The Stolen (9 page)

“Sounds like they brought trouble with them,” Amy observed. Chloe opened her mouth to argue, but in a way, her friend was right.

“Come home,” Paul suggested. It was
almost
a plea. “As soon as you can. I don't trust these ‘people.'”

“Yeah, they probably tapped your line.”

“Amy, this is a cell phone….”

“Whatever! Don't be a douche. When are you coming
back?
”

It was a strange question. Chloe had only been at Firebird with the Mai for a week or so and it already felt
like a completely new life. Sure, she missed her mom and Paul and Amy, but the thought of suddenly waking up tomorrow and going to school again was just weird.

She paused too long, trying to figure out how to answer it.

“So you mean you haven't even
considered
coming back,” Amy said evenly.

“Not until it's safe,” Chloe said, faltering.

“And when's that?” Paul asked. His voice was beyond cool. “When this Order thing has been completely wiped out? When they're all dead? How many of them are there? I mean, it sounds like a real gang war, from what you're saying.”

She hadn't thought about it.

She
really
hadn't thought about any of it.

She thought about it now, though, sinking into her pillows. They kept saying—
Sergei
kept saying—she could go back “as soon as the danger had passed” and Chloe just accepted it, repeating it, making it the truth by repetition. What did she expect? That the Tenth Blade would just give up after a while? That they would grow bored with hunting the supposed killer of one of their Order? That there was some sort of statute of limitations on accidental death in the middle of a five-thousand-year blood feud?

Did she really believe that one day Sergei was going to come to her with an all-clear signal, hug her, let her go back home, and insist that she drop by once in a while? Now that she thought about it, no one ever acted like she
was going to be leaving at any point. Alyec never said anything one way or the other. She had a
job,
for Christ's sake.

“I don't like the way this sounds, Chloe,” Amy said grimly. “I want to see you. Myself. If these people are so great, they shouldn't mind letting you see your friends.”

“Amy, now is not a good time….”

“I mean it! Promise you'll meet us. Or I'll call in the cavalry. I call the police.
I'll tell your mother
.”

“All right, all right, I promise!” Chloe agreed.

“When?”

“I don't know! I'll call you again when I can, okay?” She looked at the battery meter. About a quarter left. She didn't have a charger with her and for some reason, once again, she didn't feel comfortable asking for one. Come to think about it, no one in the Pride knew about her phone except for Alyec—and now Igor and Valerie—so unless they told anyone, that was it. Why did that make her feel better somehow?”

“All right. Call me by Saturday or it's the cavalry. I mean it.”

“All right! I'll see you later.”

“'Bye!” Paul shouted.

Chloe flipped her phone closed and looked at it for a long time, sitting on the floor.

“Well, that's … weird … ,” Paul said, distractedly arranging Amy's stuffed animals into extremely lewd positions.

“Stockholm syndrome,” Amy answered promptly, pleased with herself. “She has begun sympathizing with her own kidnappers. She's beginning to really believe they are keeping her safe instead of just keeping her.”

Paul looked up at her and narrowed his eyes. “Amy? What are you planning?” he asked evenly.

“Nothing,” Amy said, crossing her arms. “Yet.”

But they both knew it wasn't true.

“Well, well, my
own son wants to have dinner with me,” Whit said, folding the painfully white linen napkin into his lap. “What an extraordinary honor.”

Brian grimaced. Once again his father had managed to turn the tables so everything was to
his
advantage: Mr. Rezza had chosen the Ritz-Carlton's restaurant for dinner, much to Brian's dismay. It embodied everything that Brian did
not
want to get involved in during their discussion. Fussy place settings, crazy rich people, annoyingly perfect and subdued lighting, silent waiters, and worst of all, a dress code.
Technically
Brian wore the required “business attire,” but he saw that the maitre d' was pissed at his Generation-Y interpretation: brown velvet pants, a leather suit-style jacket, and a Diesel shirt that he wore with a thrift store tie.

“Shall we start with a bottle of something? Maybe some Krug Grande Cuvée to celebrate the occasion?”

Brian had an almost overwhelming urge to point out
that he wasn't old enough to drink, but now was not the point in the conversation to start acting up.

“Whatever. You know I like reds.”

“Oh, that's right.” Whit looked at his son with something approaching fondness. “I remember: cabernets. A strange thing for a California boy, but I don't disapprove. I seem to remember they have some very nice native ones here….” He took out a pair of reading glasses and buried his nose in the wine list.

Brian sighed. At least his father seemed a
little
nervous despite his posturing. It had been several months since they had really spent any time together outside the dusty walls of the Order's chapter house. The older man looked more or less the same, maybe a little tanner, maybe his jowls were just a little bit tighter. He had said something about taking up squash or tennis. He was a large man, imposing, with an utterly patrician face and a nose that was large enough to make him look regal but sharp enough so that he looked like he was something other than a hundred percent Italian. Only his easy olive tan betrayed a Mediterranean origin.

