Amelia Atwater-Rhodes - Midnight Predator

Turquoise debated strangling her detested partner, but elected to find sheets and make the top bed—Ravyn was still sitting on the bottom one—instead.

Ravyn finally acceded, standing and following Turquoise’s example. The sleepy expression she usually wore was gone. “Let’s see if Jeshickah is really planning to run Jaguar through. If she isn’t . . . Even unpaid, I wouldn’t mind putting a knife in the creature that runs the slave trade.” For the first time, Ravyn’s voice didn’t sound tailored.

“How’d you end up involved with the trade?”

Ravyn shrugged. “Wrong time, wrong place, wrong life. Stumbled across a vamp with a taste for exotics.” She said the words emotionlessly, as if she were quoting.

Exotics. It sounded like a sign that should be in a pet store, advertising parrots or rare snakes. Hearing Ravyn apply it to herself was sickening. Knowing that Ravyn’s burgundy hair and eyes made the description appropriate was worse.

Still, condolences were out of place. There was no friendship between her and Ravyn, and likely never would be. “How’d you get out?”

Ravyn’s smirk returned. “Friends in low places,” she explained crisply. “I made a couple deals with vampires who hated Jared to begin with. They might not have stopped Jared from taking a two-by-four to me, but at least they didn’t stop me from slamming said beam into his skull before I put a knife in him.”

After that, Ravyn lost interest in talking except to ask for the top bed, which Turquoise gave up without much of a fight. She wouldn’t sleep well in either place.

“ICAN’T BELIEVEI . . . I’m so stupid.” She took another large gulp of milk, trying to stop the tears.

“No you’re not,” her father argued. His face still held a look of dazed shock, as it had ever since the police had woken him in his hotel room nearly eight hours ago. “Listen to me, Cathy.”

She lifted puffy, crying eyes to her father.

“You’re Catherine Miriam Minate,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You’re proud, and you have every right to be. And no one—no one—can take that away from you unless you let them. You’re safe now,” he assured her. “You can’t let this creep have the satisfaction of hurting you. No one can make you a victim but yourself.”

She shook her head, remembering how dumb she had been. A strange city, a strange hotel, a strange guy . . . why had she trusted him? Even at home, she wouldn’t have let a stranger get so close, no matter how nice or cute he seemed.

Mr. Minate stood and hugged his daughter close. She could feel his fatigue and his fear. He knew the danger was over, but was still near to panic.

Turquoise had forgotten to consider one fact when planning their trip to Midnight: she was claustrophobic. Not terribly; she wouldn’t end up huddled, screaming, in a corner, but she hated to be stuck in one small room.

She alternated between napping and pacing. When she slept, she dreamed, and the dreams were rarely pleasant.

Asleep or awake, vivid memories of Lord Daryl’s manor assaulted her.

There had been four floors to the house. The top level had held the kitchens, laundry rooms, and quarters for Lord Daryl’s numerous common slaves. Turquoise had not been allowed there, but she had explored it once while Lord Daryl had been away. He had beaten her unconscious when he had returned.

The third floor had held mostly bedrooms—hers, Lord Daryl’s, and guest rooms. Lord Daryl’s studio had been on that floor, a large room in the northern side of the house. It had been the only room in the house with a window, an almost solid wall of glass, and once or twice a month, when she had been desperate for sunlight, Catherine had crept in there despite Lord Daryl’s rules. The glimpse of life beyond her slavery was always worth risking a beating.

The second floor had held an office, a desk with drawers that were always locked, the dining room, and the library. Catherine had spent hours reading history, which was a subject on which Lord Daryl had numerous books. She ate alone. Lord Daryl’s slaves, even when serving her meals, were silent. Unless Lord Daryl spoke to her, Catherine heard no voice, no sound at all.

The first floor had been one large, elegant ballroom, complete with grand piano, polished dance floor, and a chandelier Catherine never saw lit. Lord Daryl was possessive and paranoid, and kept her away from the rest of his kind. When he hosted parties, he invariably locked his pet away in the next room, where she would barely hear music and distant voices.

That room, the little sitting room next to the ballroom, had been Catherine’s sanctuary. The carpet had been soft and black, and the walls had been burgundy so dark that only direct light would make the red visible. The room held a couch and matching love seat covered with black suede. A small bookshelf in the corner held photos of people Catherine did not know, and books in languages she could not read.

Turquoise wrenched her mind away from her past. She glanced at Ravyn, who was lying on her bed and pondering the stucco ceiling, and rejected as impossible the idea of intelligent conversation. Instead, she dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups. Generally, she ran for four miles and then used weights, but this little boxy room wouldn’t allow for that.

She did fifty on her right arm, and was up to thirty-seven on her left when someone knocked on the door.

“It’s Eric. May I come in?”

“Go ahead,” Ravyn called. She jumped down from her bed, commenting to Turquoise, “I’m tired just from watching you.”

“I promised you a tour of the south wing,” Eric reminded them. “I thought you might want to eat first,” he told Ravyn. “Sound fine?”

“Peachy,” Ravyn answered.

Eric seemed unnerved by the bright response, but he did not comment.

He showed them to the kitchens, where the midnight meal was being served. They ate, and Eric introduced Ravyn to the others she would be working with.

Afterward, he briefly showed them the infirmary and the weight room. “Keeps people busy in their down time, and gives them something to do to keep healthy,” Eric explained about this last.

“What’s through there?” Turquoise asked, pointing to a heavy oaken door in the interior wall that seemed out of place.

“Courtyard. It’s off-limits. The door’s locked anyway,” Eric explained briskly.

If a door is locked, you’re not welcome, Jaguar had said. Instantly, this courtyard interested Turquoise. “What’s in there?”

Eric shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Jaguar about that. Speaking of,” he continued, changing the subject, “if you can find Jaguar sometime before you turn in, ask him if I’m allowed to bring you outside. Probably not, but that’s where I really need the most help. Otherwise, you’ll either be cleaning or bloodletting, whichever you prefer.” The boy’s tone made it clear he’d have no respect for her if she took the second choice.

They split up. Ravyn returned to the kitchens to learn the ropes, Eric disappeared into his room, and Turquoise sought out Katie. She gave the woman her measurements, and was rewarded with the necessities of life: three full outfits, as well as a toothbrush, hairbrush, soap, washcloth, and two towels.

Next, Turquoise went looking for Jaguar. If all went well, she’d find him quickly and ask about going outside. That should grant her enough free time to explore. She wanted to see the western wing, and she wanted to get into the courtyard.

There were two locked doors in the northern wing; the shape-shifter rooms, Eric had said. The inside wall was empty—no courtyard door here. Jaguar was not in any of the sitting rooms, though she did have to skirt one room where Jeshickah was arguing with a vampire Turquoise did not recognize. The glimpse she caught as she walked by was of an attractive man of maybe twenty years, with a strong build and elegant features.