“Have you heard from him? It’s been over a week.”
Impatience flows down the line and into my ear, Marlin’s exasperated tone offering a surprising degree of comfort in my current state.
“It’s so nice to hear from you too, dear friend.”
“Christopher Deville needs to make a decision. Our window of opportunity is growing smaller with each passing day.”
My mother’s minions don’t spare me a glance as I start walking up the stairs. They’re on duty twenty-four hours at a time, a constant rotation that ensures the Dragon’s survival, and more importantly, her well-being.
“Are you getting nervous, Marlin?”
He sighs, “I do not enjoy basing the essence of our plan around someone else. Particularly someone who is as reckless as he is.”
I pause at the top of the landing, studying the ferocious creatures guarding the arched doorway. Wings flare out and teeth snarl as the dragons do their best to prepare guests for what lies ahead.
“We always knew it would come to this.”
“We knew it would come down to acquiring the skills of a thief. Not jeopardizing our entire operation because a notorious criminal suddenly got cold feet.”
“You give him too much credit. Christopher isn’t worth much on this side of the pond.” Tilting my head, I study the statues for a moment longer, “Besides, I think he found some warmer socks.”
I hang up the phone and look at the man lounging beneath the dragon’s wing. He’s watching me, dark eyes scanning every inch of my body while he lays hidden beneath the shadows of my mother’s empire.
“Is there a reason why you’re always covered in blood?”
A smirk hits my lips, “Hunting season.”
“Hunting season hasn’t started yet.”
“You hunt?”
“No.” Sitting up slowly, he winces, pressing a hand against his abdomen, “One of my many stepfathers would count down the days until the season began. Had a bunch of hunting dogs he would take with him.”
I nod, remembering the brief mention of Roger Dearly in Marlin’s report.
“Fitting husband for a woman in the fur trades.”
“Something like that.”
Christopher climbs to his feet, his movements similar to what you would expect from an old man. Groans ring out as he stands up and brushes the dust clinging to his t-shirt.
I watch him with idle amusement, “Do you need assistance? A terry cloth and a cup of tea, perhaps?”
“God, I miss English tea. Your stuff here is shit.”
He sighs, staring off in the distance before turning his attention back to me.
“We need to talk.”
“I’m listening.”
“In private.” His eyes dart towards the guards making their rounds, “Where no one can hear.”
Men. Always so paranoid.
Instead of leading him into the house, I turn and walk back down the front steps. Christopher follows me at a careful distance, his presence drawing attention from every guard on duty.
Those fools had no idea he was here in the first place.
