She was startled by David’s hand on her arm. “Should we call the cops?” he asked.
Laurel shook her head. “If cops come, Chelsea will die. I guarantee it. The cops, too, probably.”
“You’re right.” David paused. “What about Klea?”
Laurel shook her head. “I just can’t make myself trust her. There’s something—something wrong about her.”
“But Chelsea…” His voice trailed off. “I just wish we had something else—someone else.” His fingers tightened painfully on her arm. “Please don’t let them kill her, Laurel.”
Laurel shook in a dusting of powdered saguaro cactus needles and held the mixture up against the dim glow of a streetlight. It reflected the low beams just the way it was supposed to. “I’m going to do my best,” she said quietly.
After pouring the mix into one sugar-glass vial, Laurel measured several drops of oil into a second vial, completing the monastuolo serum. It looked right; it felt right. She hoped it wasn’t her desperation speaking. If it worked, Jeremiah Barnes and his new lackeys would go to sleep, and once Chelsea was freed they could go get Tamani. He would know what to do. Laurel stuffed the vials into her jacket pockets and started to open her door. They’d already wasted too much time just sitting here in the parking lot while she finished the potion.
“Wait,” David said, his hand on her arm.
Laurel’s eyes darted to the dashboard clock that was rushing through minutes far too quickly, but she stayed. David dug into his backpack and when he withdrew his hand, he held the small Sig Sauer Klea had intended for Laurel. Laurel focused on the gun for a few seconds, then looked up at David.
“I know you hate it,” David said, his voice quiet and steady. “But it’s the only thing we know for sure can stop Barnes. And if it comes down to his life or Chelsea’s”—he laid the gun in Laurel’s shaking hand—“I know you’ll have the strength to make the right choice.”
Laurel’s hands were shaking so badly she could hardly wrap her fingers around the icy-cold grip, but she nodded and stuffed the gun into the waistband of her jeans, pulling her jacket down to conceal it.
They exited the car, both staring up at the lighthouse, where a spot of brightness shone out from the upper floor. Then she and David walked out to the path that led up to the lighthouse.
It was three feet under the ocean.
“Oh, no,” Laurel said under her breath. “I forgot about the tide.” She stared out at the lighthouse, about a hundred meters away across the churning water. She would make it—it wasn’t that far—but the salt would work into her pores. It would sap her strength instantly and linger for at least a week.
Without speaking, David scooped her up in his arms. He walked to the edge of the water and after the slightest hesitation, stepped in, his long, powerful legs striding easily though the frothy currents. He gasped as the bitterly cold water crawled up to his knees, his thighs, his hips, and after about a minute Laurel heard his teeth chatter for a second before he clamped his jaw shut. But he couldn’t stop shivers from coursing through his body. Laurel tried to support as much of her own weight as possible, with her arms twined around David’s neck, but even the wind was fighting them tonight, whipping against their jackets and through Laurel’s long hair, stirring the seawater into choppy waves.
Right in the middle where the water was the deepest—up to David’s waist—a large wave slapped at him and he staggered, almost dumping them both into the water. But with a small grunt of determination he found his footing again and slogged on.
It seemed like ages before David stumbled up the other side, onto the island with the small lighthouse. He put Laurel down gently before wrapping his arms around himself and breathing heavily.
“Thank you,” Laurel said, her words seeming so insufficient.
“Well, I hear that getting hypothermia once a year is good for the soul,” David said, his voice shaking as shivers wracked his whole body.
“I—”
“Let’s just go, Laurel,” David interrupted. “They’ve got to know we’re here.”
Soon they stood in front of the door. It was ajar. Someone was waiting.
“Do we knock?” David whispered. “I’m not exactly up to speed on my hostage situation etiquette.”
Laurel put a hand to her waist, checking to make sure the gun was still on one side, and the vials of potion on the other. “Just push it all the way open,” she said, wishing her voice wasn’t shaking so badly.
David complied.
It was dark.
“No one’s here,” David whispered.
Laurel’s eyes searched the room. She pointed to a tiny needle of light that decorated the opposite wall. “They’re here,” she said, thinking back on Jamison’s flytrap metaphor. “But we won’t see them until we’re in too far to get away.”
Even so, they crossed the lower room slowly, then carefully opened the door to the stairs. Dim light spilled in from somewhere above. Laurel put her foot on the bottom step.
“No,” David said, his hand on her shoulder. “Let me go first.”
Guilt flooded through her. Even after everything she’d done, he was still willing to put his life before hers. She shook her head. “He’s got to see me first. Just to be sure.”
They were less than five steps up when David gasped sharply. Laurel glanced back and saw that two trolls had come into the lighthouse behind them. These were not the dirty, unkempt trolls that had chased them from Ryan’s home, however. They were both wearing clean black jeans and long-sleeved black shirts, and they were pointing shiny chrome handguns at David’s back—not that they had any need for the guns. Laurel knew they could break her in two with ease.
