What the hell?

  "This isn't classy," I say. He’s brought me to some obscure place to hold me prisoner, after all. I see nothing I can use as a weapon unless I want to grab a cracked floor tile and bash him over the head with it.

  The Senator smiles. "That's the point." He walks to a door that has an ugly hole in the wall beside it, and he sticks his palm farther inside.

  Something flashes red within and beeps.

  And then a heavy lock in the door clicks back.

  He retracts his hand from what I'm guessing is a fingerprint detector, and the door opens from within.

  A human guard in a black uniform stands on the other side, and without a word, he opens the door all the way to allow access. The smells all change as cool air wafts out of what I'm assuming is Goodman's daytime hideout, because the entryway has four marble pillars that surround a single, hanging chandelier. Everything shines. Even the floor is marble. Three archways make up the rest of the room, each one leading deeper into luxury.

  I spot no cells.

  Goodman waves me inside, eyes icy as ever, and I oblige. A tingle runs down my spine.

  I've found out where you live.

  I stay focused on the dark pit of revenge as I enter, because if I don't, I could freak out and lose it.

  The guard closes the door behind us, and I smell the metal of a gun. A member of his militia. Though I don't look, I hear him stationing himself back in front of the door. He carries a bit of that exotic food scent, but he's sprayed something over himself, something that smells like pine floor cleaner. I'm relieved because it's not appetizing. And it's quiet in here except for a clock ticking and a refrigerator humming. The sensory overload is less now, and that allows my mind to clear even more.

  Shit, how much money does Goodman have?

  "This," the Senator explains, "is the secret Goodman D.C residence."

  He glares at me, and I get that it's a warning.

  "Very few may know its location. Surely, you understand."

  I can't imagine why that would be. But I hold that thought to myself. "I understand."

  He nods and snaps his fingers at me as he motions me through the middle archway, which leads to an enormous sitting room full of books and ornate furniture. Another chandelier, an iron one, hangs down and casts an orange-yellow glow on everything.

  And my temper flares. "I am not a dog," I shout.

  Goodman stops in the archway. He slowly turns and smiles, as if pleased with my outburst.

  He has every reason to be. My stupid outbursts got me here and maybe he wants to remind me of that. If I hadn't stood up to him at the testimonies—twice—he might have overlooked me. Maybe heirs never automatically love whoever turned them. That makes sense, too. This is a world of backstabbing and violence. There is probably no genuine family affection here.

  But at least that gives me some wiggle room.

  "I would have expected no less out of you," he says with a smile. "Well done. When you want respect, you demand it."

  I'm not even pissing him off. And that pisses me off. Goodman is already flaunting his power. Seeing him happy only strengthens that ball of rage in my chest, and I must hold it in.

  "Now, my assistants are taking care of your paperwork. New IDs, records, and such," he continues, waving me into the sitting room again. He stops at the center table, which has a folded newspaper resting on it.

  Entering, I smell the fresh ink, and the scent mixes with that of all the old books that grace the shelves. It's an elegant sitting room, complete with a red carpet with the most intricate embroidery work possible. And it's a larger version of the library where I tried to smash a broken glass in Goodman's face.

  There are no glasses here, I notice.

  Just fancy metal shelves, each one painted oak brown and carved in equally intricate patterns. The table in the center of the room is glass and frosted, with ceramic legs. Even the couches have carved metal legs. There is not a single piece of wooden furniture in here, so stabbing him in the heart isn't an option right now. Framed photos of old theaters and plantations cover the walls. Goodman, I'm fearing, is too careful.

  "You will have your photo taken tomorrow night, so please dress in a more dignified manner."

  "What? Is this not good enough?" I ask, injecting an attitude into my voice as I motion to my blouse and dress pants. But they're wrinkled from three days of thrashing.

  Goodman picks up the newspaper and squeezes it in one hand. He works his jaw, and I know I've got my first victory. "You will put forth a dignified image." His eyes flash.

  I stand there, frozen. He's unpredictable.

  And that's not a good thing. Already, I'm getting the idea that eggshells cover the floor of this place, twenty-four seven. I've walked on them before, and I'm not ready to do it again.

  I say nothing, and he just nods as he continues to stand by the glass table. Goodman opens the newspaper and flips through it casually as I stand there, unsure what to do. What does he expect? Do I ask questions? So, who do you want me to murder first?

  Then Goodman looks at me as if I'm a dolt for standing there. "You are free to explore and have full access to almost every room of the residence. Your room is down the left hall. It is the last door on the left."

  Yes. He's going to keep me on eggshells. That's his game.

  And my room? Like I'm going to be living here, under the same roof with this monster?

  Of course, I'll have to.

  Shit.

  I'm glad to step back from the threshold of the sitting room. Now I can get away from him and see what weapons I can find.

  "Oh, and there's one more thing." He turns the newspaper inside out as I stop, and even from thirty feet away, I can see that the obituary section is on top. "Ember Vonk has officially left this world." He taps an entry about halfway down the page, and just when I'm sure he's going to shove the newspaper at me, he lowers it and fixes me in his dangerous stare.

  It takes everything I have not to tense and avoid a shudder.

