she?”
“She was in the database. She disappeared about two weeks ago, and her family put a notice up on one of the Drakán forums. She belongs to the Belgae.”
“What? Shit.” This was not what I’d been expecting. She was one of Julian’s. I wasn’t a big believer in coincidence.
“This could work to your advantage,” Erik said. “You now have a reason to show up in his lands unannounced without accusing him of anything and risking your death.”
“Did you find out anything else?”
“Nothing that makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“While you were gone I went to dispose of her ashes, and as I was sweeping them away I found two different places where silver had melted from her body and was re-hardening into discs. Each disc weighed exactly 5.995 grams.”
“So she had coins embedded in her skin. That’s not unusual.”
“No, but those were the only two pieces I found, and they just happen to be the exact weight of a silver half Shekel—the silver coins that Judas Iscariot received to betray Jesus.”
“So she was a traitor?”
“That’s for you to find out. I’m just a scientist.”
“You’ve never been just a scientist.”
Erik’s posture stiffened and he gave me a curt bow—every inch the Roman general he used to be—before turning on his heel and heading to his wing of the house. Erik’s moods changed with the winds, and I never knew if the things I said hurt or helped the way he felt about being powerless.
I put Erik out of my mind and fled the rest of the way up the stairs, my thoughts racing with possibilities. I didn’t know what Jillian had to do with the Destroyer, or what she’d done to deserve such a horrific death. But I knew I had to find him. And the best place to start was with Julian of the Belgae.
I had a plane to Belgium to catch. I just prayed to the gods that Julian gave me a chance to explain my reasons for crossing into his territory before he tried to turn me to ashes.
Chapter Eight
When the plane landed in Brussels, I uncurled my cramped fingers from around the armrests and leaned my head back against the cool leather of my seat. The nausea was slowly fading. My skin was clammy with sweat and my legs were shaking. If an enemy wanted to kill me, now was the perfect time to do so. I hated to fly.
The only flight I could get on such short notice had three connections, so I got to experience the pure terror of take off and landing three times as much as normal. My connecting flight from Heathrow to Brussels had been the last one of the day. The flight attendant had announced—in a chirpy voice that made me want to vomit down the front of her crisp white blouse—that it was after ten o’clock in the evening when the wheels touched down. 10:07 to be exact.
I restrained myself from dropping to my knees and kissing the ground as I walked through the terminal with my small carry-on wheeled bag and my purse. The airport was all but deserted—the grey walls dingier than they would have seemed in daylight—the kiosks more pathetic as they stood abandoned. I was starving, but all of the fast food places were already closed. The only thing that was still open was a small bar, about a hundred square feet of long countertop and cramped tables. It was dark on the inside. A neon open sign flickered in the front window, trying to decide if it wanted to go out completely. It looked like an oasis after the hell I’d just been through.
“Three fingers of whiskey, please. Neat,” I told the bartender. She tore her gaze away from her Kindle and looked me over from head to toe, obviously not impressed with what she saw. She handed me the drink and went back to her book. I knocked the whiskey back in two swallows, and finally felt warmth return to my body. The tension that squeezed along my spine and up to the base of my neck started to ease and I took my first deep breath.
I paid for my drink and turned to leave, but I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the
“She was in the database. She disappeared about two weeks ago, and her family put a notice up on one of the Drakán forums. She belongs to the Belgae.”
“What? Shit.” This was not what I’d been expecting. She was one of Julian’s. I wasn’t a big believer in coincidence.
“This could work to your advantage,” Erik said. “You now have a reason to show up in his lands unannounced without accusing him of anything and risking your death.”
“Did you find out anything else?”
“Nothing that makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“While you were gone I went to dispose of her ashes, and as I was sweeping them away I found two different places where silver had melted from her body and was re-hardening into discs. Each disc weighed exactly 5.995 grams.”
“So she had coins embedded in her skin. That’s not unusual.”
“No, but those were the only two pieces I found, and they just happen to be the exact weight of a silver half Shekel—the silver coins that Judas Iscariot received to betray Jesus.”
“So she was a traitor?”
“That’s for you to find out. I’m just a scientist.”
“You’ve never been just a scientist.”
Erik’s posture stiffened and he gave me a curt bow—every inch the Roman general he used to be—before turning on his heel and heading to his wing of the house. Erik’s moods changed with the winds, and I never knew if the things I said hurt or helped the way he felt about being powerless.
I put Erik out of my mind and fled the rest of the way up the stairs, my thoughts racing with possibilities. I didn’t know what Jillian had to do with the Destroyer, or what she’d done to deserve such a horrific death. But I knew I had to find him. And the best place to start was with Julian of the Belgae.
I had a plane to Belgium to catch. I just prayed to the gods that Julian gave me a chance to explain my reasons for crossing into his territory before he tried to turn me to ashes.
Chapter Eight
When the plane landed in Brussels, I uncurled my cramped fingers from around the armrests and leaned my head back against the cool leather of my seat. The nausea was slowly fading. My skin was clammy with sweat and my legs were shaking. If an enemy wanted to kill me, now was the perfect time to do so. I hated to fly.
The only flight I could get on such short notice had three connections, so I got to experience the pure terror of take off and landing three times as much as normal. My connecting flight from Heathrow to Brussels had been the last one of the day. The flight attendant had announced—in a chirpy voice that made me want to vomit down the front of her crisp white blouse—that it was after ten o’clock in the evening when the wheels touched down. 10:07 to be exact.
I restrained myself from dropping to my knees and kissing the ground as I walked through the terminal with my small carry-on wheeled bag and my purse. The airport was all but deserted—the grey walls dingier than they would have seemed in daylight—the kiosks more pathetic as they stood abandoned. I was starving, but all of the fast food places were already closed. The only thing that was still open was a small bar, about a hundred square feet of long countertop and cramped tables. It was dark on the inside. A neon open sign flickered in the front window, trying to decide if it wanted to go out completely. It looked like an oasis after the hell I’d just been through.
“Three fingers of whiskey, please. Neat,” I told the bartender. She tore her gaze away from her Kindle and looked me over from head to toe, obviously not impressed with what she saw. She handed me the drink and went back to her book. I knocked the whiskey back in two swallows, and finally felt warmth return to my body. The tension that squeezed along my spine and up to the base of my neck started to ease and I took my first deep breath.
I paid for my drink and turned to leave, but I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the
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