Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
My phone buzzes again. Another photo from Hans—this one showing Saylor sitting at the bar, laughing at something Duffy is saying as she slides one of her foo-foo crafted cocktails across the polished wood toward her. The warm lighting of Toil & Trouble makes her skin glow, and even through Hans’s terrible photography skills, I can see the genuine smile on her face. She looks relaxed for the first time since I’ve known her. Happy.
Something cold puts down roots in my chest, but it’s not about Duffy this time. It’s instinct. The same sixth sense that’s kept me alive through fifteen years of dancing with death.
I go back and zoom in on the first photo Hans sent, the one of her standing outside the bar. My blood turns to ice.
There, in the background behind a lamppost decorated with iron roses, partially obscured by shadow but unmistakably familiar, stands a figure I hoped never to see again. Tall and lean with silver hair slicked back, wearing a charcoal coat that screams money and power. Even in Hans’s grainy surveillance photo, I can make out the calculating smile that’s gotten him into more high-society events than any criminal has a right to attend.
Samuel “Sly” Crow. The Crow’s intelligence gatherer. Their eyes and ears, their master manipulator who can charm state secrets out of senators’ wives and assassination targets out of their own bodyguards.
If Sly is in Grimlock, it means the Crow know exactly where Saylor is.
I stand up so fast the chair tips backward, crashing into Jay’s filing cabinet.
“Blue, what—”
“It’s decided.” I’m already moving toward the door, my hand instinctively reaching for my phone to call Hans. “I need to get her out of there. Now.”
The axe is calling, and I’m going to try my damnedest to ignore it.
Chapter Fourteen
Saylor
Duffy Dunsin has the smile of someone who can see your future and finds it amusing.
I’m three sips into Duffy’s lavender gin fizz—which tastes like drinking liquid starlight with a hint of garden party—when she starts casual conversation that feels anything but casual.
“So what’s your story?” she asks, wiping down glasses that already look spotless. “Jazz singer from the big city, right? Must be quite the change, going from New York nightlife to . . . well, whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is seems pretty charming so far.” I gesture around the bar. “Although I’m starting to think ‘charming’ might be Grimlock’s specialty.”
“Oh, we’re full of charm here. Sometimes too much for our own good.” Duffy’s smile is easy, but there’s something watchful in her eyes.
“Well, let’s see.” I take another sip of my gin fizz, buying time to come up with the perfect response. “You’re probably going to think I’m completely insane.”
“I run an apothecary bar in Grimlock,” Duffy says with a dry laugh. “There’s nothing you could tell me that I haven’t heard before. Trust me.”
Her matter-of-fact tone gives me the courage to continue. “Jazz singer gets her father murdered in front of her, gets kidnapped by the Crow, then gets drugged and kidnapped again by her father’s mysterious best friend, then gets stuffed into a steamer trunk for transport, then wakes up in a Gothic mansion where the housekeeper acts like kidnapping is just a typical day. I tried to escape but discovered I’m trapped on an estate surrounded by a twelve-foot wall in a town I’ve never heard of—and I may have been terrible at geography, but I’m pretty sure I would have remembered a place called Grimlock. Now I’m drinking gin before noon on a Wednesday because apparently this is what my life has become. So basically, I’ve had a week that makes you reevaluate your life choices.”
I vomit out the truth, not expecting her to believe me. To laugh and say “yeah right” or something of that nature. No way would anyone think all of what I just said really happened, and if they did, they’d be calling the police right away.
Duffy nearly drops the glass she’s polishing. “Jesus. I’m sorry about your father.”
Her straightforward response, without questioning the kidnapping part, tells me everything I need to know about what passes for normal conversation in Grimlock.
“Thanks. I have to say, the accommodations here are a significant upgrade from my New York shoebox apartment. Nothing says ‘your life has taken an unexpected turn’ like waking up in a four-poster bed after being transported in antique luggage.”
“You’re handling this remarkably well for someone who just described getting kidnapped. Twice.”
“What’s the alternative? Hysterics? I considered it, but crying into Egyptian cotton sheets felt a little too dramatic, even for me.” I shrug. “Besides, between you and me, I was one missed rent payment away from eviction anyway. At least now someone else is worrying about the bills.”
Duffy arranges bottles behind the bar with the careful attention of someone buying time to think. “How are you finding Maison Rouge? Must be quite the step up from city living.”