Heir in Exile (12 page)

Checking the yard and windows, Chey stepped out from behind the trees and ran toward the stairs. Thankful for the railing attached to the low wall, she held on while traversing the slippery steps to the bottom. There she found a small alcove hidden under part of the building with a door that proved to be locked when she tried the handle. Stifling a curse, she felt around the top of the door frame for a key. It was a long shot, and Chey wasn't surprised when she came up empty.

The alcove at least provided protection from falling snow, but not the cold, which meant she needed to get inside somehow. Using her shoulder, she banged against the door, counting on the building being too big and the basement being vacant to hide the noise. She bounced off with no luck and tried again, this time with more force. Closed tight, made of heavy wood, the door didn't budge.

Exhausted from her long trek in bad weather, Chey leaned on the wood for a second and got her breath. Her bones ached, her stomach demanded food and water, and she was sure that if she didn't get the door open, she might die in the alcove of exposure.

Stepping back, she kicked at the door near the lock. A hard, sharp kick that rewarded her with a slight splintering sound. Two more kicks was all it took to bust the latch. The door creaked inward.

Chey put her shoulder against it and opened it further, stepping into the gloom.

. . .

The basement, this section of it anyway, looked to be used only on rare occasions. There was a large pile of cut firewood against the far wall, several benches with remnants of craft projects on the surface, and a few metal tool chests half as tall as Chey. Bins that appeared to have holiday decorations lined another wall, each marked by the color of the lid.

Squinting into the shadows, Chey figured the basement to be as big as her apartment back in Seattle, with several doors leading to different sections and one that, miraculously, opened onto a bathroom. With extreme caution, she explored the basic layout, finding the space clean if dull. The concrete floor lacked dirt or debris, which told Chey that someone came down here at least once a month to sweep.

The small bathroom, with only a sink, a toilet and a cupboard was in working order. Chey took care of business quickly, glad to have some relief where that was concerned. After drying her hands on a few paper towels, she exited the bathroom and sought a pile of moving blankets to raid. She dragged one into a shady recessed area and curled down on it, desiring a buffer between her body and the cold cement. Bringing the duffel bag around to her lap, she eased the zipper open and rooted around for water. She'd consumed one bottle during her trek; three remained. Gulping half the contents, she set it aside and ripped into one of the trail bars, hugging her arms around her while she chewed. It was cold down here. Not as cold as the outside, but frigid enough to make Chey wonder how much protection the basement would provide. The hem of her jeans was wet and unlikely to dry unless she found some place a little warmer.

For now she ate, consuming a piece of beef jerky after the trail bar. Stuffing any trash back into the duffel bag, she zipped it closed and wrapped her arms around herself, desperate to chase the chill away. Wary of discovery, Chey found it difficult to sleep. She knew she needed to rest while she could, before going back on the run. It was daunting when someone upstairs might decide on a whim to visit this part of the basement. The thought of being at fate's mercy wasn't an enticing one.

Chey wondered where Sander and Mattias were. What happened that they sent her fleeing from the safety of the cabin? She imagined all manner of horror, compliments of the King. Aksel must have had some other trick up his sleeve like the brothers thought. Chey didn't know whether to head for the coast or to stay lost for another few days in the forest region. If the storm persisted, it would make travel, and survival, difficult. As soon as the weather cleared enough, she should be able to raise the GPS and find her way to the shore. The question was whether Aksel knew she was here—which seemed likely, considering the voices she'd heard in pursuit—and would be waiting, anticipating her arrival in the busier coastal cities.

In the middle of debating, she fell asleep.

What woke her some hours later was a snap of light and the rustle of clothing. Jolting upright, neck stiff from where her head had been leaning against the wall, Chey blinked away confusion. The weak spill of light didn't quite reach the recessed curve she was nestled into, instead illuminating the middle sections of the basement and fading the closer it got to the corners and walls.

Clarity returned with the uncomfortable realization that someone might bump across her down here. She heard movement again; someone was in the basement with her.

Biting her tongue, considering pulling the gun in case she needed to defend herself, Chey listened for more clues. Which direction was the person heading? Her way, or over to the firewood pile?

She hoped the latter. Chey could see the stacked wood from her spot if she leaned forward enough. The heavy thud of boots on concrete came next, marking the person's path through the room. Afraid to breathe, Chey closed her eyes and wished the person away.
Let them leave. Make them hurry and go back upstairs.

Opening her eyes when the rustle of clothing stopped, she tried to gauge where the person was in the basement. Had they seen her shoe? The pad she sat on? Worried she'd been spotted, she leaned forward enough to bring the rest of the woodpile into view.

What Chey never expected was to be staring at Sander's back. She would have known his physique anywhere. The broad shoulders, narrow hips, warrior-like muscles beneath the lay of his sweatshirt. He wore a beanie over his head, covering his hair.

Just as she opened her mouth to call out, the man turned his head, bringing his profile into view.

Sander's name died on her lips. Chey stared in horror at the malformed cheek, eye and half of the forehead that made up the man's face. It wasn't Sander—yet it was. The jaw, the general shape of the face belonged to her fiance. A resemblance so strong that there could be no denying some sort of kinship. Not exact, this wasn't a twin. A brother? Cousin? Something. This man was of Ahtissari blood, Chey would have bet her life on it. Now that she could see pieces of hair sticking out the bottom disappearing under the collar, Chey saw it wasn't golden like Sander's, but black. Ink black. Like Mattias.

What the hell?

