So they had checked into the hotel and taken turns showering, and now Kitsune lay on the bed, curled up beneath the comforter, having left plenty of room for Oliver. But he forced himself to stay in that uncomfortable, worn and faded chair and watched CNN, trying to avoid the bright jade eyes that would drift from the television screen every so often to cast him a glance full of equal parts curiosity, desire, and disappointment. He did his best to focus on the telling nature of CNN’s international newscast, which truly did provide news from around the world; at home, the news was weighted a hundred to one in favor of American coverage.
When the story began, he did not realize it was what he had been waiting for, and yet he was riveted with horror by the story of the murder of twenty-seven children at a German orphanage. Even the word “mutilated” did not register except to make him shudder with revulsion and wonder what sort of monster would do such a thing.
Then the report began to link other cases to that German atrocity. Prague. Toronto. Paris. New Orleans. San Francisco. In those cases, only one or two children had been killed, but all of the murders had been in the last few weeks, and according to local authorities as well as U.S. and European officials, the mutilations in each case were similar enough to make them believe some kind of cult was involved.
There did also seem to be a connection to another series of murders and mysterious disappearances, however.
Oliver’s mouth opened slowly, his eyes widening. His father’s face appeared on the screen. The murder of Maximilian Bascombe shared disturbing similarities to those of the dead children, as did that of Alice St. John, a little girl from Cottingsley, Maine. Both of Bascombe’s children had vanished…
“But authorities on two continents are searching for this man, Oliver Bascombe, son of the late Maximilian Bascombe, for questioning in regard to this international string of heinous crimes and also concerning the murder of a retired college professor, David Koenig, in Scotland. Yet the mystery only deepens. Confirmed sightings of Oliver Bascombe in London and Scotland prompted independent investigators Ted Halliwell and Julianna Whitney to travel from Maine to the United Kingdom to seek him out, only to vanish themselves on the night of David Koenig’s murder. If you have seen this man-”
The words continued but he could not hear anymore. It was as though he had gone deaf.
Oliver brought both hands to his forehead. His mouth hung open and his body shook as he drew in tiny gasps of air. Slowly he slid from the chair and his legs folded beneath him. He contracted in upon himself, leaning against the wall, trembling with denial and hopelessness.
It was her scent that made him aware of Kitsune’s presence beside him. She had curled up on the threadbare carpet and tried now to comfort him, but when she touched him he flinched and contracted further, trying to burrow deeper within himself, perhaps hoping in some way that he might disappear completely.
If she spoke to him, he did not hear. Though she did not try to touch him again, she remained there, curled on the floor nearby as though she could absorb some of the pain from him.
A vast gulf had opened within Oliver. Hollow, he huddled there and waited for the emptiness inside to fill again, at least enough so that he could stop shaking; so that he could get up and get on with what had to be done.
He feared that it never would.
CHAPTER 14
H alliwell retreated deep within himself. It felt to him as though he operated his limbs from a great distance. Even looking out through his own eyes, everything seemed far away. And down in that place deep inside, he nursed a growing hatred of Oliver Bascombe. More and more he had become convinced Oliver was a victim, just as he and Julianna were, but that no longer mattered. He had simply grown tired of following the man, of chasing this phantom who bumbled on ahead of them through a world of impossibilities, and upon whom they had hung all of their hope.
There it is, Halliwell thought. That’s why you hate him…because you need him, and you know damn well he doesn’t have a magic wand. No ruby slippers here, Teddy. No way to click your heels and go home.
He thought the world of Julianna, but with every passing moment he drew further away from her. The distance helped. If he let himself be charmed by her wit and intelligence and sincerity, it became difficult to hate Oliver. Yet much of his bitterness was on her behalf. Julianna believed that once they found her fiance, everything would be all right. Somehow, they would get home.
The truth left a black streak across his heart. There were no ruby slippers. Halliwell wanted so desperately to believe they would get home, and this world bristled with magic, so perhaps it was possible. But following Oliver around the Two Kingdoms seemed bound to get them killed.
Not that they had any other option. And even if they had, the time to divert from this path had long since passed. They were committed now.
All three of them-Halliwell, Julianna, and the girl, Kara-had been locked into a single large room. It had been well appointed, with soft, comfortable chairs, a balcony too high to leap from, and a pair of sofas. Halliwell had rested a bit, but had been unable to fall asleep. How could he shut down his thoughts, quiet his fears? Eyes open, he could only lie there and think of never seeing Sara again. The more he tried to push thoughts of his daughter from his mind, the more impossible that became.
Julianna and Ngworekara had gone out on the balcony for a time, then the girl had stayed out there while Julianna came in, curled up in a chair, and instantly fell asleep.
She woke with the metal clank of the lock turning. The door had swung open and Captain Beck had entered, leaving a quartet of guards in the hall. All of which had led them to the here and now.
Kara led the way, flanked by two grimly silent soldiers who seemed immune to the girl’s mercurial charm. Julianna and Halliwell followed side by side, with Beck and the other two guards behind them. The captain kept right on Halliwell’s heels and he felt her presence keenly. In all his life, he had never encountered a woman so beautiful and so deadly. Captain Damia Beck looked as though she’d been carved out of ebony and she moved with utter confidence, but he had no doubt she would kill him without blinking if the order came.
“He’s been here,” Julianna whispered.
Beck cleared her throat, perhaps coincidentally, but Halliwell felt sure it was an admonition. He ignored her, glancing at Julianna.
“How can you be sure?”
She smiled softly and arched an eyebrow. “Aside from the way we’re being treated? I just feel it. I know him, Ted. Have known him, in fact, most of my life. He’s been here.”
Julianna said nothing more. They followed Kara and the two guards around a corner, down a long set of stone stairs that gently curved to the right, and arrived at a pair of wood and iron doors that looked like they could withstand just about anything.
A diminutive soldier, a woman with olive skin and dark eyes, stood at attention at the sight of Captain Beck.
“His Highness, King Hunyadi, awaits,” the small soldier said. Then she grabbed hold of the door handle and swung it open with strength that belied her size.
They were ushered into a long, narrow room extensively decorated in an oceanic theme, with art depicting nautical scenes and marine life. A great many candles were arrayed around the room, but they remained unlit. The light from the lamps and torches on the walls cast the room in an eerie, pulsing glow. Fully two dozen soldiers were already inside the room when they arrived, lined up at attention on either side of a raised dais at the far end of the room, beneath a massive stained glass depiction of Neptune or Poseidon.
On the dais was a chair. But the king wasn’t sitting.
At least, Halliwell assumed the guy was the king. He stood with his arms crossed as though he had been awaiting their arrival with impatience. With his thick beard and graying hair, he could have been the father to the Viking soldier they’d met at the castle gate.