Laurel shook her head. “If cops come, Chelsea will die. I guarantee it. The cops, too, probably.”
“You’re right.” David paused. “What about Klea?”
Laurel shook her head. “I just can’t make myself trust her. There’s something—something wrong about her.”
“But Chelsea…” His voice trailed off. “I just wish we had something else—someone else.” His fingers tightened painfully on her arm. “Please don’t let them kill her, Laurel.”
Laurel shook in a dusting of powdered saguaro cactus needles and held the mixture up against the dim glow of a streetlight. It reflected the low beams just the way it was supposed to. “I’m going to do my best,” she said quietly.
After pouring the mix into one sugar-glass vial, Laurel measured several drops of oil into a second vial, completing the monastuolo serum. It looked right; it felt right. She hoped it wasn’t her desperation speaking. If it worked, Jeremiah Barnes and his new lackeys would go to sleep, and once Chelsea was freed they could go get Tamani. He would know what to do. Laurel stuffed the vials into her jacket pockets and started to open her door. They’d already wasted too much time just sitting here in the parking lot while she finished the potion.
“Wait,” David said, his hand on her arm.
Laurel’s eyes darted to the dashboard clock that was rushing through minutes far too quickly, but she stayed. David dug into his backpack and when he withdrew his hand, he held the small Sig Sauer Klea had intended for Laurel. Laurel focused on the gun for a few seconds, then looked up at David.
“I know you hate it,” David said, his voice quiet and steady. “But it’s the only thing we know for sure can stop Barnes. And if it comes down to his life or Chelsea’s”—he laid the gun in Laurel’s shaking hand—“I know you’ll have the strength to make the right choice.”
Laurel’s hands were shaking so badly she could hardly wrap her fingers around the icy-cold grip, but she nodded and stuffed the gun into the waistband of her jeans, pulling her jacket down to conceal it.
They exited the car, both staring up at the lighthouse, where a spot of brightness shone out from the upper floor. Then she and David walked out to the path that led up to the lighthouse.
It was three feet under the ocean.
“Oh, no,” Laurel said under her breath. “I forgot about the tide.” She stared out at the lighthouse, about a hundred meters away across the churning water. She would make it—it wasn’t that far—but the salt would work into her pores. It would sap her strength instantly and linger for at least a week.
Without speaking, David scooped her up in his arms. He walked to the edge of the water and after the slightest hesitation, stepped in, his long, powerful legs striding easily though the frothy currents. He gasped as the bitterly cold water crawled up to his knees, his thighs, his hips, and after about a minute Laurel heard his teeth chatter for a second before he clamped his jaw shut. But he couldn’t stop shivers from coursing through his body. Laurel tried to support as much of her own weight as possible, with her arms twined around David’s neck, but even the wind was fighting them tonight, whipping against their jackets and through Laurel’s long hair, stirring the seawater into choppy waves.
Right in the middle where the water was the deepest—up to David’s waist—a large wave slapped at him and he staggered, almost dumping them both into the water. But with a small grunt of determination he found his footing again and slogged on.
It seemed like ages before David stumbled up the other side, onto the island with the small lighthouse. He put Laurel down gently before wrapping his arms around himself and breathing heavily.
“Thank you,” Laurel said, her words seeming so insufficient.
“Well, I hear that getting hypothermia once a year is good for the soul,” David said, his voice shaking as shivers wracked his whole body.
“I—”
“Let’s just go, Laurel,” David interrupted. “They’ve got to know we’re here.”
Soon they stood in front of the door. It was ajar. Someone was waiting.
“Do we knock?” David whispered. “I’m not exactly up to speed on my hostage situation etiquette.”
Laurel put a hand to her waist, checking to make sure the gun was still on one side, and the vials of potion on the other. “Just push it all the way open,” she said, wishing her voice wasn’t shaking so badly.
David complied.
It was dark.
“No one’s here,” David whispered.
Laurel’s eyes searched the room. She pointed to a tiny needle of light that decorated the opposite wall. “They’re here,” she said, thinking back on Jamison’s flytrap metaphor. “But we won’t see them until we’re in too far to get away.”
Even so, they crossed the lower room slowly, then carefully opened the door to the stairs. Dim light spilled in from somewhere above. Laurel put her foot on the bottom step.
“No,” David said, his hand on her shoulder. “Let me go first.”
Guilt flooded through her. Even after everything she’d done, he was still willing to put his life before hers. She shook her head. “He’s got to see me first. Just to be sure.”
They were less than five steps up when David gasped sharply. Laurel glanced back and saw that two trolls had come into the lighthouse behind them. These were not the dirty, unkempt trolls that had chased them from Ryan’s home, however. They were both wearing clean black jeans and long-sleeved black shirts, and they were pointing shiny chrome handguns at David’s back—not that they had any need for the guns. Laurel knew they could break her in two with ease.
