Just a reminder about seriously bad language ahead.

Ghosts That Haunt—35

Christmas with Riah's family was definitely different than it would have been had he spent it with his own family. For one, dinner was more formal than it was with his family, perhaps because at this point there were too many Caseys to insist on ceremony while Riah's immediate family was small—though he figured that given the threats against her and Victoria, the seven people in the room were probably the only ones willing to take the risk. For another, the interpersonal relationships within Riah's family were much muddier, more complex than those in his family, so Casey decided to approach it from a sociological perspective. They were a group with their own rules, language, symbols, and ceremonial traditions, and he was an outsider studying them in the closest thing to their natural habitat.

It was either that or treat them as a subversive group who needed to be subdued or possibly eliminated.

He also had a whole new appreciation for why Riah was so uncomfortable with family celebrations. In part it was Ariel and the deference she demanded. In part it was how Riah flinched or visibly withdrew every time her parents looked or sounded like they even remotely disagreed with one another and the possible argument appeared as though it might escalate. Emma, bless her, tried to be the peacemaker while MacKenzie was simply there, occupied space and tried to remain out of the line of fire.

Then again, Riah had once admitted the man had used her in a research study, had wanted to again, so MacKenzie might be making a covert study of his own.

On the other hand, Casey understood MacKenzie's low-key presence completely. After all, other than taking Riah's hand, slipping an arm around her when she looked like she might unravel, Casey also tried to keep his head down and not draw any enemy fire. That was made more difficult when Emma handed out the presents beneath the tree.

Despite their argument over who should have paid for her engagement ring, Riah really hadn't flaunted her wealth. She obviously was able to buy what she wished, but she was clearly not into the art of shopping or concerned with conspicuous consumption. It was one of the things he liked about her. Her mother, on the other hand, provided presents for Victoria that in terms of expense and number made Casey wonder what she thought a baby who was only a month and half old—who spent most of her time sleeping, eating, or simply observing her surroundings—would do with the mound of things that could have allowed them to open a baby store.

It would be a miracle if Victoria was able to wear even half the clothes her mother unwrapped before she outgrew them, and it would be months if not a year or more before she could play with many of the toys. It was the jewelry, though, that had him clenching his jaw so tightly that he considered a new definition for lockjaw since he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to loosen it up again. Riah had gently asked her mother why she'd bought the earrings, the bracelets with semi-precious stones, and the two necklaces, and Casey, who was used to listening to nuances in voices heard the appalled note others might not suspect from her calm expression and relatively flat tone. Ariel, obviously startled that anyone would question her choice of gifts for her granddaughter, said, "It's never too early to start building a collection."

Casey considered starting a collection—heads, with Ariel's the first on his list of acquisitions. He was, though, grimly amused when Riah said under her breath, "Great. Now our daughter needs a safety deposit box."

It was obscene, he reflected as he stared at a pile of expensive presents Victoria was far too young to appreciate. The amount Ariel had spent on his daughter could have supported the kids he'd seen in third-world villages for months if not years—and that was before adding in the gifts from his own family, V. H., Emma, and Riah and Casey. Riah had threatened to freeze his bank accounts if he overindulged Victoria, and he understood a little better why. He also suspected Ariel might have tried to buy forgiveness and affection from her daughter with this display of largesse.

Then, when he saw what she gave her own daughter, he wondered if he underestimated her.

Riah had told him her mother usually gave her a nightgown for Christmas, but when she was handed the package from her mother, it was obviously not a nightgown. Casey whispered in her ear, "Has your father been telling your mother not to give you anything that makes me want to undress you?"

She blushed, whispered back, "She was horrified by what I bought for our wedding night," as she shifted the large, flat, rectangular package so she could open it. He recognized the woman in the painting immediately. Ariel had been a stunning woman—still was, whether he liked admitting it or not—when she was young. His snide thought about her obvious vanity for giving her daughter a portrait of herself died when he looked at the child in the painting with her.

He knew Riah's maternal grandmother had been a painter—a well-known one at that—and the painting Riah held was obviously her work. Ariel had always admitted her entrance into music had been smoothed by her mother's connections. Elizabeth Taylor had used her maiden name he'd read once, signed her paintings Elizabeth Anderson, and the stylized signature was there in the left hand corner. Her work was distinctive, and even though her style was impressionistic, she used bold colors rather than the more subdued ones Casey was used to seeing in many paintings of that style.

