CHAPTER 12
I stood frozen, half in and half out of the dressing room. The man moved slow and steady toward me, the dagger—shorter than Stellan’s, but thicker and more menacing—gleaming in his hand. My reflection glittered in his wire-rimmed glasses.
I stumbled back into the dressing room and slammed the door. I snapped the lock shut with shaking fingers, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears.
The store was almost empty, plus it was late afternoon—the perfect time for a robbery. I just hoped he wouldn’t come after the gowns that were in here with me. There were only a few, and they couldn’t be as valuable as the cash register, or the jewelry, or the merchandise out on the floor.
I held my breath.
The doorknob jiggled hard.
Silence.
Then a crash.
I jumped away. One more crash—a shoulder or a foot slamming into the door. The thin wood splintered down the middle.
I tried to scream, but nothing came out.
He wouldn’t be going to that much trouble for these dresses. He must not want to leave any witnesses.
And I was trapped.
“Aimee! Elisa!” I forced out. My voice sounded tiny in the emptiness, and there was no answer. Besides the jagged rhythm of my own breath and the tinkle of the music, the shop was deathly silent. Oh God. He might have gotten to them already.
The whimper that came out of my mouth didn’t even sound like me.
One more thud and the man’s foot cracked through the center of the door.
I whipped around, frantic, the adrenaline shooting through me bringing the dressing room into focus. The gleaming mirror, the pink velvet armchair. The smattering of crimson feathers from the red dress that had fluttered to the carpet and fanned out like bloodstains. My own reflection, a small girl with dark hair falling over her shoulders in waves, whose wide, panic-stricken eyes didn’t match her exquisite dress.
Someone was trying to kill me while I was wearing a ball gown. This didn’t happen in real life. But I was pretty sure I wasn’t dreaming, and this wasn’t an action movie. The door cracked further, and bile rose in my throat.
If this was a movie, I would at least try to defend myself.
A tall vase of lilies sat on a table next to the armchair. I ducked behind the chair and grabbed it, the dreamy scent of the flowers surrounding me as I dumped them on the floor, drops of water splattering my bare feet. I held the vase like a baseball bat.
The man yanked away a cracked section of the door, making a hole large enough to reach through to the lock. The door swung open.
He didn’t run at me, didn’t yell, didn’t glance down the stairs to see if anyone had heard my screams. The cold calculation in his eyes was more frightening than rage would have been. Like the eyes of a hunter. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just a robbery.
The heavy vase trembled in my hands. “Get away from me!” I screamed.
He toppled the armchair with a casual swipe of his hand. I brought the vase down as hard as I could. It shattered against the side of his head, and I dodged.
I wasn’t quite fast enough. His knife sliced into my shoulder. A scream ripped out of my throat, but I sprinted past him, finally hitting the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the opposite side of the room.
I clutched at my shoulder. Blood seeped between my fingers and dripped onto the white carpet. The crunch of the hunter’s feet on the shards of vase forced me to tear my eyes away from it.
He was between me and the door. He wouldn’t miss next time.
I ducked behind the metal garment rack of rejected dresses and pawed frantically through them for anything I could use to protect myself. I found nothing but vibrant silk and beading, so enchanting a few minutes ago, now mocking me with its uselessness.
The man was halfway across the room. As a last resort, I yanked at the garment rack itself to see if I could pull out a pole or anything to use as a weapon. But when I leaned on it, it moved. It was on wheels, and an idea popped into my head. It wasn’t a very good idea, but it was the only one I had.
When he was just a few feet away, I gripped the end support and shoved the rack as hard as I could.
It smashed into him. The metal vibrated in my hands, and the whole rack toppled with a crash.
I darted toward the door as a flare of silver snaked out from the mound of brilliant fabric. I dodged the knife, and he missed.
Blood thundered through my veins, propelling me down the stairs. “Help! Aimee! Elisa!” I screamed. “Help!”
Now I wished my shopping trip hadn’t been so private. Silent, faceless mannequins gazed up at me from the sales floor. Beyond them, though, was the foyer and the door that led out of the shop.
If I could get outside, I could get away.
