Thorn Queen Page 0,121

If I were Leith and had wanted to catch girls who would make docile servants, I too would have picked ones with little or no offensive magic.

Kiyo's phone rang only once before going to voice mail, meaning it was off or he was in the Otherworld. I hung up and prepared to dial my parents' home number. If Roland hadn't answered his cell, he likely wasn't home either, but I had to try. Before I could punch in the numbers, I heard the sound of keys at the front door on the far side of the house. I turned to the girls.

"Downstairs!" I hissed. "Now!"

Markelle looked like she would have stayed, but a stern glance from me sent her scurrying down with the others. Meanwhile, Art's voice rang through the house.

"Abigail?"

I'm not sure how he knew something was wrong. For all he knew, Abigail could have just been downstairs. Maybe it was just some sixth sense, but I heard him hurrying down the hall toward the kitchen, footsteps fast on the hardwood floor. I had a split second to react, no chance to find a hiding spot as I had with Abigail. Surprise was my greatest weapon now. As soon as he entered the room, I leapt on him with the athame.

The thing that gave me a fighting chance was that he'd armed himself too well in his wariness, a gun in one hand and an athame of his own in the other. Full hands prevented him from fully deflecting my attack, though in many ways, the strength of his arms were more than good enough to block the worst of it. I got a swipe in on his face, however, gaining a fair amount of satisfaction in seeing the blood it produced.

"You bitch," he said, circling with me in the kitchen as we each sized each other up for an attack. "Where's Abigail?"

"Taking a nap," I said. I gave him a wicked smile, hoping I sounded stronger than I felt. With that one shove alone, I'd been painfully reminded that I was not in peak condition quite yet. I couldn't let him know how weak I was. "Don't worry. You can join her."

"I knew I shouldn't have let him keep you here," Art growled. "I should have made him drag you back by your hair to your own fucking world like a caveman. But he was too afraid they'd find you."

"It's too late. They know I'm here already. See the phone? I got a call in just before you arrived."

A lie, but an effective one as it turned out. Art's eyes flicked to the portable phone lying on the kitchen floor. It had come open when I dropped it, and the battery lay nearby. With that slight distraction, I tried again, lunging toward him. I got a kick in-not as strong as one of my usual ones, particularly since I was still in that fucking gentry dress-but enough to throw him off-balance. He was still stronger and faster, though. He'd dropped the athame earlier and grabbed me with that free hand, wrenching my arm painfully to get me to drop my athame. In his other hand, he held the gun but seemed hesitant to use it.

At last, his hand was too strong, and my fingers unclenched, releasing the blade and leaving me defenseless. Triumphant, Art slammed me back against the cupboard and tried to turn me around, probably to bind my hands. I'd noticed a glitter near his pocket earlier and suspected he had handcuffs on him. I fought him the whole time, refusing to turn around, and with only one hand free, he had a bit of difficulty in maneuvering me.

"Stop struggling, or I'll blow your head off," he yelled. "No one's coming, and you know it. Play nice, or there's nothing that Leith can offer me to keep you alive."

"I doubt that. Your whoring operation seems to bring in a lot of money. Are you going to give that up so easily?"

"There are other ways to get gentry girls," he grunted, still trying to shove me around and subdue me. The unfortunate thing was, he was getting closer. My strength was rapidly fading. "Other people will make deals. I don't need Leith or his half-breed whore to-ah!"

I saw the chair before I saw Markelle. It was the one I'd used to climb through the garage door. Abigail had shoved it aside when she went outside, and now Markelle had snuck up and clobbered Art with it from