The child had to be Riah. There was a possibility it was Emma, he supposed, but he was pretty sure it was Riah. She looked about three or four, and her pale blonde hair swung forward along her jaw. She wore a vivid blue dress and tennis shoes nearly the same color. Ariel looked quite young on the canvas as she sat smiling at the little girl who held a tiny, delicate tea cup for her teddy bear. They sat on a quilt in the grass surrounded by trees and flowers.

"I thought you might like to have it," Ariel said, and Casey thought he caught a hint of embarrassment.

"I don't remember this," Riah said, and Casey squeezed her hip. She looked a little like she wanted to cry.

Her mother smiled. "I don't think you ever saw it. Your grandmother never showed it, and even I only saw it after she died."

"Thank you," Riah said barely above a whisper. Casey looked at her, wondered if it was the painting's subject that had her sounding that way or if it was the staggering value the painting would have if she ever chose to sell it. "I still have the tea set," she added, her voice a little stronger, a little louder. "It's in Ottawa."

V. H. bent and looked. "That looks our garden in Toronto," he said quietly. "The two of you used to do that for hours." He gave Riah a crooked grin. "You ruined more teddy bears than I can count. Your mother used to joke that she would have to buy the company that made them to make sure the day didn't come when she couldn't replace the stained ones."

Once more, Casey was reminded that his wife came from a world very different than his own. Riah lifted her brows. "It never occurred to you that most mothers didn't put real tea in the pot?"

Her mother laughed. "I tried that, but you threw a fit. V. H.'s mother had always given you cold tea, and you had come to expect it."

"Then it didn't occur to you to simply wash the bears?"

Casey could tell by Ariel's expression that it had, actually, never occurred to her.

His wife saved Casey's present for last. She undid the paper, opened the velvet box inside, and stared at the sapphire pendant it held. The stone was a good match for the ones in the bracelet his mother had given her on their wedding day. It was a simple setting, hidden gold holding the oval stone that was about the size of her thumbnail strung on a gold chain. Riah kissed him a promise, one he really liked and made her father groan miserably.

He was baffled by the first package he opened from her. It contained dark plaid fabric, and when he lifted it, it was a skirt. He frowned at her, and she laughed. He cocked a brow and ground out, "I'm not wearing a damned skirt."

Emma laughed, too, and said, "It's a kilt, but I don't recognize the tartan."

"It's the US Marine Corps tartan," Riah said with a broad grin. There was a light in her eyes that raised his suspicions when she handed him a small box. "This goes with it."

Inside was a gold and silver pin, and the emblem attached to the pin's sword was easily recognizable as the Marine Corps' eagle, globe and anchor. "Kilt pin," she told him, and then leaned in and whispered, "You definitely have the legs for it."

"Not wearing it," he insisted again, but he was amused, wondered if the Corps really had a tartan and the kilt was legit.

"Not even for me?" she asked in a low voice that didn't beg but held a note that made him think he might—once, in their bedroom with no cameras anywhere as long as she took it off as soon as he got it on.

There was a third box, this one long and rectangular with some weight to it. Inside was a 1936 Winchester Model 70. He ran a lustful hand over the stock. The Marine Corps had used them as sniper rifles after World War II began, and they were considered one of the best guns ever made. He stroked the barrel, fingered the bolt action, and then he kissed his wife a promise of his own. Riah murmured, "I considered a Purdey shotgun, but I figured you'd be angry since you'd have to go to London and be fitted for it, and we could buy a house for what it costs."

Casey knew what she'd given him wasn't cheap, but he'd far rather have it than a gun too pretty to use. Despite the fact this one was practically a museum piece, he planned to use it at least once, anyway, to see if it lived up to its reputation.

When he was able to deliver on that kiss, it was late, and she was tired. So was he, but not too tired, especially since that thing she'd bought for their wedding night made a surprise reappearance. He had a whole new appreciation of what it did for her—him, too.

Unlike the night before when she had attacked him, he chose the opposite route, slow, gentle, and very, very thorough. She seemed quite content to match his chosen pace, mirrored some of his movements, and when he pulled her close afterward, she snuggled into him, her head on his shoulder and their legs still tangled.

