a start, my body jolting upright. I blinked, oriented myself, realized I was very naked.
My clothes hung neatly on a bedside chair. Ethan must have taken them off before the sun rose.
The room was dark, shutters still over the windows, the sun’s journey though the sky not yet complete. Ethan slept soundly beside me, and the rest of the guesthouse was utterly silent, utterly still.
I rarely stirred before Ethan, and it was odd to experience twilight’s quiet while he slept soundly. The question was—why? I threw back the covers, scrubbed hands over my face, tried to remember the dream I’d been having or the noise that had stirred me.
I rose, walked into the bathroom, splashed freezing water on my face until my brain began to function, then walked back into the bedroom, looked around. My gaze kept shifting back to the Barrymore landscape, to the representation of the valley on canvas.
And then I thought of Christophe’s journal entry: Fiona is painting. She isn’t very good yet, but she is trying very diligently.
My heart began to pound. “Could it be that simple?” I asked, eyes widening.
“Sentinel?”
Ethan’s voice was groggy. When I looked back, he sat up, fingers combing through his hair, sheet pooled at his abdomen. “What’s wrong?”
I looked back at the painting. “I think I know what happened to Fiona McKenzie.”
***
We asked the pilot to hold the jet and gathered together on a rugged hill at the head of the valley, the same hill we’d emerged onto the night before. Tom, Rowan, and a few of his trusted shifters. Vincent and Nessa. Me and Ethan.
“Well, Merit,” Tom said. “This is your party. Go right ahead.”
I nodded, glanced at Vincent. “You said some of Fiona’s possessions were missing, so they believed she was dead. What was missing?”
Vincent frowned. “I don’t see how that would—”
“Just humor me,” I gently said.
“I don’t recall precisely. A sweater. The brooch. Her good boots.”
“What about art supplies—paints or sketchbooks?”
“Not that I recall,” Vincent said, frowning. “But she wasn’t an artist.”
“Actually, that’s not true,” I said. “Fiona was learning to paint. Taran had some of Christophe’s old papers, and Christophe mentioned it. Fiona knew how much Christophe loved the valley and the Barrymore paintings, and she knew that he planned to give her the brooch. She wanted to give him something in return. Something he’d appreciate.”
I paused, let that sink in for a moment. “I think she decided to give him the landscape that he loved. Both of the paintings—the big one and the little one—were of the valley and from this hill, slightly different angles. I think Fiona got up before Christophe and came out here with her good boots, her sweater, maybe the brooch because she thought it would be hers one day. Maybe for inspiration. She settled in to paint, and something happened.”
“What?” Vincent asked, obviously intrigued.
“I don’t know. But that’s what we’re here for.”
Very well done, Sentinel, Ethan said.
Thanks. Let’s see if we can do some “well done” for Fiona.
Tom looked at me, and everyone else looked at Tom, waiting for his verdict.
“You heard the lady,” Tom finally said. “Get out your flashlights, and let’s have our search party.”
***
We searched for an hour and found nothing. We’d picked carefully across the rugged terrain, across loose gravel, jagged rocks, and warrens of rabbits and foxes that had made the valley their home. We’d identified two more entrances to the mineshaft, the bones of what we believed was an elk, and very little else.
That is, until I literally stumbled onto it.
I mistook a rock for a shadow, my toe catching beneath the overhang. I fell forward and hit the ground on my hands, sending sharp pain radiating as tender skin met ragged gravel . . . and realized the rock was a long sheet of granite that partially sheltered a hole in the ground.
