Blood Spirits by Sherwood Smith Page B

face. Doh!
    I finished numbly, “I really thought I was doing the right thing.”
    â€œI know.” He made an effort I could feel in my own bones and muscles. “You thought you were sparing me from . . .” He pinched his fingers between his brows again. The signet ring glimmered, a cobalt blue teardrop. “You thought you were doing the honorable thing,” he said. “I know you well enough to have been fairly certain about that.”
    â€œCould I have possibly called it more wrong?”
    As if the words were wrung out of him, he said, “Kim, I do not want you to take this the wrong way, but I wish you had not come.”
    Sick and miserable, I gazed at him, completely unable to speak.
    â€œNo.” He flung up his hand in a sharp gesture. “No, I take that back. Please don’t walk out of here thinking. . . . A week ago, I would have welcomed you more than—” I’d never heard him speak so wildly, so disjointedly. I felt the effort he made to stop, to take a deep breath. “Kim. I am afraid there’s going to be trouble. I don’t yet know how much, but one thing I want to prevent if I possibly can, is your being dragged into it.”
    â€œAlec, I would do anything to help you. I hope you know that.”
    â€œI do.” He dropped his hand and moved to a rosewood Louis XV cabinet in the far corner. “And I want you to know how glad I am to see you. In spite of. . . everything going on. But I—”
    Another knock, more insistent than the first.
    Alec’s head lifted sharply, the fine skin over his cheekbones tense. “I can’t make them wait any longer. We’ll have to talk later. It’s the best I can do at the moment.”
    â€œAlec.”
    He opened the glass door in the cabinet and removed a crystal decanter. At the sound of his name—perhaps at the sound of me saying his name—he jerked around, as though I’d reached inside him and yanked.
    â€œIf you want me to leave Dobrenica,” I offered, “say the word. You’re the one in crisis mode right now. What’s best for you?”
    â€œThe Prime Minister has arrived,” came that muffled voice from behind the inner door.
    â€œIt’s too—”
    Late?
    He didn’t say the word. I felt it and so, heard the sidestep in his tone. “It’s too confusing right now. That is, there is too much going on. Let’s talk later, shall we?” As he spoke he poured something from the decanter into his coffee mug.
    Logic insisted I should get out of the country—go to the air field, since the train only ran once a week or so. But instinct clamored for me to stay, to fight against whatever it was that threatened him, to take a stand at his side.
    â€œI’ll be at the inn,” I said and opened the door to the hall.
    I slipped out—
    And found Rebekah Ridotski waiting for me.

SEVEN
    â€œW HY ARE YOU HERE?”Beka’s English flared with a strong
    French accent.
    â€œI . . .” Though I had no right to complain if Beka and Alec were an item, I also didn’t owe her any answers. “Why do you need to know?”
    â€œBecause it is I who must pick up the pieces after you—” She made a little shrug, then finished with the French verb déguerpir .
    It means “take off ” or, closer, “ditch.” Ditch Dobrenica? Ditch Alec? “Pick up the pieces” was what I’d said to Nat.
    I answered, “What makes you think I’ll do anything of the kind?”
    I expected her to dismiss me or, worst case, shoot back something hostile. Instead, her chin lifted slightly. “Permit me another question. Have you seen Natalie?”
    â€œI was there yesterday.”
    â€œPerhaps we should visit her together.”
    I hesitated, then thought, I came here to help. I made a “lead on” shoot with my forefinger, then followed Beka down the icy hallway and through the