Then he remembered her early morning promise. "You were supposed to show me what I taught you," he reminded her.

She tilted her head up, smiled sleepily. "Are you saying you didn't like that?"

"Didn't say that," he rumbled.

Riah breathed in deeply and let it sigh out slowly. "If you let me get a little sleep, I'll be happy to show you a few things I've learned since I've known you."

From the sound of her reply, he figured she was on her way to sleep, and given neither of them had had much sleep the night before, he was willing to let her make the trip, though he did add, "I thought the deal was for things I taught you."

"That, too," she promised and settled in to sleep.

-X-

Among the things her father had insisted on when she was a child, was a silent alarm system for the house, which was why she knew what was going on when the bedroom lights lit and a small, red light on the wall opposite flashed on and off. She sat up, momentarily terrified. As she came more fully awake, she realized that the lights had not lit in the part of the master suite on the other side of the half walls from her bed where she had set up Victoria's crib. Nor had her daughter awakened. She didn't know whether to worry more about that or about the probable reason the alarm triggered: Someone had made it past her father's men and broken into the house.

John sat up as well, instantly awake, and grabbed his weapon, demanded to know what was going on. He took one look at her face and said, "Get some clothes on and get Victoria."

Her hands shook so badly she could barely get the long-sleeved shirt over her head and pull on the jeans she found in the first drawer she opened. John pulled on a black t-shirt and jeans before yanking on shoes. Mariah didn't bother with shoes; instead, she pulled the locked gun case out of the bottom nightstand drawer and retrieved her own weapon before she stuffed extra ammunition in her pockets. John watched her even as he hunted and found another gun in his luggage.

"There's a safe room in the basement," she told him as she checked her weapon.

John's phone buzzed, and he looked at the message. "Your dad says your mother and the others are already there, but we're cut off." He looked at her across the bed. "Get Victoria. We'll need to improvise."

When John headed out the door, she took a minute to think. Her closet was a walk-in, huge, and there was a storage chest for linens that had come from her great grandmother. It was the size of a large freezer. She could make enough room for her and Victoria, prop the lid slightly to make sure they could breathe and hope no one looked too closely for them. She quickly shifted the contents and then returned to the bedroom.

She started toward Victoria's crib, but the bedroom door opened before she could get there. There were three of them, and to make matters worse, she recognized the one in back. That meant they had not only managed to get past her father's men, but they had managed to get past John and her father. She reminded herself that she hadn't heard gunshots, and the guns John had left with hadn't been fitted with silencers. She lifted her own weapon and trained it on the third man rather than one of the ones who

were actually armed. That didn't stop the man in the doorway, though.

"Hello, darlin'."

Mariah locked her limbs, refused to give him the satisfaction of letting him see her shake. She was shaking all too well on the inside. The problem was, it was just dark enough in the sitting area where he and the others stood to remind her of Edmonton, where they had met, and that made it that much harder.

The two who were armed fanned out, but Mariah kept her weapon trained on the man now leaning against the doorjamb. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" he asked.

He wasn't her friend, and she considered shooting him on principle. Her finger refused to cooperate, though.

As she watched, he pushed away from the door and strolled toward her. She wondered where John and her father were. One of the men had managed to work his way behind her, and he put his gun to her temple. "Drop it," he told her.

She flicked the safety on and slowly moved her hands apart, bent carefully down, and placed the handgun onto the thick rug. The man holding the gun to her head kicked it to the side as he jerked her upright once more.

The unarmed man leaned over Victoria's crib, but Mariah's throat was frozen and she couldn't get out the words to tell him to leave her daughter alone. That was only partly because she felt the tightness start in her chest, felt the air refuse to fill her lungs.

Mariah should have shot him while she had the chance. John would have.

Then she worried about her husband, hoped, since she hadn't heard any shots, he'd managed to get safely to the rest of her family. Her lungs froze. She hoped they all got out of this unharmed and alive, but as she met the man from Edmonton's cold stare, she knew she wasn't getting out of this unharmed—probably not alive, either.

Strangely, that was kind of liberating, and the air came again, though her body remained tense and her breathing wasn't free. She wanted that man away from her daughter. She wondered how to change his focus from Victoria to her.

"Sound sleeper you've got there," he said, looking up at her as he took his hands out of his pockets where he'd shoved them when he leaned against the door frame. "Maybe we won't have to drug her to keep her quiet."

