Glorious Rivals(24)

Not what? Gigi wondered.

This time, there was an extended pause, and then: “That’s going to be a problem, Eve.” Slate said those words like a person who was used to taking care of problems.

Problems, Gigi thought slowly, like me. She pressed her ear harder to the door, but Slate must have stepped away from it, because whatever he said next was muffled.

What is she asking you to do? What are you telling her? Gigi liked to think that she’d been a good sport so far. She hadn’t panicked even once. But even Gigi’s common sense and survival instincts could only be put on mute for so long. Backing away from the door, she took advantage of Slate’s absence and grabbed the closest thing she could find to a weapon: the candle in its old-fashioned iron holder.

Did Gigi want to set anyone or anything on fire? No, no she did not. But would she, if she had to?

Possibly.

Maybe.

Probably.

Settling on that last one, Gigi did the only other rational thing she could think of: She put some distance between herself and her dark-eyed, blond-haired captor. The only place to go was up. Candle in hand, Gigi took to the stone staircase. The steps were, at most, two-and-a-half feet wide—no railing. Even with the candle, Gigi couldn’t see much more than a step or two ahead, but that didn’t stop her from climbing.

Eventually, the staircase twisted at a ninety-degree angle. Gigi kept going. Down below, she heard the door open, and she picked up her speed. She glanced back just in time to see a small beam of light cut through the darkness—the flashlight on Slate’s phone.

The second he realized where she was, he cursed.

Busted. Gigi heard him stalking toward the stairs, and she went from walking up the steps to running, hugging the wall as she went. Another twist of the stairs.

Another.

Slate was gaining on her when she made it to the top. A small ladder hung down from a room overhead. Tightening her grip on the candleholder, Gigi stepped onto the bottom rung.

“What the hell is your plan here, sunshine?” Slate called.

Gigi was an expert at ignoring questions like that. She pulled herself up and into a circular room. In the center of the room there was… A very large lantern? Gigi approached it to get a better look, then glanced up to see windows surrounding her on all sides. Outside, the night sky was velvety black, lit only by a scattering of stars and a partial moon—just enough for Gigi to make out the moon’s reflection on water.

Suddenly, she knew what this building was. “A lighthouse.” Neurons firing at warp speed, Gigi looked to the candle in her hand, then back at the lantern. If I’m going to set something on fire…

“Don’t even think about it.” Slate climbed into the room.

“Because someone might see the light?” Gigi retorted, her heart pounding in her chest. “A literal beacon to your evil lair—and my location?”

“Because this thing obviously hasn’t been functional in decades,” Slate replied. “Maybe even a century. You could burn the whole place down.”

He turned his flashlight off and tucked the phone into his back pocket, leaving them with only candlelight. And freeing his hands.

“Burning things down sounds more like a you kind of thing,” Gigi said. “Or are you a strict non-arsonist when it comes to taking care of problems?” There was an audible note of hopefulness in her tone.

“I’m not a strict anything.”

Gigi frowned. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?” Slate took a step toward her.

Gigi took a step back. “Sad?”

“I don’t do sad.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh really?” Slate’s tone never changed. “You do remember that you were bugged during the game, right? You made it pretty clear to your teammates that you don’t do sad, either, even when you should.”

I might, Gigi thought. When I get out of here, when I see Savannah, when I talk to her—I might be sad.

Slate took another step toward her, and Gigi backed up until she hit the wall of windows. Slate closed in. Standing right in front of her, he lifted his hand to the candleholder, covering her fingers with his before Gigi could attempt to so much as fling it at the glass.

“Fine,” Gigi said. Her heart was still pounding—harder now. “Neither of us do sad. That’s why we’re platonic kidnapper-kidnappee soulmates, and that’s why you’re letting me go.”

Slate relieved her of the candleholder—and the candle—and looked her dead in the eyes. “I need you to know that no one is coming for you.” The flame flickered between them. “No one is looking for you, no one is watching for your signal, because you aren’t missing. As it happens, you stole a boat and left a note.”

“Whose boat?” Gigi asked immediately. “And what kind of note?”

“Xander Hawthorne’s. And you left an IOU for apology Twinkies.”

“Apology Twinkies,” Gigi gasped with no small amount of horror. That sounded exactly like her! “You bastard!”

Slate shrugged. “Step up from muscle-goblin.”

“No,” Gigi informed him, narrowing her eyes. “It’s not.”

“I’m going to need you to go back down the ladder now, and then you will walk very carefully down the stairs, staying close to the wall.”