His
outfit was impeccable, a several-thousand-dollar Armani suit that fit so well with the shirt, the cuff links, the tie, and the shoes that except for the slight paunch, Brian's dad could have been a model for some older men's magazine. Whitney Rezza was a living embodiment of taste and wealth well spent.

“Dad,” Brian said, clearing his throat, “I think we should consider me leaving the Order.”

His father looked over the wine list at him.

“Don't be absurd.”

Brian had thought long and hard, and the best thing he could do for Chloe now was to cut all ties with the organization that was bent on killing her. Whatever happened between the two of them, he would be free of the Tenth Blade, and Chloe would feel confident that she could trust him.

But that was only partially it: this was also an opportunity for Brian to figure out what to do with his life. Which he knew, regardless of anything else, did not involve the Order of the Tenth Blade. At best it was a silly society of archaic rituals and secrecy; at worst it was a group of people devoted to killing other people. Either way, it was not going to be his life's work.

“I'm serious, Dad. I want a career, an education—I want a
life
” He ran his hand through his own thick dark hair, angry at his own nervousness.

“All of those things are possible while you remain in the Order,” his father said, slowly setting the wine list down, “if that's what you really wish.”

“I want to
concentrate
on ‘those things.' I don't want to have to run out of a final because of some emergency meeting the way Dickless—uh, Dick did a couple of weeks ago.”

“Richard is an extremely devoted young man,”
Whit said patronizingly. “He is an exemplar for the Order.”

Then why don't you just adopt him and be done with it?
His father's feelings toward Dick used to drive Brian up the wall; now he
wished
his dad was grooming the college student for eventual leadership. God knew he himself didn't want it.

Brian took a deep breath.

“Dad,” he said patiently, “most people
choose
to join the Order. Even Edna—”

“That's
Mrs. Hilshire
to you, Brian.”

“Even fucking Mrs. Hilshire—” He stopped when his father gave him a warning look. “Even
she
gave her kids the choice. Evelyn chose to join, and William and Maurice didn't.”

“Well, I don't have the luxury of
three children
and the chances that
one
may follow in his father's footsteps. I only have
you
.”

“It's not my fault you only have one kid,” Brian snapped, his temper slowly getting the better of him.

“Oh, is this where you're about to blame me for the death of my own wife again?” his dad said, annoyingly lightly. “How if it hadn't been for me, she would still be alive? How I might have had three kids, and you would get out of your current predicament? You're right. Terribly selfish of me to let my
own wife die
. I didn't realize how it would inconvenience you.”

Brian's foot began to shake under the table. He
forced himself to stop it, not wanting his dad to see how close he was to losing control.

“I'm not talking about that.”
Though I should throw it in your goddamn face, you self-satisfied
… “I'm talking about my right to choose my own life.”

“Sometimes we don't have those choices, son. Look at Prince Charles,” Mr. Rezza said gravely. “Listen, I inherited this burden from your grandfather, just as he did from
his
father. Sometimes we just have to accept what we're given and bear it manfully.”

Manfully?
Brian almost cracked up. But it
was
interesting that his dad had phrased it that way. Was it possible that Whit Rezza had rebelled at some point? That his own father had shot him down? Brian's grandfather seemed like a gentle enough old man, but Brian knew there was a sharp and possibly evil mind behind his friendly exterior.

“I understand that, Dad,” Brian said softly. “But these are different times. I have … individual rights, like the right to pursue my own path.”

He knew as soon as he said “individual rights” that he had made a mistake. The almost-caring look his father had given him disappeared, replaced with a stony glare.

“Nonsense,” he said with disgust. “Your generation has no sense of responsibility to a group, a calling higher than your own. You treat random friends like family and family like strangers. You want to dither your life away,
pursuing one pleasure after another. That is not a
path;
that is a waste of life.”

And that was that. Brian had tried to sail the choppy waters of his father's limited common sense—and failed. Mr. Rezza picked up the wine list again.

“Everybody in the Order has had their doubts at one time or another, Brian, even Edna. Even myself. It's an inevitable phase in the path to becoming a fully integrated member. You'll get over it.” He paused, his eyes scanning the wine list. “What about a merlot?”

Still sitting on
the floor long after she'd hung up on her friends, Chloe picked up her jeans that were wadded in a pile. There was a wear spot threatening to tear into a rip. It was already tissue thin. She ran her finger over it and the harder nubbles of the denim around it. These were vintage Lees she had saved for herself at Pateena's.

“I expect to see you back on Wednesday—if not, don't bother ever coming back.”
Her boss's words echoed in her memory.

Chloe sighed. Her job at the vintage store was just another thing her new screwy life had, well, screwed up. She had an overpowering urge to talk to Marisol, the owner and her friendly boss—if Marisol was still her boss, that is. The older woman always seemed to understand Chloe better than her mom ever did and sense her moods with an uncanny knack. Even if she couldn't tell her all her secrets, Chloe had always unburdened some of her feelings. Now, of course, that would be impossible.