I must still be at the Ritz.
She had come to the hotel-the Ritz Paris-for an early-morning meeting with a historian who was connected to the Guild. Something major was afoot within the organization, stirring up all her contacts.
She knew that such moments of upheaval, when locked doors were momentarily left open and safeguards loosened, were the perfect time to snatch what she could. So she had reached in deep, pushed hard, and risked exposing herself perhaps too much.
One hand gently touched the collar-then lowered.
Definitely too much.
One of her trusted contacts had set up this rendezvous. But apparently money only bought so much trust. She had met with the historian in the Hemingway Bar downstairs, a wood-paneled and leather-appointed homage to the American writer.
The historian had been seated at a side table, nursing a Bloody Mary, a drink that had originated at this establishment. Next to his chair rested a black leather briefcase, holding the promise of secrets yet to be revealed.
She had a drink.
Only water.
Still a mistake.
Even now, her mouth remained cottony, her head equally so.
As she moved back into the room, a low groan drew her attention to the closed bathroom door. She cursed herself for not thoroughly checking the rest of the room upon first waking, blaming it on the fuzziness of her thinking.
That lack of vigilance ended now.
She stepped silently and swiftly across the room, snatching her holstered pistol off the nightstand. She shook the weapon free as she reached the door, letting the shoulder harness fall silently to the carpet.
She listened at the door. As a second groan- more pained now-erupted, she burst into the bathroom, pistol raised. She swept the small marbleadorned chamber, finding no one at the sink or vanity.
Then a bony arm, sleeved in tattoos, rose from the tub, waving weakly as if the bather were drowning. A hand found the swan-shaped gold faucet and gripped tightly to it.
As she sidled closer, a skinny auburn-haired boy- likely no more than eighteen-used his hold on the spigot to pull himself into view. He looked all ribs, elbows, and knees, but she took no chances, centering her pistol on his bare chest. Dazed, he finally seemed to see her, his eyes widening at both her half-naked state and the obvious threat of the weapon. He scrambled back in the empty tub, palms held up, looking ready to climb the marble walls behind him.
He wore only a pair of boxer briefs-and a stainless-steel collar.
A match to hers.
Perhaps sensing the same pinched pressure on his neck as Seichan felt on hers, he clawed at his throat.
"Don’t," she warned in French.
Panicked, he tugged. The green light on his collar flashed to red. His entire body jolted, throwing him a foot into the air. He crashed back into the bathtub.
She lunged and kept his head from cracking into the hard marble, feeling a snap of electricity sting her palm.
Her actions were not motivated by altruism. The kid plainly shared her predicament. Perhaps he knew more about the situation than she did. He convulsed for another breath-then went slack. She waited until his eyes fluttered back open; then she stood and backed away. She lowered her gun, sensing no threat from him.
He cautiously worked his way into a seated position. She studied him as he breathed heavily, slowly shaking off the shock. He was taller than she’d at first imagined. Maybe six feet, but rail thin-not so much scrawny as wiry. His hair was long to the shoulder, cut ragged with the cool casualness of youth. Tattoos swathed his arms, spilled over his shoulders, and spread into two dark wings of artwork along his back. His chest was clean, still an empty canvas.
"Comment tu t’appelles?" Seichan asked, taking a seat on the commode.
He breathed heavily. "Je m’appelle Renny…
Renny MacLeod." Though he answered in French, his brogue was distinctly Scottish.
"You speak English?" she asked.
He nodded, sagging with relief. "Aye. What is going on? Where am I?" "You’re in trouble." He looked confused, scared.
"What’s the last thing you remember?" she asked.