  They've faked my death, somehow, and broadcast it to the world.

  I can never go back through that door.

  My parents must believe that I'm dead. I'll never see them again. Not that they'd take me back now. Hell, my brother turned away from me at my worst, though I can't blame him. But at least I'll never have to deal with their ranting, insults, manipulation tactics, threats, and wall-punching again.

  "Okay," I say, pushing down the weakness in my voice, a weakness that I know from experience will make me vulnerable.

  But I take no comfort. Instead, an icy puddle spreads through my body.

  I've flown away from them, only to land in something much worse.

  The Senator smiles, as if my discomfort is what he wanted out of this conversation. "Your old life does not matter anymore. You will never speak of it again, to anyone. From now on, your name is Cassandra Goodman."

  I can't get away from him fast enough. Even my desire for revenge can't sustain my sanity for much longer. Not after that, and he hasn't even ordered me to do any of his dirty work yet.

  I have complete control. He's an expert at communicating the quiet parts with few words.

  But I must make my movements look natural as I leave the room. I can't look like a victim. I turn away, holding my head up high, and I make my way back through the archway and into the entryway. The militia guard still stands there, in front of the metal door, and I doubt he's going to let me out of here. So, I walk through the left archway, as if I'm not screaming inside, and make my way down an elegant hallway that's arched and carpeted. I don't dare pick up my pace. He'll be able to hear me. And I will not let him hear that I'm upset.

  For multiple reasons.

  I pass more glass tables that match the one in the sitting room. A palette of cream and dark brown surrounds me. Small statues of Civil War generals on horseback rest on tables, carved from obsidian and other exotic materials. Figures of Shakespearean characters sit on other tables. Metal tins of cigars rest on others. I walk past a patrolling guard, another human male in black, and he gives me a nervous nod as I walk past. Word must have spread that I was going to arrive tonight.

  This guard has an automatic rifle on his back.

  I could steal the weapon from him right now, but I've seen firsthand how ineffective guns are on Goodman. Only fire or a good old-fashioned jab through the chest will work, right? I glance upward, unsurprised to see a sprinkler system on the cream-colored ceiling, between the small, hanging lanterns. I can even smell the water above me, ready to rain down if someone drops a cigarette on the floor.

  Goodman has been incredibly careful to have nothing in this place that can kill him. Even the guards are here just to keep any wandering humans out.

  Lovely.

  And that means I'll have to wait before I take him out.

  Fine. I'll take my time.

  After passing closed metal doors—seriously, they're all metal with carvings of fields, trees, and horses—I reach the last door on the left. It's got a full moon over a landscape on the front, and I slide my hand down cold metal. Turning the crystal knob, I push it open, a crazy hope that there's some weapon in here that I can use on Goodman in his sleep.

  Lights turn on automatically, and I'm confronted with an expansive bedroom with a dome ceiling. Hanging modern lights cast a warm glow on the dark carpet, and a canopy bed draped in black stands. A walk-in closet stands partly open on the far side of the room, and a pair of metal shutters block off what must be a window that faces the outside.

  I reel at how new everything smells. The paint. The fabric. The scent of new clothes and shoes wafts from the closet, and an attached bathroom smells like water, fresh plaster, and downy, fluffy towels. A full entertainment system with a leather couch stands in the corner, complete with a television big enough to transport anyone into another reality. The scent of plastic hangs in the air, as if the electronics got removed from their boxes just now. Vacuum tracks line the carpet.

  Someone prepped this space in a hurry.

  And it's every young woman's dream.

  I hate it.

  It was stocked probably by staff and familiars, at the order of someone who thinks he can buy my loyalty. Or use gifts to pull the guilt card.

  Kindness was not the reason behind this.

  Ember, find something. Get creative.

  A gold-rimmed clock on the wall tells me it's past six in the morning. My eyelids droop. But I know Goodman will retire soon. That'll be my chance.

  Then I really see my shutters as I step into the room and close the door behind me. They're thick metal slabs bolted to the wall, and I doubt I can pull them off.

  Goodman will have those wherever he sleeps for certain, blocking out the sun.

  And even if I sneaked into his space and ripped them off, won't the daylight weaken me, too? I've seen what it does and what it will do to me. If I'm useless, how can I kill my enemy?

  Useless.

  The word slams into my chest, filling the black hole with heavy despair in a matter of seconds.

  This will not be easy, and it might even be impossible with the care Goodman has taken. Hell, maybe the attack on the mansion was that once in a lifetime chance the Diamonds were banking on.

  And this is what I got out of it.

  It all hits me at once and my knees shake.

  Jeremy thinks I broke my promise to him, and Mike has a monster for a sister.

  I march over and throw myself onto the bed, burying myself under the blankets and sheets. The downy mattress rises to swallow me, and I allow it as the horror of the night presses down.

  I conk right out. Maybe it's exhaustion. Maybe it's the events of the night, or maybe it's just the fact that it's daytime. The bed, I must admit, is comfortable and big. It's got to be expensive as hell, too.

  When I wake, I'm still sunk into the mattress and swaddled in blankets. The black canopy stretches over me, and I blink, eyeing the window. But of course, it's still bolted shut with those twin sheets of metal.