Too caught up in her shock, Chey didn't think to sit back. She stared, taking note that the man seemed to have decent motor function. It was impossible to tell if there was another sort of disability to go with the malformed face. He gathered an armful of firewood from the stack, muscles flexing under his clothing.

Again, from the back with his face turned away, Chey would have sworn she was staring at Sander. It was uncanny, the physical resemblance when the stranger's face wasn't in sight.

After loading up on firewood, the man toted it to one of the other doors and disappeared up a flight of stairs, closing the door behind him.

Releasing a pent up breath, Chey palmed her forehead. What had just happened? Who was he?

The wisp of smoke that had been so familiar outside came rushing back, tickling her memory. She needed to remember where she'd seen it before, or why it was so familiar. Then it hit her; the day she'd learned Sander was a Royal, when she'd photographed the family, she had seen a slither of smoke far into the East woods, trailing up past the tree tops. She recalled wondering what else might be in the East woods that made the family put that section off limits to visitors. To anyone.

Was this building the source of the smoke? Is this where she was now, in the East woods? Suffering disorientation from getting lost, Chey had no idea if this was North, West or East from where she'd started out this afternoon. She suspected this might be yet another Royal family secret, however, and sought to reason through the semantics while also rifling through the bag for her cell phone. Mattias might have texted while she was sleeping.

No messages. The GPS, as well, was still offline.

Great.

The time surprised her a little.
11:42 p.m.
She would have thought it was the middle of the night.

Knowing she would have trouble going back to sleep, Chey considered her options. Should she creep up onto the upper floors and attempt to get pictures of the man? She wanted answers about his identity. Mattias and Sander, if she could get in touch with them, would know immediately. Probably without pictures, too, but she thought it best to provide some on the off chance that they didn't know about his presence either.

It struck Chey in that moment that perhaps this might be another of the King and Queen's 'aces'. A secret buried and locked away in the East woods, though what it all meant, she couldn't be sure. She assessed the risks of exposing herself on the upper floors and what might happen if she was caught.

What she
should
do was stay put, rest and regain her energy for departure the following morning.

Shucking the strap from the duffel bag, she leaned it against the wall in the shadows, checked for her gun in the pocket of her coat and eased to a stand. Listening for movement, she crept toward the door to the stairwell and opened it.

The stone staircase wound upward, lit only by a few small lamps attached to the ceiling. Chey ascended before she could talk herself out of it, rising until she reached the landing outside another door that must lead onto the main floor of the building.

This was crazy. What the hell was she thinking?

Opening the door, Chey peered along a hallway that radiated warmth and the faint scent of apple pie. Seeing the coast was clear, she left the stairwell and closed the door behind her.

You're insane. Someone could walk around a corner any second.

The risk of discovery did not stop her from advancing through the corridor, sneaking on stealthy feet away from the safety of the basement. The tips of her fingers and nose tingled at the temperature change. It felt wonderful to chase some of the chill away, even temporarily.

Moving down the hall, she assessed the layout as best she could, discerning the front of the building from the back, and where she judged the sound of voices to be. The low drone of conversation floated to her from somewhere on her right.

Coming up on what appeared to be a library or a parlor of some type, Chey pressed her back against the wall. She still couldn't make out the exact words, but she
could
make out three distinct voices, all male.

From the left, behind her down a separate hall, the maudlin song of a violin drew Chey's attention. Backtracking, alert for movement or approaching footsteps, she retreated to the secondary corridor and closed in on the lilting melody. She recalled Sander telling her he played as well. What were the odds that a cousin or relative was adept with the same instrument? She had no doubt that's who the source of the music was.

Pausing at the archway leading into the room, Chey bolstered her resolve and her nerve. Bringing the phone from her pocket, she poked her head around the corner just enough to get a glimpse of the interior. She prayed the whole time that the occupant didn't notice her.

The man with a physique so like Sander stood with his back to the doorway. Facing a roaring fireplace, he played the violin with passion and skill, swaying lightly on his feet in time to the tempo. Other musical instruments—a baby grand piano, cello, guitar—sat around what was obviously a music room.

Right away, Chey lifted the phone and clicked a few photos. She needed to see the man's face, which upped the risk of being spotted, so that Mattias and Sander would understand just how striking the resemblance to Sander was. She glanced up and down the corridor, checking for people, before returning her attention to the violin player.

He adjusted his stance, half turning his body toward the doorway. Chey clicked off a few more pictures, homing in on the disfigured profile. Firelight traced the strong jaw, a high cheekbone, the prominent nose. It cut more shadows into the sloping parts, making the man seem a little more like a monster than not.

The music stopped abruptly when the player stilled his arm and snapped a look toward the doorway.

Chey leaned back with a gasp. Tucking the phone into her pocket, she retreated from the archway, looking for a place to hide.

He'd seen her. Or seen movement. Something. He was coming to investigate.

Ducking into the nearest open door, she flattened herself against the inside wall, thankful that whatever room she'd stepped into was utterly dark.

A potted plant helped obscure her from sight.

The shape of the man appeared silhouetted in the doorway, as if he was looking in. Chey held her breath, panic making her heart race.

Damn.
Damn.
She shouldn't have been so brazen. What if he discovered her hiding and raised the alarm?

The silhouette lingered, hovering in the arch. Finally, it retreated, continuing the search in other rooms along the corridor.

Chey waited until she couldn't hear his footsteps before leaving her hiding place. At the arch, she peered into the hallway. No one in sight. Chey bolted from the room back toward the other hall, pressing against the wall at the corner. The man could be anywhere by now. She hoped he wasn't in the hall when she emerged, which she did a moment later.