That square of sunlight pushed my legs faster. Almost there. Almost there!
A few steps from the bottom, my foot caught the gold dress’s mermaid hem. I grabbed for the railing, but it was too late. My feet flew out from under me, and I launched through the air. I barely had time to throw up an arm before my head smashed into the ground.
Pain exploded in a thousand glass shards in my brain. I lay on the ground, crumpled, choking. Air wouldn’t go into my lungs. Run! my mind screamed. Run! My body wouldn’t listen.
I forced myself to my hands and knees, and the blood running down my arm streaked a perfect river of red between a black tile and the white one next to it. My vision went blurry at the edges.
“Help,” I sobbed to no one. “Please.” I clawed at the floor and forced myself not to pass out. If I passed out, I was dead.
The clang of heavy footsteps on the stairs turned the pain in my head to wild panic. I crawled to a couch and clung to it, dragging myself dizzily to my feet as the killer reached the bottom of the stairs.
The room spun like a carnival ride. He stood between me and the front door. I scanned the store frantically, and under a staircase in the back, another door glowed like a mirage.
I was afraid I’d collapse if I let go of the couch, but he started toward me from the bottom of the stairs.
I ran.
The back door was a million miles away.
There was a shout, and a display a few feet from me exploded, shards of glass slicing my skin. I screamed and dropped to the ground, scrambling under a table piled with scarves and out the other side. I hadn’t even realized he had a gun. Another kick of adrenaline pumped through my aching body, and I pushed my legs faster.
I couldn’t tell how close he was now. The only sound I could hear was my own desperate breath.
Then there were footsteps all around, right behind me, almost to me. More yelling.
He’d caught up. He had me.
I braced myself for one last frantic, futile dash, but strong arms grabbed me from behind.
“Let go!” I screamed. “Let go of me!” I lashed out against him, dug my nails into his skin, tried to rip his hands off me, but we were falling, on the ground, struggling. If I could grab the gun and point it away from us—but he wouldn’t let go.
I was about to die.
No sense of calm came over me, no rush of memories flew through my head. Strangely, the only face that swam in front of my eyes, the voice I heard yelling my name, was Jack’s.
I heard a grunt and drew one last breath, squeezing my eyes shut.
Nothing happened.
I was still alive.
“Avery!” My eyes flew open. I had heard my name. “Avery! Stop! You’re safe!”
I quit struggling. The arms encircling me loosened enough for me to focus on his face.
It was Jack.
I hadn’t been imagining it. How he’d gotten here I didn’t know, but Jack was here, and I was alive.
My face was pressed into his chest. He cradled my head above the floor and held both my wrists in his other hand, trying to keep me from scratching his eyes out. I stared up into his face—flashing silver eyes, mussed dark hair—and for a second, I was back in my calculus class last Monday morning, pretending not to stare when he walked in the room.
“Jack—what?” I choked out. If Jack was holding me, where was the killer? Then I saw the gun in Jack’s hand, and, even though I didn’t think I’d heard another gunshot, I put together what had probably happened.
He pulled me to sitting and looked me over, taking in the cut on my shoulder.
“Stay here.” He let go of me and hurried away, his gun drawn.
He’d saved my life. A dizzying rush of relief washed over me and tears were running down my cheeks and I was gasping. I was alive.
I pushed up onto my knees to see where Jack was going, to get him to come back. I didn’t want to be alone.
I froze when I saw the head.
The head of the man who had tried to kill me, no longer attached to his body. His head was at my eye level, wire-rimmed glasses still perched on his nose, blood dripping from his severed neck.
I scrambled backward, but slipped and fell in a pool of dark blood, the killer’s and my own.
I followed the arm holding the head up to the thin, angular face and shock of light brown hair of a boy about my age, who peered at it with a bland curiosity. He tossed the severed head across the floor like a bowling ball and grimaced at a bloodstain across his chest. “Merde,” he said. “This was my favorite shirt.”
I got slowly to my knees again, my gold dress soaked through with crimson. The boy stood above me, polishing blood off a huge knife.
He grinned at me, and I stared into his eyes. Purple eyes, just like mine. Then I vomited onto his boots.