10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

F ar be it from me to confess to a fault, but if I had to name one off the top of my head, it would be vanity. Used to be pride, or maybe arrogance, but after you got kidnapped, tied up, and threatened with death enough times, the arrogance bled out of your system. Literally, in some cases. So, while I might be confident in my abilities, I wasn’t arrogant.

Vanity, though―well, fuck it, I knew I looked good. I had my mother’s eyes and nose and her rail-thin build, but my naturally dark hair, the square cut of my jaw, and my height all came from my unnamed sperm donor. I might look like a tattooed punk, but they were nice tattoos. They should be―I had put a lot of thought into them. Each one had a meaning, a little slice of purpose inked into my skin.

I’d met a British guy named Steven once, back when I was fifteen and invincible, who could actually pull his tattoos off his body into the objects they represented. He had a stiletto along the inside of his forearm, a gun at his hip, and lock picks along his thigh. He had to keep getting them done, he told me when we were drunk one night, because eventually his trick wore the ink away, and eventually there was nothing but blank skin.

He’d been there when I’d had the work done on my throat, a winged Eye of Horus spreading out across my Adam’s apple and around my neck. He’d kissed me afterward to distract me from the pain. He’d been one of the only people smart enough to know what I did and not ask for a glimpse into his future.

I kind of wished I had looked anyway. I could imagine him enjoying himself, living large, an ever-changing palette of color and design.

My tattoos were noticeable because I liked them that way, and also because by in large, I tended to hang out with a more, shall we say, relaxed crowd than the business-elite happy hour contingent I was going to find at the Omni. Most of my ink could be covered up by a well-tailored suit, though, and that was what I left to find after I finished my burger.

I had to hand it to the guy in the shop―he didn’t bother with a double take when he saw me, just stepped right up. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I assist you today?”

“My last decent suit just met with an unhappy accident,” I said, casting my eyes over the tasteful displays behind him. No racks, just well-dressed mannequins representing a handful of upscale designers. “I need something as close to fitted as you can manage in the next hour.”

The man frowned, not quite hopelessly, but with more than a bit of doubt. “One hour won’t get you a decent suit. There’s no time to tailor anything significant.”

“It’s just got to be good enough to pass for a little while.” His frown got deeper. “I know this is a rotten thing to ask you for.” I meant it, too. People who made couture their careers were serious about it. “But it can’t be helped.”

He sighed. “Well, needs must, I suppose. Come with me, I think we have something in Tommy that might work.”

One hour was enough to get me into a charcoal three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt with French cuffs fastened with seed-pearl cufflinks, and a simple burgundy tie. I bought the cufflinks mostly because I felt guilty, but by the end of it, I did manage to look presentable, especially once he handed me a hat. I’d been missing my hat.

“You could look worse,” he said philosophically as he took my cash without question. “Come back sometime, and give me more than an hour to work with, ideally without a wounded wing as well―” He cast a glimpse at my bandaged arm, the bulge barely noticeable under the suit. “―and I’ll have you looking phenomenal.”

“You’re a miracle worker.”

“The duffel bag rather ruins the effect, though.”

“It’s temporary,” I assured him as I slung the bag over my shoulder. It made my arm ache, but I wasn’t going far. “Thanks again.”

The Omni was only two blocks down. I walked inside and gave myself a moment just to get the feel of the place. Sometimes, if I cast a very wide net and only caught glimpses into people’s eyes here and there, I could get an idea of things in the near future. It was nothing specific to an individual except how their day got derailed. I glanced from the front desk to the doorman to a server walking through the lobby and got an impression of…a parking garage? Level one? There was no reason a server would have to think about that sort of thing unless something loud was going to go on there, and I sort of specialized in loud. It was a starting point, at least.

I walked through the lobby, past the front desk and the curious eyes of the concierge working there, and back to the parking garage entrance. It was locked―only accessible by keycard, naturally―but a moment later, someone came along and opened it for me on their way inside. I slipped out, tucked the bag in front of the nearest car, just beyond where the cameras monitored, and then ducked back in before the door closed.

This sort of thing used to be a lark for me, back in Vegas. How to sneak in and out of casinos without getting caught, how far I could push it at roulette or craps before someone accused me of cheating. I’d been an idiot, but the skill set still had its uses. Speaking of skill sets―I needed to find a way into Papa Egilsson’s suite, and I needed to do it quietly. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation with that guy before I was ready. Or at all, honestly.

