Page 77 of The Knight

Abe headed in the opposite direction into the first exhibition room, every sense heightened. Rembrandt’s masterpieces lined the walls; earth toned hues and faces emerging from darkened backgrounds. As he moved deeper into the gallery, the lively sounds of the atrium faded, giving way to the hushed murmurs of art enthusiasts and the soft, deliberate clicks of designer heels on polished floors.

The full art crowd was out tonight—a strange mix of elderly women with more money than taste, likely scouting pieces for their drafty old estates, and men in colored turtlenecks carrying tiny dogs with matching sweaters. Abe surveyed the room, hunting for Einar’s unmistakably thinning hair. The hubbub of voices swelled around him, and the claustrophobic heat after the cool of the night made his wet clothes stick to his skin.

None of it mattered.

Finding Freya was the only thing of importance, and he had failed her.

Failed to keep her safe, to anticipate Korolov’s next move. The thought of Korolov, smug and one step ahead, gnawed at him. He should have known better, should have been faster, smarter. He would tear heaven and earth apart to find her. And when he did, Korolov had better be a thousand miles away, because if Abe found him first, he wouldn’t be able to answer for what he’d do.

He rounded a corner. A crowd clustered around a painting. The group shifted, opening a gap, and through it, Abe spotted a man slipping between two women. The man held a champagne flute in one hand and an art brochure in the other.

Abe’s gaze dropped.

Cowboy boots on his feet. The man was engrossed in the brochure, flipping pages to plot his next stop. He looked up—and froze, showing the whites of his eyes.

Einar.

For a second, they just stared at each other.

Einar’s champagne glass smashed against the marble floor as his glossy brochure fluttered to the ground. He bolted, ducking behind a group of startled onlookers. Headed straight for the emergency exit stairs.

The weasel crashed through the exit door, Abe just a few steps behind. At the top of the stairwell, Einar whipped around, skin blanched with fear. “I didn’t do anything!” he sputtered, before turning to run.

Abe didn’t waste a second. He threw himself forward, crossing the distance in a dive that caught Einar off balance, sending them both tumbling down the first flight of stairs to the landing below. They hit the floor as one with a heavy thud, Einar screeching as they came to a tangled stop.

The impact drove the air from Abe’s lungs, and scored lancing pain through his injured shoulder, but rage was a purer fuel than oxygen. He rolled out from under Einar’s weight, surging to his feet.

Before the bastard could find his footing, Abe grabbed his collar, savagely hauling him upward until they were eye to eye.

Einar squealed, legs flailing mid-air as Abe held him effortlessly at arm’s length.

Abe bared his teeth as he fought to stay in control and not smear Einar across the wall. “This is where you talk and say the things I want to hear.”

42

Freya woke to whirring darkness.

Her limbs were weighted with lead, her thoughts scattered like broken glass. Flashes came to her. The glittering ballroom. The satin of her dress whispering against marble stairs. The look in Abe’s eyes as he watched her descend. Golden champagne catching the light. Korolov’s serpentine smile. A sharp sting. Then nothing.

Korolov drugged me.

Realization cut through the haze. She blinked gritty eyes, channeling every ounce of strength into her arms. They wobbled as she pushed herself upright. A moan escaped her lips, the sound lost to the rhythmic thunder surrounding her. A blanket of stars stretched above, the moon breathtakingly close.

Had she died and gone to heaven?

“Ah. You’re awake. Excellent.”

The words slithered against her bare skin. She turned her head—God, it felt heavy as iron—her neck creaking like rusted hinges.

Korolov sat beside her, his profile carved in moonlight and shadow. This wasn’t heaven’s gates.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

This was thedevil.

She wrenched her gaze away from his hungry eyes, from the assessing tilt of his head. Beyond him, clouds raced past like silver smoke. In front, the outline of a pilot’s head was a shadow against the star-strewn sky. Reality crashed through her drug-addled brain.

I’m in a helicopter.

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