"Noon today, when the sun is at its strongest." She glanced to the mantel clock. That was in less than two hours.
"That is why I took these extreme measures. To ensure your cooperation. The collars not only punish, but they also kill. Leave the city limits of Paris and you will meet a most agonizing end. Fail to free my son and you will meet the same fate." "And if I agree… if I succeed…" "You will be set free. You have my oath. And as payment for services rendered, the documents I possess will also be yours." Seichan considered her options. It did not take long. She had only one.
To cooperate.
She also understood why Claude Beaupre had collared her and turned her into his hunting dog. He dared not report what he’d learned from his son to the Guild. The organization could simply let Vennard commit this violent act and turn it to their advantage.
Chaos often equaled opportunity to her former masters. Or they would stamp out Vennard and his cult for their hubris and mutiny. In either scenario, Gabriel Beaupre would likely end up dead.
So Claude had sought help outside of regular channels.
"What about the boy?" Seichan asked, staring over at Renny MacLeod, unable to fit this one jigsaw piece into the puzzle.
"He is your map and guide."
"What does that mean?" Renny must have noted her sudden attention on him and grew visibly paler.
"Search his back," Claude commanded. "Ask him about Jolienne." "Who is Jolienne?" This time the kid flinched, as if punched in the gut.
But rather than going even whiter, his face flushed. He lunged forward, grabbing for the phone.
"What does that bastard know about my Jolie?" Renny cried out.
Seichan easily sidestepped his assault, keeping the phone to her ear and spinning him with one hand.
She tossed him facedown on the bed and held him in place with a knee planted at the base of his spine.
He struggled, swearing angrily.
"Stay still," she said, digging in her knee. "Who is Jolie?" He twisted his head around to glare at her with one eye. "My girlfriend. She disappeared two days ago.
Looking for some group called the Solar Temple. I was in that pub last night trying to drum up a search party among the other cataphiles." She didn’t know what that last word meant. But before inquiring, her attention focused on the kid’s naked back and the sprawl of his tattoo. This was the first chance she’d had to get a good look at it.
In black, yellow, and crimson inks, a strange map had been indelibly etched into his skin-but it was not a chart of streets and avenues. In meticulous detail, the artwork depicted an intricate network of crisscrossing tunnels, widening chambers, and watery pools. It looked like the map for some lost cavern system. It was also clearly an unfinished work: passages faded into obscurity or ended abruptly at the edges of the tattoo.