Black Ice - Anne Stuart [110]
She moved the tiny cylinder down in her hand and pushed the button at the tip. The thick, suffocating darkness closed around her like a smothering blanket, and she took a deep, shaky breath. She closed her eyes, refusing to be a victim of the darkness. She huddled there, silent, alone, and waited.
She almost thought she might have slept, though such a thing seemed impossible. She jerked suddenly, as the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the old stairway brought a surge of crazed hope.
She started to call his name, then bit her lips before anything more than a soft intake of breath could be heard. It wasn’t Bastien. Whoever was moving around the basement was very quiet—she could barely hear the softest sound of footsteps.
With Bastien, there would have been no sound at all.
Either her eyes had grown accustomed to it, or the darkness of the tiny cubbyhole had lightened slightly. She could see her hands in front of her, bound by rope and duct tape, but she couldn’t see the flashlight. She moved, just the tiniest amount, careful not to make a sound, when she felt something roll across her stomach, and a moment later it hit the concrete with a clang as loud as a pair of crashing symbols.
She held her breath, praying, panicked. Please, God, don’t let them hear. Let it be Bastien, let it be anyone but the crazy woman who wanted to kill her for reasons so obscure that she wouldn’t have believed it if the smell of blood from the Hotel Denis hadn’t stayed with her all these months later.
She had no warning. The door to the crawl space was pulled open, and someone stood there, silhouetted by the dim light coming from the cellar door. It wasn’t anyone she knew—the person was tall, painfully thin, bald. She didn’t move—maybe Bastien had brought help.
“So there you are, chérie.” Monique’s voice came from the cadaverous figure, sounding eerily cheerful. “I knew I’d find you sooner or later. Come out and play.” She put a thin, painfully strong hand on her bound wrists and dragged her out into the basement, letting her collapse at her feet.
Monique knelt down by her, and Chloe could see her more clearly now. She wasn’t bald—her head had been shaved. And Bastien hadn’t been wrong—she had been shot in the face. The left side of her jaw had been blown away, and after four months she had only begun the healing process. Four years wouldn’t help.
“Pretty, aren’t I?” Monique cooed.
“I didn’t do that,” Chloe said in a shaky voice.
“Of course you didn’t. I doubt you could even shoot a gun, you useless little idiot. I have no idea who did—whether it was the Greek’s men, or Bastien’s people, or even my own. It doesn’t matter. I’m just clearing up a few loose ends. And you’re the very final one. There’s no one else.”
A cold, sick dread filled Chloe’s throat. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? Bastien’s dead.”
25
“No!” Chloe said, hating the sound of fear in her own voice.
“But yes. Did you think he was some kind of super-hero? He bleeds red blood, just like everyone else. I will admit he’s harder to kill than most men, but in the end he’s only mortal. Or was.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Of course you do. I can hear it in your voice. I think you knew all along that it was hopeless. I never expected to find him here in the first place. Why didn’t he try to run with you? He wouldn’t have gotten far, but at least it would have been better than waiting here like a cornered deer. Then again, maybe he decided he’d rather be dead than have a wet little creature like you hanging around his neck for the rest of his life.”
From somewhere deep inside she pulled the last of her resources. “He wouldn’t have come to save me if he didn’t want me.”
Monique shrugged. The daylight was growing brighter—it must be a little after six. Chloe’s sleep had been so erratic that she’d become far too familiar with how the sky looked at different times during the endless night. “Our mutual friend has a death wish—I’ve known it for quite a while. I’m merely the