And with those words, she was back in her childhood, back in the nightmare of being taken in the dark, drugged, held captive and tortured. She made herself not think of that, forced herself to focus on the man watching her daughter, and she resolved that no matter what they might do to her, they were not going to take Victoria.

Oddly, that helped her pull herself together a bit more, and she began running through possibilities. She started forward when he reached into the crib for her daughter, but the man behind her grabbed her. Mariah's training kicked in. One of the first things she had learned—long before the Institute—was how to escape from someone who grabbed her from behind. She did so quickly, efficiently, and with maximum pain to the man who had grabbed her.

She expected him to grab her again, but the man in front of her signaled him to back off.

"Now, darlin', I really wish you hadn't done that," said the one who had done all the talking so far. Mariah found herself staring at the silencer on the end of the weapon he drew. She re-evaluated the possible safety of her family. "If you'd just cooperated, this could have been quite painless for you. We'd have let you come along and take care of the kid. Now, I'm afraid, we might have to kill you."

He raised the gun, steadied his hand and sighted down the barrel of his weapon. She tried to seize on that might, but the longer she met his gaze, the more certain she was that that was exactly what he wanted her to do. He had never intended her to survive this, to go with them. He had only been there for Victoria.

It was odd to her that what she thought about with that realization was John and all the trouble she had caused him. She would have thought it would be Victoria she thought of, perhaps her parents or Emma. There was no life flashing before her eyes; there was simply frigid terror holding her body frozen and thoughts of John.

She heard a gunshot downstairs, and the man who held her daughter told the other two men in a flat voice without taking his eyes from hers, "Go kill her husband."

Mariah's fears shifted. She waited until the men were gone to say, "Since you're going to kill me," and she was surprised that her voice was relatively steady, "you could at least tell me what this is about."

"Well, darlin'," he drawled, "I think you know."

An eerie kind of calm settled over her, and Mariah was aware of thinking two things simultaneously: if she kept him talking, it gave John time to get to them, and if she kept him talking, she stayed alive that much longer.

"Humor me," she said.

"My friends tell me genetics may play an interesting role in the Intersect," he told her. "You were able to do it, so the chances are good this little one can, too."

Mariah was lightheaded, though she had known this was at the root of why they were after them. She jumped a little when she heard a crash below. "But I wasn't able to do it," she said quietly. Her ears strained to pick up sounds from the rest of the house.

"No, you were." He gave her a cold smile. "It was right kind of you to isolate yourselves this way," he told her. "We really should have moved before your dad and Colonel Casey turned up, but it seemed a kindness to let you spend one Christmas together before we took her."

It was nothing of the sort, she nearly snapped. She had no intention of letting him take her daughter. Instead, she cocked a brow and asked coldly, "Am I supposed to thank you for that?"

He gave her a lazy grin. "Well, now, that would be up to you."

Mariah saw movement from the corner of her eye, but she didn't look to see what it was. It was human, and it had darted through the open door from the hallway. If it was John, she didn't want to alert the man in front of her, and if it was one of his men, it would do her no good. She did, though, decide keeping him talking would be in her best interests. "I won't, you know," she assured him, "but I am curious as to why you're taking an active role here when you were decidedly hands off in Edmonton."

"Nice try," he told her. She met his flat gaze. "Laurance was an idiot. What happened there should never have gone down the way it did. Be thankful we decided to be more direct this time."

Her teeth ground together, and her voice was tight when she said, "You'll have to forgive me if I'm not grateful."

She kept her eyes off her father creeping up behind the man who held her daughter. Because she had stayed focused on the man aiming a weapon at her, she wasn't sure what had happened to his men, though she hoped what she had seen from the corner of her eye had been John because it increased the probability her family was fine and this man wouldn't remain free to do this again.

"Mariah," her father said calmly as he pressed his gun into the back of the man's skull, "take Victoria."

She was frozen, though, because she saw the man begin to flex his finger on the trigger of the weapon pointed at her forehead.

Her husband's quiet, deadly voice came from the right: "Do as your father says."

