Second book in The Feathered Princess series will be out 12/16. First book, The Girl in the Fountain is FREE on Amazon, every Saturday leading up.
Kate is strangely enjoying the view. When she’s asleep, Finch looks in many ways just like any other child. The bruises are still fading on her face, a sickly yellow, a slight puffiness to her jaw, but she’s got her head resting on her hands, hiding the distorted jaw line, the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the sides of the curtain… It illuminates her, makes her skin shine a perfect white. Kate is left to admire the delicate shape to the girl’s face, her strong, straight nose, the thick black of her lashes against the delicate curve of her cheeks, her bow lips issuing sleepy murmurs. She reminds Kate of someone, some heartbreaking echo, but she can’t think of who it is...
Her brow furrows and Kate imagines if she could actually make out words from those murmurs it would probably ruin the illusion – What would a girl assassin dream of? – but in the quiet still of the motel room, seven-thirty on a Thursday morning, she just looks like a little girl having a bad dream. A week ago Kate might have thought this scene sad, that little girls should only have good dreams, sleepy smiles on sleeping faces. But today she can only think that this is the most beautiful Finch has ever been, curled up like the child she should be. Kate can imagine how she’ll start up any second, eyes darting with childish fears, impotent dangers. She’ll ask to crawl into bed. She’ll curl up on her side as far to one edge as possible, pretend she’s too old to cuddle. But she won’t object when Kate pulls her close anyway.
And that’s when the door jostles her. A voice calls out in Spanish. And Finch does start up. Brings to bear a 9mm as she stumbles to her feet. Doesn’t even bother to look through the crack being held back by the chain on the door. Just does her own mental measurements. Shoots right through the door.
Kate is horrified. Not sure who she’s horrified for just now.
She doesn’t have time to decide as Finch runs towards the bed, drags Kate up, cradling Elisabeth, muttering, “Stupid. Like I wouldn’t recognize her voice ’cause she was speaking Spanish.”
So. Another Barracks assassin. Kate’s going to just be horrified for all of them. Compounded when she hears the chain break.
She hadn’t realized Finch was dragging the comforter behind them too, but now she shoves it in the bathtub, drops Elisabeth into the fiber and feather nest, shoves Kate to rest atop the toilet lid, and shuts the bathroom door with a dull thud behind her, a strange contrast as another shot rings out; this one no one has bothered to silence. So just a good, old-fashioned shoot out.
Kate feels a strange fission of satisfaction at that.
Finch will win.