There’s a brief pause on the other end of the phone.
“What’s going on?”
“Fran’s gone. The girls aren’t home. The books are pulled. Something’s not right, Leith.”
I call Fran again, and then each of my sisters. One after the other, my calls go unanswered.
“Her books were unpublished,” I mutter. “What does that have to do with this? We know Aitkens may have alerted Interpol. We know the Welsh must be involved as well, since we know they gave us a warning last night.”
Aisla and Blair, physically hurt. Anyone who hurt them wouldn’t hesitate to lift a hand to my sisters. Or my wife.
Motherfucker.
I do much better when I have a blatant enemy before me, a target I know I can follow. But this… not knowing where to go or what they want from us. I’d rather handle this with my fists, but have to resort to being level-headed and fucking pragmatic.
“We’ll start by going to Dublin.”
What do they want from us? If they do have my sisters, if they do have Fran… what will they do next?
The ride to Dublin’s brief, as Ballyhock borders it. We go discreetly with a large team of men, but I’ll be the only one who goes in. When we arrive, it’s like any old business office park, complete with fake trees and a smiling receptionist who looks surprised to see me but maintains her pleasant smile.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Need to speak with whoever’s in charge of publishing,” I mutter. It seems like the stupidest place to start, but it’s the only lead I have.
Fran wouldn’t just dump me and then pull all her books from publication at once. Would she?
As I wait in the waiting area, my phone buzzes. Leith.
Can’t find the girls anywhere.
Bloody hell.
I know in my heart something’s gravely amiss.
The minutes tick by slowly as I wait, pacing the small waiting room, when finally, a petite brunette with flecks of gray in the hair she’s pulled back in a tight bun steps in the room. She’s accompanied by a tall, gangly man wearing a charcoal gray suit and round, wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Mr. Cowen?” the woman says pleasantly. “Come with us.”
I follow them to an office, frustrated my sisters and Fran could be in danger and here I am walking down a carpeted hallway like I’m here to sell them windows. My hands clench into fists, and I do a mental inventory of the weapons I’ve brought. Guns strapped to harnesses; knives tucked away. Seems bloody foolish, since I’m not sure where or how I’ll use them.
We take our seats in a small, utilitarian office. Nothing personal on the walls, nothing personal on the desk. No pictures, no knickknacks, not so much as a ring from a coffee cup on the desk.
This isn’t anyone’s office, then, but a holding place. I watch these two closely.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Cowen?” the man asks, and the woman sits beside him mutely. She’s gripping her pen so tightly her knuckles are white.
Something’s wrong.
I get straight to the point. “I know who the author of your Clan Chronicles is, and I married her last night.”
Neither of them registers surprise. Both expected this.
“She went missing, and we found out this morning that all her books have been pulled from sale. I can’t get in touch with her or find anyone who knows anything about her, but you can at least tell me why the books were pulled.”
The man gives me a placating smile. “First of all, congratulations are in order, Mr. Cowen.”
I want to tell him to shut the fuck up.