It wasn't that she didn't want to. She simply couldn't move. She felt lightheaded. She didn't think she could do it, but then Victoria finally decided to protest being held by a stranger. It took all she had to reach forward and take her daughter from the man in front of her despite a deep-seated desire to snatch her from him. He flashed another smile and put his hands up. Her father took his gun, and Mariah collapsed to the floor. Victoria began to scream, probably because Mariah squeezed her far more tightly than she should as she clung to her daughter and tried to breathe.

-X-

When he left the bedroom, Casey found V. H. easily. The man ran toward him along the hallway leading to the other end of the open gallery. They each stopped, put their backs to walls and eased to look down at the living room below. Casey considered the house's now-obvious design flaw as his eyes shot back to V. H. There were three men below. He'd been careful not to let Riah see it, but he slipped a silencer from his pocket and screwed it onto his SIG. He shot the first one to step onto the stairs, and then he shot the other two.

V. H. waved him across, and he darted into the open and across to the hall where the other man waited.

"Mariah?"

Casey said, "Getting Victoria."

There were stairs at the other end of the hall, and they moved quickly to them. Adderly quietly explained that the safe room was at the bottom. Casey considered going back for his wife and daughter, but they met another bad guy. Casey saved his bullets, in part because he wanted badly to hit something. It took two swings to put the goon down, and he secured the man with the zip tie V. H. handed him. They left him inside one of the bedrooms, and V. H. radioed his men where the bad guy was.

At the bottom of the stairs, Casey noticed they were underground. He didn't look at the huge collection of wine. Instead, he proceeded slowly, looked for intruders through the murky light of the cellar while he and V. H. made their way to the safe room. V. H. put in a code, and the door no sooner opened than Ariel gave Casey a hostile glare and demanded, "Where are Mariah and Victoria?"

Since he couldn't answer the question, he ignored it. About to tell V. H. he was going back after them, he caught movement. Tersely, he told V. H., "Bogey."

"Not one of mine," V. H. answered and then told Riah's family. "Stay here. Don't open the door for anyone," before he closed them in again.

This time, they were shot at, and Casey shot back, killed the man instantly.

V. H. didn't pretend to be upset, simply toed the corpse and said, "We'd better go to Mariah."

They met two thugs coming down the stairs. Casey and V. H. had just hit the landing on the first floor. They ran toward the kitchen, drew the two men after them. Amazing, Casey thought, what a cast-iron griddle swung with full-force could do to a man's face. Curious, he looked at the man where he lay unconscious and wondered how long the lines the grill side had embedded in the man's skin would last.

V. H. had taken the other one down, and they left them there, made their way upstairs. Casey worried even more when he recognized the voice coming from the bedroom he and Riah shared.

Finley had found her.

Casey went in first after he saw that only Riah, Victoria, and Finley were inside. At least he hoped they were the only ones inside. It was possible someone crouched behind the half walls separating the part of the large space where the bed was from the sitting room where Riah had put Victoria's crib. Someone could be lurking in the closet or the large bathroom, too, for that matter.

He thought Riah had seen him, and he eased around to the left. His wife kept her eyes on the man holding his daughter, and Casey's temper ticked up that Finley had dared to even touch Victoria. He stepped on something, took a quick look down, and saw Riah's Glock on the rug.

V. H. moved silently behind Finley, and Casey moved further into position after he picked up the Glock. He spared a long glance at Riah. She looked on the edge, but so far she was holding it together. The fact that she kept Finley talking helped hide any noise he or V. H. might make.

He really hated that he had to agree with the man that Laurance was an idiot, and Casey debated whether or not his finger would "slip" or whether he would allow the man to be taken alive so he could join Laurance, compare notes. His choice was to kill the man and hope no one else had to learn about the Montreal Project or his wife. He had a feeling, though, that the information they had taken had already worked its way up the Ring's food chain.

V. H. finally pressed the muzzle of his gun against the back of the man's skull. It was a risky move, Casey knew, since the man could choose to risk the bullet or could get lucky and do damage that meant V. H. went down or at least lost his weapon. Casey listened as Riah's father told her to take Victoria.

Despite keeping his eyes locked on Finley, he could tell Riah might not have heard her father. Her body was rigid, and Casey tensed his finger on his trigger as he saw Finley reflexively do the same. He would put the animal down before her father got the chance if he shot Riah, but given the man had his gun aimed at her forehead, chances were good the man would kill her.

When Riah did nothing, though, he told her, "Do as your father says."

