Blood.
“Stay close.” He moves slowly, descending the stairs into the lower level, his hand on his pocket.
I follow him, feeling dread build with every step I take. Once we reach the salon, it’s painfully obvious that my hunch isn’t wrong. The salty stench of blood is overwhelming, mingling with the scent of saltwater. Even more puddles of scarlet and water mar the floor, growing larger the further we venture. Some look flattened, oddly formed. Footprints? If so, they blaze a trail across the salon toward a closed door.
“Who the fuck is in here?” Donatello demands. No answer comes, so he wrenches the door open, revealing a narrow bathroom and a woman hunched over the sink, casually dabbing at her thigh with a wadded cloth.
“Could you not point that thing at me?” Her airy voice reminds me of the well-bred girls from the musical conservatory.
From her tone, one might think Donatello’s pointing something as trivial as a dirty hand in her direction. Not a gun. I stiffen at the sight of it, unsure of where he retrieved it from. Did he have it on him the entire time we were on the Saleris’ boat? Without lowering it, he gapes at the woman. “Who the hell are you?”
Someone slender, with golden hair streaming down her shoulders. She holds herself with so much poise; the scarlet on her skin might as well be makeup. Then she winces, and her act slips.
“There isn’t time for introductions, I’m afraid,” she says, her voice strained. A glance down reveals why—a gash slices through the meat of her thigh, the source of the blood. “They’ll already know I’m gone. Process of elimination states, there aren’t many places I could have gotten to—” She angles her head to face Donatello directly. “It’s only a matter of time before they’re on their way.”
Her voice is the lone attribute warning me that my eyes are faulty. This woman standing before me isn’t Ellen. Even if their facial structure is eerily similar, their eyes the same shade of blue.
Ellen could never look so cold—not to mention the lack of a scar on her cheek. This woman is someone else, and a name comes to mind, one I heard scarcely spoken at Stepanov Manor. Briar, Ellen’s older sister. As far as I knew, she left years ago, before Ivan was even born. Could this woman really be her?
“I know this is a rather dramatic statement, but time is of the essence,” the woman snaps. Hissing, she drops her rag onto the ground and limps over it, pushing her way past Donatello. Both water and blood drip in her wake. She’s soaked, her dress clinging to her body like a second skin. “If they aren’t already aiming to swarm this little dinghy of yours, they will be soon,” she says. Bracing herself against a window, she peers out in the direction of the Santiago. “As expected, he’s already sent his little henchmen,” she remarks dryly. “If we aim to outrun them, I suggest you get a move on.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“That’s not important right now,” the woman says, waving him off. “What is important is this—do you intend to die in a watery grave with some uninspired explanation such as ‘engine failure’ to be listed as the cause? Because I can assure you that’s what will happen if he knows I’m here.”
“Saleri?”
“Son of a bitch!” She moans, grabbing at her thigh. “This stings. Well, I suggest you hurry.”
“Shit.” Donatello glances from the window and races for the upper deck. Spotting me, he says, “Keep an eye on her.”
“I’m sure you both are very formidable,” the woman says tiredly.
I don’t think her weakness is faked. She stumbles to the nearest row of couches and collapses on one. Fresh blood is already forming a trail down her leg, dripping onto the floor. “I know this bastard had a bottle of whiskey around here somewhere,” she says through clenched teeth, scanning the room. Her eyes fall over mine, and she flashes a smile that would seem charming in the absence of blood. “Care to find it for me, darling?”
As the engine stutters to life, rattling the body of the boat, I realize there isn’t anything else I can do. I head for the bar, reading the labels of the bottles there. Sure enough, I spy a bottle of whiskey, and when I bring it to the woman, she rips off the lid and pours a majority of the drink onto her thigh.
“We’re moving at least,” she croaks, glancing from the window. “But can your friend sail this boat quickly enough?” Apparently, she doesn’t think so, because she lurches upright, grappling for any nearby surface to stagger her way to the stairs. “I hope you aren’t heading for the docks right away,” she calls, shouting above the noise of the engine.
Donatello bellows back, “The fuck else am I supposed to go?”
“Shit.” She grimaces in pain, biting her lip. “They’ll try to kill you if they think I’m here,” she says.
“Who the fuck are you?” Donatello snaps back.
Her eyes darken, turning inward. “Someone they want dead very, very badly.”
“What’s stopping me from tossing you overboard right now?”
“They might kill you anyway,” she counters. “Besides, you don’t know what I do. Perhaps we could help each other. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How?”
“I guess you don’t have a choice, but when we get to the docks, stall them until I can leave unseen.”
“So much for you making it worth my while, huh?”
“It’s not like being dead is a much better bargain, is it?”
Donatello says nothing.
“I’ll find a hiding place, then,” the woman shouts. Groaning, she inches back into the salon, scrambling to a corner of the room. She braces both hands against it and shifts her weight. With a metallic hiss, part of the wall gives way. A sliding door?
