Page 20 of One Shattered Crown
I stare at her, waiting for more, but she just smooths the leg of her linen pants like this is all routine. “Great. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what you discover after they torture him.” I fold my arms over the blanket. “I’d really like to know who he is, considering it clearly wasn’t you who sent him. Who else wants me dead?”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. They remain as cold as polished sapphire left in an Arctic freezer. “I assume quite a few people want you dead, Ella, so let’s not play that kind of game.”
I don’t know what game she thinks we’re playing, but I’m in no condition to argue. Especially not while wearing a hospital gown and nothing else, sitting under high-thread-count sheets, while Sylveria probably has three concealed weapons tucked inside her designer purse.
The bag is unmistakably Hermes in a limited edition, no doubt. Pale rose leather, sharp-edged and impractical. I have to admire it, even though I hate that I do. I’m not up to leaping for it and grabbing a weapon, so I lookaround the room. There’s no clock. No window. No way to gauge time. I pause, then give in. “How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been out for three hours,” she says, her voice lowering just a tad. Am I inconveniencing her? “It took my associate maybe thirty minutes to get you here. The doctor said you have a mild concussion and quite a lot of bruising.” Her tone softens, not with compassion, but interest. “I’m impressed. You put up a good fight.”
I don’t answer her. I’m absurdly glad I didn’t kill the guy. Oh, most folks think I’m a murderer, or an attempted one, anyway. I’m not. I actually didn’t mean to hurt Thorn to the degree I did.
She taps a ring against the chair arm once before adding, “We will find out who he is. My people are … very thorough.”
I don’t doubt that. Sylveria Rendale doesn’t waste time or resources. If someone tried to kill me and it wasn’t on her orders, she’ll dig up everything. “I want to know.”
“Of course. For now, I obviously saved your life.” Sylveria brushes the diamond choker at her neck. “So you owe me.”
My mind blanks for a second. I try to rewind, to find something in the fog behind my eyes. Then I see the moment with the rain slicking the driveway, a figure outside the house, a hand on my shoulder. He asked if I was okay in an Irish accent.
Was he one of Justice’s men?
If so, who attacked me inside the house? It doesn’t make sense. My gut says it wasn’t Justice. If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t send someone. He’d show up and do it himself. I glance at Sylveria, who’s still fiddling with hernecklace. “Wait. You didn’t take the guy from outside the house, too, did you?”
Her eyes flick briefly toward the window shade. Then back to me. “No.”
Ah, I get it. “Your guy checked him out and found, what? An Irish mob tattoo on him?” I try to smile even though my whole face feels like it’s been hit with a brick. “You didn’t dare take one of Justice’s soldiers.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” she says. “As I said—we saved your life. Now you owe me.” She shifts in the chair with an aristocratic grace that would fool most people. Not me. I know exactly where she came from. Sylveria Rendale might look like old money, but she crawled out of the backwoods of Kentucky. Beauty bought her a ticket to Silicon Valley, and my father, for reasons I will never understand, bought everything she was selling.
And here she is. Smug, polished, and smiling like the Queen of Versailles while I lie half broken in a hospital bed.
Curiosity has always been my downfall. “What do you want?” I haven’t had time to fully hack the TimeGem system yet, so this isn’t about that.
“It really doesn’t matter.” Sylveria straightens her jacket like this is a done deal. “Because as soon as the doctor releases you, you’ll be coming home with me. I must make sure you’re all right.” Her voice is softer now, with that artificial calm she uses when she wants to sound maternal. Except she sounds more robotic than concerned. What is going on?
“Listen, Sylveria,” I say, my voice cold, “if you were falling off a cliff, I’d record the whole event so I couldreplay your death over and over again when I need a little pick-me-up.”
She exhales through her perfectly pink painted mouth. “You do need to grow up. I saved your life. You owe me, and you’re coming with me. I have guards on the door and downstairs. You don’t have a choice. So instead of throwing a fit, why don’t you just behave for once?”
My fingers curl around the blanket. This is becoming tedious. She wants something, but I still don’t know what, and the longer she stalls, the more that unknown gnaws at me. My brain spins with possibilities. “Don’t tell me the diamonds aren’t charging the TimeGem servers anymore, like they have for the last ten years.”
“Of course they are,” she replies with that fake-bright smile. “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”
I feel an almost physical urge to slap her just to see if her face will actually move. She’s so tightly Botoxed, I doubt it. “Citrines are stronger,” I say flatly. “TimeGem was built on citrine crystalline symmetry. Everyone’s running AI now, and that means more drain. More demand. More power. You need citrines. You need me to charge them.” I’m guessing, of course.
She doesn’t deny it, but nothing in her expression confirms my hunch, either.
An image hits me like a punch: me chained to a server core, locked in a freezing room, forced to push energy through stone and wire forever while Sylveria and her board rake in the profits.
I’d rather starve.
Her eyes drift around the plush hospital suite. “We’ll discuss it once we get you home. I do want to leave this unfortunate place.”
My dislike sharpens into something uglier. But behind the anger is unease. What does she actually want? “Don’t you think we should discuss the fact that you sent a hitman after me a few months ago?”
“I truly don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lies without hesitation. “But for the record, I’m quite happy you’re still alive. You do owe me for paying for your schooling all these years.”
“Bullshit.” I sit up straighter, ignoring the throb behind my eyes, and scan the room. There’s no closet. No chair with my things. No indication that I ever had clothes here in the first place. My skin prickles. “Where are my clothes?”
