Huffing, he straightens, crossing back the way he came. But he pauses in the outer hall, looking back over his shoulder at me, just a little smugly.
“You might not answer to us, Mirth. But you don’t have to tackle everything alone anymore. We can shoulder some of the responsibility. Just like we can help you protect the kids. If you let us in. That’s how this is all supposed to work.”
I hold Bolan’s gaze. He doesn’t just mean this situation with the kids. He doesn’t just mean how I segregated myself in my grief over losing Armin. Even before my brother died, even whenI tucked myself into his shadow or trailed along in his wake, I was … oddly alone.
“I’m … let’s just find the kids, okay?”
Bolan nods, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his low-slung jeans and bowing his head. “I’m going to head out with Sully. Elias will stay with you. We haven’t gotten hold of Christoph yet. Maybe … if the kids are ours, we can track them on the ground better than the royal guard can.”
“You haven’t even met them yet, Bolan.”
He shrugs belligerently, still not quite looking at me.
“Just … wait?” I ask quietly. “Just wait for me, please.”
His head snaps up, eyes bright in the low light. “For as long as it takes, Mirth. Forever.”
“So dramatic, wolf,” I say, trying for a light teasing tone and actually managing it. Mostly.
He flashes a toothy grin at me, then steps through the hall into my apartment beyond.
Taking my phone, I slide out of my seat, crossing through the darkness and down the hall into Armin’s bedroom. Everything is neat and tidy throughout the apartment. I might not have done my sisterly duty over the last seven months and taken care of my brother’s more personal items. Paying any lingering bills, packing up, or donating his possessions. But the staff have kept everything dust-free since Armin’s death.
In the massive main bedroom, moonlight filters in through narrow floor-to-ceiling windows cut into the original brick. The heritage restoration of the building required that the architects retain as much of the original facade as possible, while also making certain that all seismic upgrades and other improvements were in place.
The filtered light does little to penetrate Armin’s walk-in closet, but I navigate to the row of neatly folded sweaters easily enough. Setting my phone on the shelf, I find the oversizedblack cashmere sweater I want by feel. A well-worn favorite of Armin’s, and fashionably oversized even on him, the sweater is thick and comforting on me.
I retrieve a silk handkerchief from Armin’s drawer — he never used them for anything other than pocket squares — and pull my hair back. Quickly and messily braiding it, I all but knot it into a loose bun, using the silk handkerchief to secure it. Sloppily.
I’ll need sensible shoes as well … though for what, I have no idea. I’m trying not to think too far —
The screen of my phone glows in a way it never has before. Like black neon. Without even a hint of hesitation, I swipe my thumb across it as I would to accept a call.
Deadened air fills the space around me. As if this tiny pocket of the universe is suddenly waiting, listening for … something. Waiting on me?
“This is Mirth,” I say.
That feeling of waiting flexes around me for a moment, just long enough for me to wonder if it’s an energy actually emanating from the phone itself. Is the tech on the other end powerful enough to reach through my phone …?
Then I remember they’re a purple-eyed tech. Of course they’re powerful enough.
And I blithely answered the call.
For the kids.
But also in acknowledgement of all the responsibility I’ve shirked for far too long.
Tapping … lots and lots of tapping, like fingers flying over a keyboard, filters through the phone’s speakers. Maybe multiple keyboards.
“Her Royal Highness Euphrosyne. Heir to the United European Nation.” A low voice murmurs through the energy most definitely emanating from the phone now. North Americanaccent. “I’ve been hoping you’d call. A lot of us have been hoping you … or before he died, that brother of yours … would reach out. Powerful friends in powerful places, am I right?”
“Who am I speaking to?”
A low laugh filters through the phone’s speakers. “You can call me Coda. Let’s find your missing kids, shall we?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Good,” Coda says. “But first things first. I now have complete access to your phone and everything that comes with that. Miller and your techs haven’t found your missing kids.” More keyboard tapping. “They don’t even have a trail yet, not even a cold one. But I, having pulled that bit of vid from your phone and matching it with multiple other feeds from that game, I’ve already got eyes on both kids at the soccer game earlier today. So we’ll start our trace there …”
