In better repair than the towering manor, the stone still looked rougher, the windows simple squares, but fully glassed. No plywood blocked the black painted door.
“My room back in Paris had 1200 count Egyptian cotton sheets and a view of the Eiffel Tower,” I grumbled. “And I’d barely cracked the mini bar.”
“The quartet of little empty scotch bottles on the nightstand beg to differ,” said Bashir. He hopped out of the passenger seat of the truck holding what looked like my luggage. “I helped myself to a Coke and one of the cheeses. Only in France would they stock the minibar with Époisse.”
He set the bag down in front of me and Ian. My luggage tag hung from handle on the top, confirming what I’d already assumed, given his description of what I’d drunk from the mini bar. He held his hand out, one bushy eyebrow high, expecting a tip like a bellhop.
“My husband handles the money,” I said with my head high as I stepped around the bag. “Pay the man, Ian. You can grab the bag too.”
Bashir chuckled and a slap sounded behind me. I glanced back. Bashir rubbed his hand. Ian held my suitcase and mock glared at his… friend? Partner? Minion? I’d only seen them together for a single conversation, not enough to make an even educated guess, but could cross out minion. They didn’t talk back nearly as much as Bashir did.
“You should move the truck closer to the house so you can get your scooter out,” Ian said to his non-minion. “Be ready. My resurrection is close at hand. My other… what’d you call it, allies? They are waiting in the wings.”
“Enjoy your honeymoon,” Bashir replied and slapped Ian’s shoulder, “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”
Their conversation faded the closer I got to the servants’ quarters. I should have walked slower to hear more, but it would have been suspicious if I’d just stopped after the exit I performed. Ian had taken my phone sometime during my unconsciousness, but had left everything else in my purse.
The door to the servants’ quarters opened easily, not even with a squeaky hinge. The cozy living room behind it reminded me of the apartment Ian had taken me to the night we’d met, with a couch opposite an entertainment center and the same television. Had it been the same couch?
The walls were bare, except for a long framed poster. A Mucha print of a theater poster, the wordMEDEAappeared aboveTheatre de la Renaissanceat the top. It depicted a woman with a spiked tiara over crazed eyes. A snake wrapped up one of her arms, the other held a bloody dagger. A dead girl lay artfully at her feet.
“You said I needed some art.” Ian’s voice tore me from the poster. “Blank walls were creepy, I think you said, before you suggested Mucha.”
“Most people would have chosen a cheerier print,” I said. “MaybeThe Four Seasons. Blank walls are creepy, but so is she.”
“Medea reminds me a lot of you,” he said and stood beside me at the poster. “Though the ancient Greeks hated women, so you kind of have to read between the lines. She was a sorceress, a schemer. She fell in love with Jason, helped him get the golden fleece when he promised to marry her. They had a bunch of kids along the way but once he got it, he found a new woman and Medea took her bloody revenge.”
“If you are Jason in this story, you know not to double cross me,” I said, pointing to the dead body on the poster.
“That’s her kid,” Ian said. “Like I said, the ancient Greeks hated women. She kills the kids she had with Jason, and his new wife, before killing herself. Not mother of the year material in the play, but I still like the poster.”
Now that was a cheery mythological figure to be compared to. The mention of moms sent me cringing. My own would be apoplectic that I’d gone incommunicado.
“Speaking of mothers, I need to call mine,” I said. “Can I get my phone?”
“We can’t let anyone track you here,” he said and held a finger up. “And it is way too easy to track a cellphone, but I have a solution.”
He walked to the side of the couch and opened the drawer of the end table. He pulled out a blocky phone, something out of a 90s TV show. An antenna half as thick as the phone stuck up from the side.
“Nobody is snooping on an encrypted sat phone,” he said. “Do you want privacy?”
Of course I did but shrugged as I tried to remember the number. It was just MOM on my phone. This was Ian’s playing field. Other than ‘Scotland,’ I couldn’t give out my location. Even if he gave me privacy, I couldn’t trust a room or his phone to be free of listening devices. There wasn’t any point of asking for the room.
The phone’s screen displayed a graphic of a satellite and the word ‘connecting’ followed by a blinking dot. Several seconds later it flashed ‘connected.’ It rang only twice before she answered.
“Hello?” she asked, voice unsure and tight. “Emma?”
“Hey Mom, sorry I’ve been out of touch,” I replied and smirked at Ian. “Some asshole broke into my hotel room and stole my phone. Wanted to let you know I was okay. NoTakensituation.”
Ian hadn’t kidnapped me to sell as a sex slave like in the movie, but he had kidnapped me. The irony hadn’t escaped me but something about my mom’s tone hit me as off. I heard her concern, the curiously of the unknown number but her voice wavered with too much fear.
“Daisy?” my mom gasped. “My god, it has been so long since I’ve heard from you. No wonder I didn’t recognize your number. How have you been?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Safe, ” I replied, heart racing. “What’s going on?”
Ian perked up at my change of tone. He inched closer, frown on his face. I held a finger against my lips and tapped the speaker button so he could hear.
“Yeah, I’ve been expecting a call from Emma, that’s why I wondered if your number was hers,” my mom continued her fake conversation. “Some of her cousins from Scotland have come to see her but she’s out of town.”