For a moment, he thought she might faint, and he suspected it was only as Victoria began to warm up to full wail that she snapped out of whatever scary place she had gone and finally reached out and took their daughter. Casey remained on point, held his SIG steady and pointed at Finley where it would definitely kill him if he had to fire. He knew Riah was still at risk, Victoria, too. He didn't relax until the man apparently decided to put his hands up. Casey watched V. H. take his gun and step back, ordered him on his knees, and Casey kept his weapon trained on Finley even though what he really wanted was to scoop up his family and move them as far away from the man as he could.

It was only after V. H. had the man restrained and two of his operatives arrived that Casey lowered the SIG and went to Riah.

He could hear it, the rasp for breath over Victoria's cries. He debated taking his daughter, but it was obvious her mother's arms were locked tightly enough around the baby he was afraid they might hurt Victoria if he tried. "Breathe, honey," he said as he knelt next to Riah. "I need you to breathe." Her face turned to his, and he could see it, the terror, and something else, something a little like relief, but what worried him more was that wheeze as she fought to relax and simply breathe.

Someone had apparently let Riah's family out of the safe room since Ariel sailed in followed by Emma. Riah's mother turned on V. H. and chewed him out for locking them in. Given her volume, Casey couldn't have ignored her tirade about changed security codes and how dare V. H. do that to her if he'd wanted.

Casey sat next to his wife and wrapped an arm around her, leaned her into him. Riah simply went even stiffer than she'd already been, though he was pretty certain it was the argument her parents engaged in and not that he had touched her that caused it. The wheezing stopped, and she seemed completely unable to get a single bit of air in her lungs. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, and he was afraid she'd actually suffocate. As a result, he glared at Ariel and bit succinctly, "Shut the fuck up, Ariel. For once in your goddamned life, just shut the fuck up!"

He turned his attention back to Riah, reminded her softly to breathe, grateful that the room was silent for a few moments in the wake of that. V. H. dragged his ex out, and Casey could hear the argument pick up again, though he couldn't hear the words.

When Emma knelt in front of them, she told her sister gently, "Mariah, let me take Victoria."

The baby's screams increased as Riah's arms tightened even more. "Let Emma take her," he echoed. "Victoria needs you to let her go so she can breathe, too."

That sank in, he guessed, since her arms loosened a bit, and she let Emma take their daughter. He nodded thanks at the girl and then turned his attention back to Riah. "You need to breathe," he told her calmly. "You need to relax so you can breathe."

He narrowed his eyes at Ben MacKenzie when the other man took Emma's place. He watched closely as the man checked her pulse and her breathing. "I think we should sedate her," he told Casey.

His eyes narrowed. That seemed to be Ariel and MacKenzie's answer to everything concerning Riah, and Casey wondered if she'd spent part of her childhood in a stupor so that she wasn't a problem. "No."

MacKenzie was going to argue, and Casey's temper went hotter. Before the other man could repeat or explain, Casey made an explanation of his own. "She nurses Victoria, and unless you can assure me the drugs won't find their way to our daughter, you're not putting them in her."

Riah's body softened a fraction, so Casey knew she heard. It might simply have been that her terror of needles had been eased by his refusal to let MacKenzie use one.

"She can't breathe, Casey," the other man tried.

"Ten minutes," Casey shot back. "The average attack lasts ten minutes according to most studies." Furious, he admitted, even if only to himself, that he'd read that research, but it still irritated him to sound like some idiot who lived in a library. It felt to him as though she'd been gasping for ten times that long, and he seriously hoped they were nearing the end of that window. Her fingers dug into his bicep, but he ignored the pain, kept his eyes locked on her stepfather.

The only sounds were those of Victoria crying, Emma trying to soothe her, and Riah desperately trying to draw air.

MacKenzie frowned, shook his head and stood, walked toward the door. As he watched him go, Casey felt Riah relax a little more, heard her breathing ease a fraction. He murmured to her as he got her to her feet before he practically dragged her to the end of the bed. He sat, drew her into his lap, and listened to Emma try and calm Victoria even as he tried to do the same for his wife. The moment finally came when he heard her draw a relatively normal breath, and she buried her face in his neck as her arms went around him.

Only then did he consider that he should have been helping V. H.'s men make sure the idiots they'd subdued were under lock and key.