I considered going big. A fire alarm was highly effective at clearing a hotel, but if Egilsson and his crew were upstairs, it would put them on alert. Better to be subtle. I glanced around, caught sight of the bellhop again, and…hmm. Embarrassment. That would do. I wouldn’t need long, and the way those suitcases were piling up, an accident seemed almost destined at this point. Which, ha, turns out it was.

It didn’t take much for me to start a chain reaction of falls, from a woman in teetery high heels subsequently caught by her husband, who had to take a step back to do it and ran into the luggage rack, which then toppled the pile of bags, which then tripped up the bellhop, who ended up sprawled right in front of the door. The concierge behind the desk gasped and came out to help, and I went to make my move, but then—

I was frozen. I felt like a mouse under the eye of an owl, trying desperately to blend in as ólafur Egilsson stepped through the front doors, escorted by one of his equally blond and enormous sons. He wasn’t looking at me―he was looking with bemusement down at the mess in front of him―but I still felt inexplicably trapped.

He hadn’t changed at all. He was just as broad, a snowcapped mountain clad in linen and silk. He was also just as imposing. People unconsciously moved out of his way even as they struggled with the pile of bags. And his face…I averted my own eyes, not willing to risk catching a glimpse of his. I’d seen enough of his fate to last me a lifetime. The screaming was the worst. It was the first thing I’d sensed and the one thing that had persisted, no matter how deep I got, which wasn’t very.

This is an opportunity, my brain reminded me. Don’t waste it . Get moving already.

“Lend them a hand, Rolf,” ólafur said to his son and then headed not for the elevators, but for the bar. Perfect. My lungs expanded more easily as I watched him move away. Rolf bent over to pick up a bag, and in a blink, I was there, under the guise of grabbing the luggage rack but taking a moment to pick Rolf’s pocket as well. He’d used the pants pocket, thankfully. I had no desire to brush up against his chest in an effort to get at an inside compartment.

I slid the wallet into my own pocket and then continued away with the luggage rack. “Sir, we need that here!” the poor bellhop called out, but I didn’t turn around.

“Back with it in a moment,” I promised as I punched the button for the elevator. It opened smoothly, and I got inside and shut the door as fast as possible. No one joined me, and I closed my eyes for a moment as the tremors in my fingertips subsided. Then I realized that the elevator wasn’t moving.

“Fuck, fuck.” I pulled the wallet out and opened it up, looking for a keycard. There—room 224. A governor’s suite, of course. I rolled my eyes and punched the button for the twenty-second floor. The elevator rose smoothly and without pause, which was a lucky break.

I had maybe ten minutes, I figured. Ten minutes before Rolf checked for his wallet or Egilsson headed up to the room or someone else barged in. Hell, the room might be occupied for all I knew. I mean, it probably was, with S?ren and who knew who else. Shit.

The door opened on the twenty-second floor, and I got out, pulling the luggage rack with me. It was past checkout time for most places, but before check-in, so there was probably a—perfect. Cleaning carts, two of them. I pulled off my jacket and waistcoat, removed my tie, and laid them on the luggage rack, which I pushed into an alcove next to the elevator. Hopefully I’d be back for it all soon, but if not…well, one more suit to regret. I walked to one of the carts, checked that the housekeeper was busy in the room, and then pushed it in the other direction, down to the end of the hall where room 224 taunted me with gold letters. I cleared my throat, caught my breath, and ran my thumb over the smooth plastic of the keycard.

One look, just one. If it was S?ren and he seemed fine, I’d―I didn’t know. Find a way to get him alone. If things were off, I’d do something else. Yeah. Great plan.

I knocked on the door. “Housekeeping.” Nothing. There was a Do-Not-Disturb sign hanging from the handle, but I ignored it as I ran the keycard through the reader. The light turned green. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.

It was strangely cold inside the room, and I shivered as the warmth of the hallway dissipated. I closed the door behind me and looked around. A governor’s suite apparently consisted of a bunch of useless extra space, as well as a television the size of a bed. I crept quietly along the hardwood floor, every sense alert for a noise, a sound, but there was nothing. I looked in the kitchenette―uninhabited. Shit. Had I missed my chance entirely? I moved on to the bedroom, glanced inside, and—

“Oh, fuck .”