Page 113 of Shadowfox

She blinked up at me, then nodded.

I tried to recall words—any words—in what little Hungarian I’d been taught. “Barátok vagyunk. Az apád . . . o—”

We are friends. Your father . . . he is—

“Is my father safe?” she asked in perfect, yet heavily accented English.

I was so stunned my lips forgot to move.

Will stepped up, crouched down so he was eye-level with her, and said, “Yes, we have others helping him, too, but we need to get you out of here, get you somewhere safe, okay?”

His voice was so soothing, a father’s tone meant to chase away demons and help a little one sleep. My heart, ignoring our danger, melted at the empathy flowing from him.

Eszter’s stare softened.

Then, from down the stairs, the front door creaked open.

44

Will

ThomasbenttoEszter’slevel, speaking softly. She clutched his hand. I moved to the window, scanning the grounds.

“We need to move,” I whispered.

Thomas wrapped a blanket around Eszter’s shoulders. I half expected her to cry or shake with fear, but that little girl carried a strength in her gaze I would’ve never believed possible.

I turned for the hallway.

And froze.

A door groaned open downstairs.

It wasn’t the wind or the door rattling in its frame.

It was the front door opening.

Thomas pulled Eszter back into the room and closed the door with a slow, silent push. The latch clicked.

We held our breaths and listened.

Boot steps, heavy and slow. Rubber soles on hardwood.

From beneath the door, the house’s darkness was shattered by a flashlight beam bouncing across the walls, sweeping wide, then tight.

Searching. Hesitating. Moving again.

From the footfalls, the flashlight-wielding guard was alone, but the pattern of his footsteps sounded wrong. They were curious and wary, not routine. Something had drawn him inside.

Had he heard the creaks and groans of the stairs as we ascended? Or our conversation with the housekeeper? Had he seen motion inside, perhaps when the woman returned to her bedroom, and decided to check things out?

Thomas moved us behind the bed. Eszter huddled between us, clutching my arm. Her breath was shallow. I could feel it through my sleeve. The grip of her fingers dug into my skin, the first sign of real fear I’d caught from her.

The steps reached the top of the stairs.

The flashlight scanned, an all-seeing eye desperate to uncover something hidden from its gaze.

Then came the squeak of a doorknob turning . . . so close.

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