Page 167 of Lone Star

Axelle swallowed audibly. “We’re tied up like–”

“I know.”

“Do you think they’re gonna kill us?”

Michelle’s next breath shivered in her lungs, and she fought to keep her voice level. “Maybe. But we’re more valuable as hostages to ransom.”

“Guess it depends on whether they mind pissing the guys off.”

“Yeah,” Michelle agreed.Pissed offwas far too delicate, but it was easier to think of. She didn’t want to envision Candy; didn’t want to picture the ugliness of his grief. He’d gone forty-five years without a mate, it was still such a fresh thing for him…but it would cut him. Cut him wide open and unleash the kind of fury she didn’t want to imagine.

A wave of nausea moved through her, and she swallowed against it. She couldn’t think about her body, about the baby; couldn’t think about anything but getting away.

What would Fox do?That would have to be her mantra; her guiding light.

She tested her bonds, rotating her wrists and feeling the dull bite of metal. These weren’t police handcuffs, but solid manacles secured with screws. They weren’t locked – if she had one hand free, she could have worked the wingnuts off and gotten loose. But with both hands bound like this, she might as well have been secured with a combination lock.

She let out a breath and willed her muscles to relax. She could feel the first phantom warnings of a cramp in her back, strain in her upper arms. Fighting it would only heighten the pain.

“Do you hear that?” Axelle asked.

Michelle listened, and detected the sound of approaching footfalls: hard-soled shoes on a hardwood floor. “Someone’s coming.”

“Shit,” Axelle swore. Her chains rattled as she tried to surge against them. “Shit, shit…”

“Don’t struggle,” Michelle said, as the footfalls drew closer, closer.

The footsteps halted, and then she could hear their breathing, quick and open-mouthed from fear, out of sync with her galloping pulse, and the distinctive clicks of a key entering a lock and working the tumblers.

The door opened, and Michelle pressed her head back on the pillow, refusing to crane and search. She didn’t want to look fearful. Didn’t want to show curiosity or desperation. Fox would lay here like he was having a nap, totally unbothered until he had the chance to strike.

The footfalls again; expensive shoes, she decided, with hard leather soles and slight heels. A light step, rather than the heavy tread of a booted thug. A figure stepped into view – and it took every ounce of willpower not to gasp.

He’d been described to her, and it was a simple image: a man in a dark robe with a deep hood. A staple of plenty of fantasy movies. A wizard, a Ring Wraith. In a way, given the way they were laid out, she’d expected him.

But the sight of the Holy Father coming to stand between the beds cut to the bone, a razor-sharp fear that took her breath and rendered her momentarily stupid.

The robe was dark brown, shapeless, full of folds, and tattered at the edges, where the rough weave of the fabric was fraying. The hood was cowled, and deep as promised, throwing a dark shadow over all but the tip of a pale nose. Manicured hands waited at the ends of the sleeves, folded together across the figure’s middle. He halted, and the hood turned one way, and then the other. Michelle thought she saw the glitter of dark eyes.

Should she speak? She had no idea what to say. Without a glimpse of his face, she couldn’t read how to play this – and he seemed supernatural, besides. Not a man, but a monster from a child’s nightmare. An urban legend in the flesh.

As she stared at him – helpless to look away – he reached slowly into one sleeve with the opposite hand and came back out with a knife. Unfussy: an old wooden-handled kitchen knife with a slender, sharp blade. Its edge caught the light, winking at her, honed and sharpened and ready for flesh.

She heard Axelle’s breathing pick up, a rough in-and-out sawing through her mouth.

“It’s okay,” Michelle told her, though it wasn’t, though the Holy Father was turning toward her, light sliding along the knife. “It’s okay.”

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

And then…

A chuckle.

The slow, liquid movements of the Holy Father fell away, and it was with a regular sort of casualness that the man reached up with his free hand and pushed his hood back.

Michelle knew who this was, too, because Melanie had given her a detailed description – and because she’d seen him herself outside of Sandoval’s. There was the sleek dark hair pulled back into a bun, the wink of diamonds in his ears, the smooth skin, and fine features. She hadn’t seen his eyes up close until now, and they were big, and coffee-dark, and fringed with silky black lashes. They were full of a delight and humor that had all the alarm bells in her head clanging. His smile – white and straight and flashing sharp canines – crackled with beautiful, unhinged malice.

“Luis,” she greeted.

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