Malcolm slowly came to, his head pounding and his torso feeling as if he’d been bashed with a wrecking ball. He was lying on a concrete floor. Wine racks surrounded him. “What the hell?” He forced himself to sit up, and the room spun crazily around him.
“You were hit in the head,” said a soft voice over by the door. “You’ve finally stopped bleeding.”
He turned to see Trixie sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees. Bruises mottled her face, and purple marks in the perfect shape of a man’s fingers stood out on her delicate neck. “You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, looking small and defenseless. Her red hair only emphasized the raw purple markings and her pale skin. “Wasn’t my first beating from the Prophet.”
Mal tried to breathe and stopped as pain blasted through his rib cage. He pulled up his shirt to see a horribly red bruise. “Bastard broke my rib.” He gingerly felt along the damaged area and lost his breath at the pain.
Trixie wiped dirt off her chin. “He likes to kick people when they’re on the ground. Should we bind it or something?”
“No.” Mal grasped a rack and pulled himself up, ignoring the pain exploding behind his eyelids. “I take it we’re locked in?”
She nodded.
“How long have I been here?” he asked, bending his arm over his waist to keep the pain at bay. Was Pippa already in the mansion?
“I don’t know. I was knocked out, too,” Trixie said. Then she sniffed the air. “I smell smoke.” Panic widened her eyes.
Mal grasped her arm and pulled her to the side. His head aching, he moved to the door. Solid, with an old-fashioned keyhole. There was only one way through. “Stand back.”
He kicked as hard as he could near the lock, and the door shimmied. Pain rippled up his leg.
Then again.
A third time.
Finally, on the fourth kick, the door crashed in.
Mal scouted the family room outside the wine cellar, looking frantically for the stairs. They were at the end of a long hallway, and smoke was pouring down. “Trixie? Get outside, now,” he bellowed, turning into the smoke and rushing upstairs and down the hall toward the burning office.
Damn it.
He ducked low and tried to cover his mouth. The fire was already consuming the chairs by the fireplace as well as the curtains, and it had spread across the floor to the desk. The smell of gasoline was as overpowering as the stench of burning fabric.
Where the hell was Pippa?
Isaac had obviously deserted the mansion. Good. There were roadblocks in both directions, so the asshole would be caught any minute. The only worry was if there were already family members in place for an attack.
Mal leaped over a burning chair, and the second he landed, pain lashed through his rib cage. He caught his breath and fell against the desk, coughing. Pain exploded in his palms, and he yanked his hands back. The desk was burning hot. Papers were already curling across it, and he grabbed up what he could and ran from the room, slamming the door.
Trixie met him in the hallway, soot already in her hair. “I checked upstairs; nobody is here.” She coughed. “I think we’re clear.”
“Outside.” He coughed, and agony blew apart his side.
She crouched low, beneath the smoke, and rushed for the door. Mal kept on her heels, stumbling down the stairs toward the van.
George sat against one tire, his phone in his hands. “I don’t think he’s gonna call me,” he said, a snot bubble popping out of his nose.
“What?” Trixie screamed, her hair a wild mess around her head.
Mal skidded to a stop across the expensive bricks. The same cars were in place as when he’d arrived. He whirled around, looking at the mansion. Smoke poured from broken windows. “What the hell? They didn’t drive?”
George sniffed loudly. “No. There was a helicopter hidden beneath some tarps in the far back. They flew. Without me.”
Mal grabbed the moron by the collar and yanked him to his feet, ignoring the rush of agony in his rib cage. “Was Pippa with them?”
“Pippa?” George frowned, his eyes glazed.
