The bloody man was a walking shield.

Trevor massaged the back of his neck, sighing.

He would regroup in Scotland, acquire weapons, and eventually the man’s guard would drop. If only for a few moments. A few moments were all he would need.

10

The flight from JFK to London was only half full, the lights dimmed for the comfort of night travelers, the seats comfy (they had a whole row to themselves and had pushed all the armrests up), and Chloe fell asleep shortly after takeoff.

Now, stirring drowsily, she kept her eyes shut, mulling over the events of the day. It had whizzed by with incredible speed, from the attack, to the packing, to going to her place for her passport, to getting a box at the bank for her artifacts (her artifacts!), to a hasty late lunch/early dinner, and finally the trip to the airport.

No wonder she’d fallen asleep. She’d not slept much the night before, nervous and excited about the decision she’d made to accompany Dageus to Scotland. Then the day had been crammed full, and the shock of the attack, alone, had nearly drained her of energy. She still couldn’t believe it had happened; it seemed surreal, as if she’d watched it on TV or it had happened to someone else. She’d been living in New York, in one of the less savory sections for almost a year, and nothing bad had ever happened to her. She’d never been mugged, never been harassed on the subway, in fact, hadn’t encountered any adversity, so she supposed maybe her number had finally come up. Unless, of course, the police determined some other mot—

That thought was slippery and abruptly vanished from her mind.

Though it troubled her that her assailant had killed himself (and if that didn’t demonstrate how crazy he’d been, she didn’t know what would), she knew he’d intended to injure her severely, if not kill her. Pragmatism tempered her emotion. The simple fact was: She was grateful she’d survived. Sorry the man had been so crazy that he’d attacked her, then taken a leap off the terrace, but glad to be alive all the same. It was startling how having one’s life placed in jeopardy reduced one to the basics.

Had Dageus not returned—that thought made her shudder—she would have fought to the death. She was discovering all kinds of parts of her personality she’d not known existed. She’d always worried that if someone attacked her, she might just crumple, or freeze helplessly. Had always wondered if she was a coward at heart.

Thank God she wasn’t. And thank God Dageus had forgotten the key.

She’d been so gullible. Giles “Jones,” indeed. What a tip-off that should have been. But she’d not given it a second thought because the man had looked and acted so darned normal, at first. Then again, she’d read somewhere that most serial killers looked like the guy next door.

When Dageus had walked in, the man had gotten the strangest look on his face. She couldn’t quite pin it down. . . .