As she sidled closer, a skinny auburn-haired boy- likely no more than eighteen-used his hold on the spigot to pull himself into view. He looked all ribs, elbows, and knees, but she took no chances, centering her pistol on his bare chest. Dazed, he finally seemed to see her, his eyes widening at both her half-naked state and the obvious threat of the weapon. He scrambled back in the empty tub, palms held up, looking ready to climb the marble walls behind him.
He wore only a pair of boxer briefs-and a stainless-steel collar.
A match to hers.
Perhaps sensing the same pinched pressure on his neck as Seichan felt on hers, he clawed at his throat.
"Don’t," she warned in French.
Panicked, he tugged. The green light on his collar flashed to red. His entire body jolted, throwing him a foot into the air. He crashed back into the bathtub.
She lunged and kept his head from cracking into the hard marble, feeling a snap of electricity sting her palm.
Her actions were not motivated by altruism. The kid plainly shared her predicament. Perhaps he knew more about the situation than she did. He convulsed for another breath-then went slack. She waited until his eyes fluttered back open; then she stood and backed away. She lowered her gun, sensing no threat from him.
He cautiously worked his way into a seated position. She studied him as he breathed heavily, slowly shaking off the shock. He was taller than she’d at first imagined. Maybe six feet, but rail thin-not so much scrawny as wiry. His hair was long to the shoulder, cut ragged with the cool casualness of youth. Tattoos swathed his arms, spilled over his shoulders, and spread into two dark wings of artwork along his back. His chest was clean, still an empty canvas.
"Comment tu t’appelles?" Seichan asked, taking a seat on the commode.
He breathed heavily. "Je m’appelle Renny…
Renny MacLeod." Though he answered in French, his brogue was distinctly Scottish.
"You speak English?" she asked.
He nodded, sagging with relief. "Aye. What is going on? Where am I?" "You’re in trouble." He looked confused, scared.
"What’s the last thing you remember?" she asked.
His voice remained dazed. "I was at a pub. In Montparnasse. Someone bought me a pint. Just the one. I wasn’t blottered or anything, but that’s the last I remember. Till I woke up here." So he must have been drugged, too. Brought here and collared, like her. But why? What game was being played?
The phone rang, echoing across the room.
She turned, suspecting the answer was about to be revealed. She stood and exited the bathroom. The padding of bare feet on marble told her that Renny was following. She picked up the phone on the bedside table.