Page 50 of Rapture's Edge (Night Prowler 3)
He thought it best to be outdoors, away from any interested ears, so they could speak openly.
“…so I hid in a drainpipe until I was sure they were long gone.” Eliana’s voice was utterly emotionless.
Silas studied her. Clad in her usual black leather ensemble, she looked even more somber than usual. There were faint blue smudges beneath her eyes, her lips held a downward curve, and every once in a while she would give a small, unconscious shake of her head, as if she were answering the same unasked question, over and over again.
“And you didn’t know these men…” he prompted.
“No. They weren’t from the Roman colony. It wasn’t the Legiones, or”—she hesitated for an infinitesimal second—“the Bellatorum. They were obviously sent by one of the other colonies. Or all of them, I suppose.”
Silas narrowed his eyes. The way she’d hesitated was worrying. Very worrying indeed. But why would she withhold anything? What could she gain? Or lose?
“You were in that drainpipe a very long time. It must have been awful.” He watched her hawkishly, scanning her solemn face for any hint of what she might be hiding, but she gave nothing away.
She didn’t even blink when she murmured, “You have no idea.”
“And you’re certain you weren’t followed here?”
“If they knew where I was now, we’d have already seen them. I’d already be dead.”
Hmm. He believed her sincerity about that; her voice was hard with conviction. But something was most definitely off. He decided to push her a bit and see how she’d react. In a sympathetic, thoughtful voice he asked, “Why do you think they bothered to blow up the police station? It seems a bit…loud for a group of assassins. At least, I always imagined assassins to be more of a stealthy group.”
Her face changed, a flash of unidentifiable emotion, here then gone. “Diversion, maybe. I don’t know.”
She turned her head and he couldn’t see her expression, so he slowly walked around behind her with his hands clasped behind his back, contemplative, patient. When they were shoulder to shoulder, he set his gaze in the middle distance so he could see her in his peripheral vision. “You’re probably right. Killers seem to enjoy creating diversions. Your father’s killers, for instance—they certainly knew how to divert you. Getting Demetrius to woo you so you wouldn’t suspect his real motives was, in its own way, a stroke of genius.”
It was nothing, it was less than nothing, but his hawk eyes detected it and recognized it for what it was: a tell. A tiny muscle beneath her left eye twitched. Once. Otherwise, her face and body remained entirely impassive. Her breathing didn’t even change.
But now he knew. Whatever she was hiding, it had to do with Demetrius.
His mind leapt far, far ahead, calculating possibilities, creating, examining, and discarding hypotheses, working with the swift, cold precision of a well-oiled machine.
Perhaps there had been no assassins. Perhaps instead of an attempt to end her life, the bombing had been more of an attempt…to win her heart. She’d returned here, so the attempt had obviously not been successful, but perhaps something had been planted.
Perhaps a seed of doubt had been sown.
“Yes,” she agreed, her voice steady and cool, “it was genius.” She turned her head and looked him full in the face, her eyes flat, revealing nothing. “Ingenious, rather. One wonders how a group of males with room-temperature IQs normally preoccupied with nothing more than screwing and fighting could be quite so cunning.”
Ah. A challenge. He’d been prepared for it for years. What actually surprised him was that it had taken this long.
He returned her gaze with a steady, open one of his own. “Hatred is a powerful motivator, principessa.”
“Hatred?” she repeated, incredulous, and turned to him. “What reason would they have to hate me?”
“Not you,” he said with a gentle shake of his head. “Your father.”
She stared at him, revealing nothing. “Go on.”
Silas let his gaze drift away, lingering over the forlorn headstones. A raven caught his eye, and he followed its flight from the branches of a leafless tree until it disappeared into the winter sky beyond the pitched roof of the abbey. “Children can never truly know their parents,” he murmured sorrowfully. “Love and loyalty conspire to blind them to certain distasteful truths.”
Without looking he felt the change in her; the stiffening, the flash of heat. “Don’t talk to me in riddles, Silas. Say what you mean to say.”
He took pains to ensure his expression was exactly the right combination of angst, caring, and sincerity when he turned to face her. “Your father was a brilliant man, Eliana. I served him for most of my life. I know his intentions were good—”
“Silas,” she warned, moving closer.
“But he wasn’t always the kindest man. In fact, he could be…unspeakably cruel.”
He let it hang there between them, enticing as a windfall plum. Eliana said nothing for long moments, and Silas guessed she was searching her memory banks for corroborating evidence. She was silent just long enough to make him think she’d found it.
