The Treasure Keeper

finally caught a glimpse of pure, pretty color from the corner of his vision, he could have sworn it was Zoe running, quite astonishingly nude, down a busy city street. And only the horses and stray dogs seemed to notice.

Chapter Six

Zoe sat on the edge of her bed wrapped in just a blanket, contemplating her feet. They were cut and cold and so dirty she was loath to put on stockings or shoes for fear of permanently mucking them up.

Paris was disgustingly filthy. Especially when one was forced to traverse it barefoot.

She had five gowns left. Three pairs of shoes. Four sets of stockings, garters, bibs. One corset and bustle.

Three of the five dresses she had purchased here. Her work as a seamstress would have meant a modest living nearly anywhere else, but Darkfrith—as ever—had evolved its own set of rules and social structures. She was no more and no less well-off than nearly anyone else in the tribe, but by the standards of the rest of the country, she was practically gentry. Certainly no one from the green hills of the shire ever starved. No one flaunted their wealth either. Barring the Alpha and his estate, the drakon of England lived their quiet, calm lives in the grip of secret luxury.

But only three gowns had fit into the valise. Besides, she'd needed room for her jewelry.

She lifted a foot, examined it critically. Were she able to Turn to smoke, all the dirt would fall away, the little nicks and blood would no longer matter—it was a fine Gift, smoke. She could fly with it, she could transform herself to haze and wind and survive even dire injury. Nothing would hold her back.

But no,she had gotten invisibility. Lovely. Especially when it manifested upon the slightest degree of stress. Or a splash of warm coffee.

Zoe lowered her foot again and wished gloomily for a bath. A real bath, with a full tub, and hot water, and lavender soap and—

The hairs on the back of her neck abruptly prickled.

She was no longer alone in the room.

Even as leapt up she was vanishing; the blanket slithered in a rumpled heap to the floor. She stood there half-crouched, frantically scanning the chamber.

Crimson walls, faded drapery. The bed and broken mirror, silent. No breathing or foreign scent. No heartbeat but her own.

Yet she was not alone.

It was close to teatime and the setting sun was trying hard to slice past the break in the curtains. A thin streak of topazed light fell against the far wall, cut downward to gloss the dark wooden floor. Slowly she backed to the gloom of the nearest corner; the grime on her feet was still quite visible.

Nothing else stirred save a tiny plume of motes, rushed to life by her ankles. She sucked in air past her teeth and spoke, her voice coming harsh. 'Who's there?'

No one answered. Her heart thumped so loudly against her breastbone she wondered it couldn't be heard all the way across the palace.

'I know you're there,' she snarled, 'whatever you are. Show yourself and I won't —'

'Zoe?'

Despite herself she jumped a little, and the motes swirled anew. 'Hayden?' She eased a step forward, still seeing nothing. 'Hayden?' There came a new sound, softer than a sigh, low and long. She turned a circle. 'Where are you?'

'Ah .'

The mirror. Of course, the mirror. She snatched up the blanket and sank to her knees before it, but it was empty. It showed only the room, her face, the blue.

'I don't see you,' she said, frustrated. Her fingers curled into a fist against the glass. 'Hayden, where are you?'

'Here,' he said, behind her.

But he wasn't. There was only the wall and window, and the band of sunlight that now arrowed hard across her chest.

'Here,' he said again, quieter, right in front of her.

She reached out and felt the empty air, then the curtains. Velvet met her skin in a push of heat, a heavy resistance as she inched it aside with the back of her hand. She angled out of the light and the chamber warmed to flame with the sudden sun.

'Hay .' she began, but didn't finish because her throat dried up, because he was there after all. There, in the glass of the window, the shadow man of before, smoke and wicked darkness paled to nearly nothing against the brilliance of the sky.

'No,' murmured the shadow, shimmering thin. 'Sorry, love. It's Rhys. Rhys Langford.'

He watched her lips part. Astonishment, he thought. Or perhaps indignation. With Zoe, it could be difficult to tell. But she'd been expecting her lover, clearly.

Too damned bad. She got him instead.

'Where are we?' he asked, and looked her up and down. 'Why are you naked?'

Her mouth snapped closed. She gathered the sage wool blanket she wore—and he was fairly certain it was all she wore—tighter about her shoulders.

'Not that I'm complaining,' he couldn't help but add.

Ah, yes. The color in her cheeks again, growing brighter. That was anger.

He was happy enough to see it, that blush. He was happy to see any part of her, all the beautiful, living, vivid parts of her, her hair shimmering gold and coral with the waning light, long silky locks caught against smooth arms and shoulders, those pillowy lips. She wore no kohl now, but her lashes and brows had never been the same pale blond as her hair, rather a darker, gentler brown; even as a boy, he'd found it endearing.

Not that he'd ever told her that. Trying to compliment Zoe was like trying to tell a rose why he liked thorns. She wouldn't believe him and he'd likely end up fumbling it anyway.

She drew up taller with the blanket. 'Are you dead?' she asked flatly.

'I don't know,' he replied, interested. 'What do you think?'

'One would hope for a certain grace in death. But you seem just as crass as ever.'

He smiled. 'Excellent news for me, then.'

She only shook her head, one hand knuckled into the twists of the wool. 'Are you alone? Is there . is anyone else with you?'

'You mean your darling husband-to-be? No. I'm alone. There was a rat not so very long ago—as least, I think it wasn't long ago. A rat and a bush and a door—' He was beginning to babble, the joy and sharp relief of finding her peaking into something more volatile. Rhys took a breath and cut himself short. 'Where did you say we are?'

'I didn't. Paris.'

He looked past her to the room. It was bare, remarkably so.

'Is this a hostelry?' he asked. 'I must say, your tastes have always been a bit peculiar to me, but—'

'This,' she interrupted frostily, 'is the Palais des Tuileries.' She dropped the curtain and he lost her, just that easily. He was left to gaze at yards of pinkish velvet gradually fading to gray.

'Zoe,' he called, no longer smiling. 'Zoe, I'm sorry. Come back.'

The curtains began to lift back into color, although he caught no glimpse of her, and they did not stir.

'Please,' he said, and hated the edge of desperation in his own voice. 'I just—please.'

Her fingers parted the folds. She gazed back at him warily, saturated in light that was rapidly deepening to cherry dusk. He tried his best smile—don't run; don't go; everything's fine; all of this is perfectly, perfectly normal—and reached out to touch her.

He wanted, very much, to graze those fingertips so close to him, to feel her, just as he almost had before . but instead Rhys only met that resistance again, the unseen glue that kept him fixed. He remained vapor and