I drew breath to ask if that was really a safe plan or not, but he raised a hand and cut me off before I could speak.
“Look. There’s a pissed-off demon out there with the power to snuff me out like a candle flame at any moment. That’s been the case for decades, and having you two breathing down my neck all night won’t do a damned thing to protect me from him. Her? Whatever. As for the rest of it, we’re in the middle of an ocean, no one knows we’re here, and I don’t feel the overwhelming urge to kill the next random human I see—even after getting a good look at the decor in this room. If that changes later, I’ve got a small blood bank stashed in here with me that I can use to take the edge off.”
I looked to Rans, who nodded. “If you’re sure, mate.”
“Yes, I’m fucking sure. Now get out of here, and leave me and my goddamned king-sized porno bed in peace. Who knows, maybe I’ll even figure out a use for the mirrors on the fucking ceiling once you’re gone.”
I couldn’t help it. I glanced up. Yup... mirrored ceiling.
Wow.
“Good night, Guthrie,” I said in a tiny voice.
“Good night, Zorah. And fuck you very much, Rans.”
“G’night, mate. I truly am sorry about all of this.”
Guthrie settled a piercing gaze on Rans, holding his eyes for a long moment. “I know you are,” he said eventually.
* * *
While our assigned suite had a bit of a gothic romance vibe going on, it wasn’t anywhere near as much of a travesty as poor Guthrie’s. To my considerable shock, we’d barely gotten back to it when a knock at the door announced the arrival of several obsequious lackeys toting a rather staggering number of garment bags and packages. I watched, wide-eyed, as Rans directed them to put everything away before peeling off a few large bills for tips.
“So this is how the one percent lives, huh?” I asked, once we were alone again.
“The point-zero-one percent, perhaps,” Rans replied in a distracted tone. “Now, as Guthrie correctly pointed out, we are currently as safe as we’re likely to get anytime soon. It’s been... quite a couple of days. You must be tired, so feel free to rest for a few hours.”
My alarm bells were still going off in response to his distantly thoughtful demeanor and general air of not being himself. And while it was true that I should be tired, I didn’t honestly think I’d be able to do more than toss and turn if I tried to lie down in the spectacular four-poster bed just now.
“I’d rather go back out there and walk around a bit more,” I told him. “Maybe get some food? I’m way too wired to try and sleep right now, I’m sorry to say.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed easily. “It feels like the ship has just unmoored and left the dock, which is good timing. Highly unlikely that anyone will have managed to track us here yet, if they’re even looking for us in the first place right now.”
“That is good news,” I said, letting myself relax a tiny bit. Now that I concentrated, I could feel a vague sense of the deck beneath me being in motion. It wasn’t anything really noticeable. Still, it was reassurance that we were indeed moving away from the island, where someone might conceivably have been able to find us, given enough motivation and resources. “Come on. Let’s go take a better look around.”
“Certainly.” His hand pressed against my lower back, turning me toward the walk-in closet that had so recently been swarming with garment-bag toting employees. “First things first, though. If we want to maintain a relatively low profile in this shark tank, we’ll need to dress the part.”
‘Dressing the part’ took nearly an hour of preparation in the end. I was in desperate need of a shower, and afterward, I took advantage of the plethora of beauty products that had magically appeared at the same time as the clothing. Cleaned, powdered, moisturized, conditioned, coiffed, and painted, I emerged wrapped in a towel to find a red sheath dress, matching red stiletto heels, and a set of lacy black lingerie waiting on the bed.
Shrugging, I changed into it, unsurprised to find that everything fit perfectly. I had a sneaking suspicion that the shoes alone cost more than the entirety of my Target wardrobe combined. As recently as a couple of weeks ago, that realization would have really bothered me. Sometime in the intervening whirlwind of drama and near-death experiences, I’d finally internalized the idea that money meant very little to people like Rans... or Guthrie, who was technically bankrolling all of this.
The door connecting the bedroom to the living area that formed the other half of the suite we were occupying opened. I turned from the oh-so-classy boob readjustment I was performing in the mirror, and couldn’t help catching my breath.
Rans eyed me up and down, nodding in approval. “Oh, good. It looks like I guessed your measurements right, after all. You’ve been putting on muscle over the past few weeks, so I wasn’t sure. And I must say—filthy rich is a good look on you, love.”
“Likewise,” I managed faintly, once I’d worked up enough moisture in my mouth to speak.
Left to his own devices, Rans migrated mostly toward the bad-boy ethos, all dark jeans, combat boots, motorcycle leathers, and black t-shirts. When that would be too conspicuous, he tended to wear unremarkable casual slacks and button-downs. They didn’t really suit him, in my opinion, but to be fair, with a build like his, he could
