Chapter 21

The street Cassandra walked down was dusty and houses sprawled around her with little uniformity, bright colors haphazardly changing down the street. Tropical heat soaked into her clothes, making them stick to her body. No one paid any particular attention to her. She'd dyed her hair dark and sunglasses kept sun from her eyes. Sure, guys tried it on, seeing a lone female walking the streets of Rio, but it they eventually melted away, getting no reaction from her. It was only when she opened her mouth that it became obviously clear that she was a foreigner, so she did her best not to say anything when she could avoid it.

Her apartment was up a crumbling set of stairs in a building that was at least a hundred years old and it hadn't been repaired since. Her apartment was small with peeling green paint, the kitchen even tinier, but it did its job. There wasn't room for much more than a bed and a couch, but the door was solid wood and a breeze flowed through if she left it open.

It was no way to live though, but she had to keep moving, staying some place a few weeks then moving on. She knew it would be like this, but she had to do it. It was only for a while, she reckoned. Over time, she would become less important and people would forget they were looking for her, well, anyone who didn't know her anyway. But maybe she was just being hopeful. She could never, ever go back to Paris, probably never Europe even.

Freedom was another whole issue to deal with. She'd never had it before—the mistress of her own domain. She decided how she spent her time. The decision was hers; she could stay inside and read all day, or wander the streets—work if she had to. Stores and cafes were always looking for people, although it was harder here as she spoke no Portuguese.

Sitting down on the couch with a large split up the plastic leather, she turned her thoughts to where she'd go next. It had been three months since she left Paris, and she had started in Canada, slowly traveling south.

Maybe it was time to skip over to Asia, but she did stand out more there. The Malfoy networks also thinned in, particularly in remote places.

But it didn't matter where she went, the constant fear and searching for someone watching her never left. That was what took a toll. That was the price her freedom cost. And the fact that she couldn't stop thinking about him. That was the obsession that had wheedled its way into her brain, torturing her relentlessly. She wondered what he was doing. What he was thinking about. Not that she had ever known. In her mind, she'd gone through every action, word or response she'd ever seen him do and tried to garner any understanding from it. He completely eluded her though. She didn't understand how he could survive being so isolated. But she knew inside was someone who wanted something else; she'd seen the hint of it. That was the thing that got her. It wasn't like he was a prisoner; there was just a part of him that didn't thrive the way he was.

Letting her head fall back along the couch's back, she surveyed the peeling paint on the ceiling. He wasn't her problem—an unsolvable riddle, because he would never be anything other than he was.

It would be dangerous to go back to Canada, although she had liked it there. Eastern Russia was an option, but not one she relished.

A tiny noise alerted her. It was the noise of someone trying to be quiet. A normal person charged up the stairs of the building without a care. This was deliberate. Rushing to the window, she looked out but saw nothing unusual in the typical manic street life below. Opening the window, she scrambled up on the roof, the escape path she'd carefully planned. Her instincts told her something wasn't right and it never served her to doubt it. Running along, she jumped over to the next building where a staircase led down to a back alley.

Now it was time to get lost in the maze of tiny streets. Running through here was a danger, because it attracted attention, so she slowed down and forced herself to walk when she was far enough away to turn and survey the street she'd just come down. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but the hairs on the back of her neck refused to settle.

She was leaving town, would take the intercity bus somewhere, just move on and never look back. There was a passport and a stash of money in another location, placed there just for a situation like this. She'd never had to enact it before, but things just felt wrong. Maybe it was just her being jumpy and paranoid, but she wasn't going to double check herself. Paranoid was better than dead.

"Hello, Cassandra." Cold dread crept up her back, making her whole skin break out in goosebumps. It wasn't just some hence men, it was him. He'd come himself, which meant the game really was up. She couldn't take him. That wasn't even a question.

The point of his wand came up and dug into the tender skin of her neck and he stepped into view, dressed entirely in black as he usually was. How the hell had he found her, but maybe she shouldn't be surprise. Maybe it had always been inevitable.

Automatically, she pointed the blade she held in her hand to his gut.

He turned his head as if he was regarding her, not even a sign of concern in his eyes. "Do you think you have a chance?"

Of course she didn't. He knew how to heal, and the damage she would do to her would be far worse—fatal, in fact. It would end things quickly—but she didn't want to hurt him. Even now, when he was going to do some serious damage to her, she didn't want to hurt him. This whole thing was just fucked up, but it was still true.

"I think you and I need to have a little chat," he said, grabbing her by the neck and apparating them. A blink of an eye and a strike, and she slipped into dark unconsciousness.

-0-

Pain was what her mind registered first. Her temple ached. It was all she knew for a moment. Nausea assaulted her when she opened her eyes, seeing a parquetted floor. She tried to move her hands, but they wouldn't shift. Blinking to clear the fog, she tried to take inventory. Her hands were tied and she was standing, a pillar behind her.

Black shoes and pants came into view. He was here. A rush of adrenaline shot into her bloodstream and she looked up.

He stood a few feet away from her with his arms crossed. They were in the … ballroom at the Malfoy headquarters. They'd crossed the ocean while she'd been unconscious. No wonder she felt a little groggy.

"Now then, let's have that little chat, shall we?" he said quietly.

Cassandra bit her lips together, and his eyes moved to the lips, observing the action. He raised an eyebrow at the defiance.

"So, you woke up one morning and decided to run away? Somehow I don't think so. You're going to tell me the whole sordid tale."

Over her dead body, she said in her mind. The truth was something she would never admit.

He stepped closer and she could see every part of his face. His cold, gray eyes, the dark eyebrows, the haughty nose and the firm lips. As afraid as she was, she couldn't stop looking. She'd seen his face a million times in her mind the last three months and here he was, real, flesh and blood. It seemed unfathomable. She could see the pulse in his neck, the telltale sign there was a human being standing in front of her, but no part of that inner person that wished and wanted was on show now.

He shot a cruciatus curse at her and she screamed, her mind exploding in pain.

"Obviously Brazil was just somewhere to lie low," he said once she got her breath back.

Defiantly, she leaned back on the column behind her and silently defied him.

He smiled. "You will tell me absolutely everything in the end. So you might as well save both of our time."

It kind of felt ironic that he was the one torturing her. Everything about him was torture, sharp edges and pain, from the moment she'd fallen in love with him. Perhaps that was her just desserts, for being so utterly ridiculous. Could it really have ended any other way?

Another cruciatus curse hit her and again pain ripped her mind apart. It tired her out and her head hung down for a moment until she collected herself.

He was close, she could see down his body. He smelled spicy, an expensive cologne she recognized but hadn't noticed before. As awful as she was, she couldn't bring herself to hate him, and maybe she hated herself for that. "Maybe I should start on your fingers, take them one by one."

"You're a horrible person," she said, her voice rough.

"Yes, I am."