And so the night Natalie left, Emma began planning her escape.
She considered her options. Emma was a city girl . . . not the best coordinated or athletic person. The outer walls were high, alarmed, and guarded, so the notion of her scaling them was ridiculous. All of the trees had been cut back so that they didn’t overhang the wall, so shimmying down one of them wasn’t a path out.
There was an attendant at the driveway gate, so even if she managed to get hold of some car keys, it was unlikely she could bluff her way out. She could try to hide in the back of somebody’s car, but she suspected that that ploy worked only in the movies.
Even getting out of the house would be a challenge. At night, they locked her in her room, and during the day, there were people everywhere.
Down was easier than up. So, like it or not, over the cliff and down to the lake seemed the most likely way out. If she managed not to fall into the water, she might actually make it.
She knew she’d need a rope of some kind. So while Rowan was driving Natalie back downtown, Emma sneaked down the basement stairs.
It was cool and damp-smelling, dark and apparently little used. She found an unlocked wine cellar and several locked doors (the torture chambers?) and, happily, a coil of sturdy nylon rope in a metal cabinet. She wasn’t sure how long it was, but the cliff wasn’t all that high, maybe thirty feet? Huddling in a corner, she tied knots into the rope at intervals. And that pretty much summed up the climbing plan. She’d tie one end to a tree and slide over the edge, using her feet to keep from smashing against the cliff.
In a box marked Donations she found a heavy sweatshirt, a knit cap, and a pair of jeans that more or less fit her, though they seemed in danger of sliding off her hipless frame. These must have belonged to Rachel DeVries, she thought, which was creepy, to tell the truth.
She carried the rope and the clothes back to her room and hid everything between the mattress and the box spring. The next day, she rooted around in the hall closet and found a pair of leather gloves in a jacket pocket. She’d need those if she didn’t want to shred the skin on her hands.
She was just closing the closet door when someone behind her said, “Going somewhere?”
Emma jumped and spun around, heart thudding. It was Burroughs. And beyond him, she saw Hackleford and DeVries. Rowan had been off-site all afternoon, strategizing with his wizard colleagues. They must have just gotten back, because they were still wearing their jackets. Burroughs was still right there, seemingly waiting for an answer.
“Oh! I . . . uh . . . it’s getting chilly, and I thought I might sit out in the garden. I was afraid my hands might get cold.” She held up the gloves.
“It’s supposed to storm tonight,” Burroughs said, moving in so he stood uncomfortably close. “Might be best to stay inside.” He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ears. There was an implied ownership in the gesture that made her shudder. But Emma also noticed a wired intensity in him that hadn’t been there before, a certain
Emma weighed the gloves in her hand, debating whether she could get away with keeping them. “Well, maybe I’ll just hang on to them in case I—”
Suddenly Rowan was there. He gripped her wrist with one hand and ripped the gloves away with the other, stuffing them into his pocket. “I don’t think you realize just how precarious your situation is. Come with me.”
He half dragged her away from the others, down the hallway toward her room. Wrenching open the door, he thrust her inside and slammed the door behind them. Then stood, glaring down at her.
“What is the matter with you?” Emma demanded, rubbing her bruised wrist. “What do you want from me?”
“Two more wizards have been murdered.”
“Murdered? Where?”
“Chicago,” Rowan said. “Sometime yesterday.”
“How?”
“Similar to the others. Cut to pieces, their heartstones destroyed. Nightshade scattered over the bodies.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“No? Well, it may as well be, because you’re going to pay the price.”
“What do you mean?” Emma asked, her heart plummeting.
“Think the Mafia, Emma, only a thousand times worse. For what it’s worth, I believe that you’re doing the best you can. But this situation has fueled speculation about whether I have the right temperament for this job. Whether I’m ruthless enough to lead the syndicate. Some of my colleagues are less interested in the truth than in the political advantage to be gained if you implicate members of the Interguild Council. You are the wedge that drives support to my enemies. And that can’t happen—not right now. If I lose control of the Black Rose, there’s no way my successors will leave me alive.”
“And, so . . . I am the sacrifice.”
Rowan’s lips tightened. “You are the sacrifice. Unless you can give me what I need.”
“Unless I lie, and say I remember when I don’t.”
“That’s one option,” Rowan said. “Tonight, members of the Wizard Council are meeting here at the house. I’ll question you in front of the council. You’ll need to confirm that McCauley and Moss were there for sure, and maybe some of the others. That will bring those wizards who are wavering over to our side. You may be asked to sign a statement. Just make sure you’re convincing, or no doubt Burroughs will get a chance to try his hand. Neither one of us wants that.” Rowan moved to turn away, but Emma grabbed his arm, pulling him back around.
“And what happens to me after that?” she demanded.
“After you have what you need?”
“I think you already know the answer to that,” he said coldly. “I was born into this game. I didn’t make the rules. If you cooperate, you can avoid considerable pain. The ending is the same, either way.”
Panic welled up inside her, constricting her throat so that she could scarcely get her breath. She might have a sad-ass life at the moment, but it was all she had.
Emma found her voice. “Just remember this: If I live, there’s the chance my memory will return, and you’ll have answers. If you kill me, you’ll never know who really murdered your sister. You might pass the murderer in the street and you’d never know it. Someone in your own organization may be gloating about it right now. Are you good with that? Are you willing to trade a political win based on a lie for a lifetime of wondering?”
They stood, eyes locked, for one, two, three heartbeats. Then Rowan looked away. “I suppose I’ll just have to take that chance,” he said, a muscle in his jaw working. “Now listen. Here’s how the evening will go. I expect the council members to arrive about six o’clock. You’ll hear a lot of coming and going about that time. We’ll be up front until about seven, then adjourn to the study that lets out onto the terrace. I’ll come to get you between seven and eight.” Releasing her, he dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the gloves he’d taken from her. “Keep these, if you want.” Then he was gone.
Emma stood, frowning, weighing the gloves in her hand, going back over her conversation with Rowan.
Unless he meant for her to use them.
First, she had to get over the garden wall. Emma hauled a chair out of her room and set it next to the wall. Then piled cushions on top of that. When she stood on top of the trembling stack, she could just reach the top of the wall with her fingertips. It was good that she was tall, or she’d never have made it. At least her arms were strong from hand-sanding and carrying wood around. As it was, she skinned both knees through her borrowed jeans as she scrambled for a toehold. Not a good start.
Once on the ground on the other side, she crouched close to the wall and scanned the grounds, looking for the two guards patrolling the compound. She watched until she figured out the pattern. One guard generally stayed in the guardhouse, probably watching the video feed while the other walked the grounds. Then they would switch off. One good thing about their presence was that there were unlikely to be motion detectors, at least nowhere near the perimeter walls.
She waited five minutes after the guard passed by, then fell in behind him, following the same path, every
