I shove the note in my pocket, push out of the doorway with a glance behind me, and jog to the end of the block, wiping my cheek on my sleeve.

“I see you. You’re almost there.”

“I see it,” I say, nearing the Art Nouveau building, an ornate crest over the front entrance. A hotel car is waiting outside.

I need that car! A few seconds later, a doorman comes down the steps, waves the car forward.

“Get the doorman to hail you a cab,” Luka says.

“I did. It’s pulling up now—I see it.”

A pause, and then he says, “I’m almost there.”

The doorman steps up to get the door, and I slide in without a beat, and then across to the other side. I feel as though my nose is dripping. My hand comes away red. I search around, wondering if I’m injured, but no. I’ve run so hard my nose is bleeding. The driver hands me a tissue, and ten seconds later, Luka slides in after me.

Go. Go. Quickly.

And then we’re pulling away down the street and I don’t even know what direction we’re headed because I’ve thrown myself into Luka’s arms.

34

“I’m never leaving you alone again,” Luka murmurs against my hair. We’ve called the others, who ended up abandoning the car in the traffic jam, which Jester’s convinced was orchestrated, and told them to meet us in Zurich in two days.

“The good news is that the cameras at the vault don’t record video, in order to keep it anonymous,” Jester said.

Not that it matters now.

And then we directed the driver the other way. East, toward Bratislava. It’s too close to Budapest for my comfort, but it’s the largest nearby city with an airport. From there, I don’t care where we go.

“I think Claudia knows we’re not meeting them in Zurich,” I say.

Luka strokes the hair that isn’t really mine and murmurs, “Then she knows you want to keep her alive. It was coming to that, anyway.”

Yes. I want to keep her alive. And with the others headed to Switzerland, I can at least concentrate on the life I’m concerned about right now: Luka’s.

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror—has done so twice in the last minute.

I’m not her. Maybe I resemble her, but now that you look . . . no.

“How did you do that?” Luka says.

“Do what?”

“Get the doorman to hail your cab before you even got there.”

“I don’t know. The same way I got the maid to let me in the back door of a hotel, I guess.”

“So you . . . called it in?” he says strangely.

“I guess. I must be getting better.”

“I’ve never heard of that. I don’t think that’s normal.”

But nothing about this is normal.