  And with a gut punch, I remember where I am and the situation that I've landed in. For a precious moment, I thought I was back in my old apartment. But not anymore. It's probably being prepared for the next unlucky panelist.

  Throwing the sheets off, I realize I'm still in the blouse and dress pants I put on four days ago. They're both wrinkled so badly at this point that they barely flatter the enhanced curves that I still don't feel like are mine. I roll over, slapping my hand to my forehead. It's…different somehow. Also, not mine.

  I'm shaking. I'll need to shower, though I don't detect body odor.

  I want to remove the events of last night, even if I can't. And isn't there a stupid photo shoot I have to deal with?

  My mission.

  I haven't explored the entire residence yet, and if I can get out of it, even better. And there are more things to test, like how much freedom I have and Goodman's habits. I sit up and eye the clock, and I blink as I realize that it's slightly after eight P.M. I've slept all day. Of course, I have. Outside, the evening light will be fading.

  It's possible that Goodman hasn't risen yet from wherever he sleeps.

  The thought of facing him again turns my stomach. But it'll be necessary. And everything hedges on his belief that I killed someone. If he suspects otherwise, he'll fix that in a hurry. And last night showed me just how easily he can win.

  I rush into the walk-in closet, which I haven't yet explored, and I find tons of outfits that he must have had his assistants choose. Tons of blouses. Armies of dress pants, and even plenty of dresses for formal events that must still need tailoring. And the shoes. There are a ton of those, too, all black and businesslike.

  No casuals.

  I've got to hurry if I want any chance of exploring the place before Goodman gets up. I grab a black dress shirt with a frilly white collar and pants of the same shade, because nothing else will go with them. Then I rush into the bathroom, relieved that no mirrors are present. Maybe that myth is true, too, and they'd be useless, anyway.

  I haven't yet seen the changes to my face, and I don't want to.

  I drop the wrinkled clothes. Shit, every aspect of my body is perfect, so much that it's frightening. What is Jeremy going to think?

  Focus, Ember.

  Hopping in the shower clears my head, and it's then that I realize that the sensory overload has calmed down. I can still smell the water, but only if I focus on it. And I can still make out every tiny color variation in the tiles, but only if I make myself do that, too. My senses have expanded into a new universe, but now I can choose what overwhelming thing comes through. Goodman was right. My brain has adjusted, and I can filter out the maddening noise.

  That also means he'll expect my mind to have cleared.

  And he'll want to know just how I escaped from Scarborough's captors.

  I hop out of the shower and wrap myself in a huge, fluffy towel. What do I tell him? Well, I ran on fumes last night, with scrambled brains, and I can give him a partial truth. I don't remember much. It was all a blur. And I did attack a guy. He fell over. I ended him, and then I ran because more reinforcements were coming. No, Goodman will think Scarborough wasn't being careful enough. He'll see through that plot hole. Why station a single human guard with me when I was so dangerous?

  And worse, I don't know the details of the Diamonds' cover story.

  I'll have to wing it and take the I was disoriented angle. And pray.

  Once I comb my hair and dress in the outfit meant to make me look like a dignified badass, I straighten. The first part of my plan begins now. I throw on some shiny dress shoes and exit the room.

  The arched hallway is quiet, and the patrolling guard is gone. I'm guessing it's the equivalent of early morning in the residence, so I walk down the hall and stop at each door, listening. Pushing the one with the tree carvings open, I find a mini theater complete with velvet seats. No one's here, and the next door hides a collection of gold-plated plates and glasses. Goodman apparently likes to collect expensive antiques. Only two rooms explored, and it's clear that the Senator is loaded. How did he get this much money? Does he steal it from the people he kills?

  With another gut punch, I realize that I also have no room to talk in that department. Holden's money clip is probably still in the pocket of the wrinkled dress pants I've discarded on the bathroom floor. Didn't I transfer the clip from my jeans to my dress pants after killing Holden? Also, I know almost nothing about Goodman other than his fearsome reputation. He never talked about himself all that much, though I suppose there's time to get that information.

  While still standing in the antique room, footsteps approach, but they're lighter than that of the guards, and I whirl and face the open door of the antique room.

  I smell the human woman before I see her. She wanders into sight, rolling a cart of cleaning supplies towards my room. Unlike the guards, she has no spray to cover her exotic food scent.

  Then she stops in the hallway as I watch her.

  The redhead woman is probably in her early thirties, and though she smells like the poor bodybuilder from last night, I catch a clear whiff of Goodman's cigar and cherry scent on her. She's got plenty of white scars on her neck, like Nadine. And I know what it means because Jeremy told me about it.

  She's claimed by the Senator. No one else can bite her. She's one of his personal blood bags who doubles as a cleaner. Her eyes aren't as dead as Nadine's yet, but they widen as her gaze lands on me.

  Yeah, I must not look intimidating at all.

  I almost lift my hand to wave at her, to say that she doesn't have to worry about me, and then I remember.

  I'm not supposed to have compassion. And Goodman can use compulsion on this woman to make her spill the beans about everything I do. He probably will because he's not the trusting type. He expects me to treat the servants like shit.

 

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