Riah pushed away from him, but he tightened his own arms around her. She looked ill, and she whispered breathlessly, "Victoria?"

He looked. Emma had walked her out of the room, and he was about to call out, but Ariel came in with her. Victoria still fretted, but her screaming had stopped. Casey eased Riah a little further away, and her mother handed her their daughter with a curt, "She's hungry."

Riah wearily closed her eyes. He was certain she felt as exhausted as she looked. He considered telling Ariel again to shut up, but when he looked up at her furious face, he decided not to risk setting Riah off again. He was not going to apologize, no matter how much Ariel likely thought he should.

Victoria seemed equally tired, but she still cried. Riah began to slowly lift her shirt so she could nurse her.

For his part, Casey gave Ariel a hard stare that told her to get the hell out. She crossed her arms and told her daughter, "You need to start keeping some bottles for her."

Riah leaned into Casey and turned her face back into his neck. "Get out," he said, though without the vitriol he really wanted to use.

To his surprise, Ariel did, and he was glad she closed the door when she did so.

"Don't let me go," Riah whispered.

"Never," he promised.

When Victoria finished, he took her from Riah, who slid off his lap onto the bed. He rubbed his daughter's back and watched his wife. "If you're about to say you hate Christmas," he began, remembered her words after her last birthday, "technically this isn't Christmas."

"I don't want to stay here," she told him as she righted her shirt.

He would insist, despite the fact they'd caught Finley and his men, that V. H. have time to put security measures in place before they left, so he picked his words carefully, especially since he felt the same. "We should wait for daylight."

She lay back on the mattress and the disturbed bedcovers, closed her eyes. "Let's at least sleep in a different room."

After he changed Victoria, he put her beside Riah and went to clean his hands. When he returned, he lay down beside them. "Are there any unoccupied bedrooms?" he asked. The master suite was the only one on this side of the open gallery that bisected the second story.

"If Mum's not sleeping in Ben or Emma's room, there isn't up here, but there's a housekeeper's room downstairs."

Rolling closer, he slid a hand on her hip. She lay on her side facing him with Victoria between them. "What will you need?"

"You," she said. Then she frowned and sighed, "Victoria's things."

He gathered what she told him, stuck them in Victoria's diaper bag and helped Riah up. They went to the hall across from them, and Riah made her way to the room closest to the stairs Casey and V. H. had taken earlier. She knocked softly on the door, and when no one answered, she opened it.

"This is my old room," she told him softly as she closed the door behind him. The walls were a pale purplish color, and the room was dominated by a full-bed. It was a modern take on a four-poster, black iron with white bedding. Not a thing marked that she'd ever lived in this room. Come to think of it, there'd been nothing in the master suite to make it hers, either. It struck Casey that the house was more like a series of hotel rooms or a rented cabin. Nice, homey features, but nothing revealed anything about the owner.

Riah wilted before his eyes. She turned, looked around.

"What?" he asked.

"There's nowhere for her to sleep."

Casey was not dismantling and moving her crib. It was nearing dawn, and Riah needed sleep—so did he. He looked around, focused on a deep drawer in her dresser. He walked over, pulled it out enough to see if it was empty, and when he saw it was, he removed it from the dresser. He walked it to Riah's side of the bed, set it on the floor, and then he looked in her closet, took out a quilt and a couple of blankets. She stood near the door and watched him make a nest inside the drawer for Victoria. "Not ideal," he admitted, "but it'll do for a few hours."

Their daughter had apparently worn herself out earlier because when Casey took her from her mother, she was sound asleep. She didn't wake when he settled her in the drawer, either.

Returning to Riah, he drew her to the bed, undressed her, and put her between the crisp, white sheets. He stripped and joined her. He was a little surprised she couldn't settle in, though. She moved restlessly against him, clung to him, and he let her, held her, and waited to see if she'd go to sleep or decide to talk.

"I'm going to sell this house," she said quietly about the time he decided she might have slipped into sleep.

"It's your house," he said, kept his tone neutral, though he wondered if she might change her mind when the shock of having it invaded wore off.

Babble to rival Bartowski started then: "I'm never here," she said, "and it's too big for just me, anyway. Us. It's too big for us," she corrected. "I doubt your work is ever going to put us in Newfoundland often or for very long, so it doesn't make sense to keep a house here. I guess it would make more sense to find a place in St. John's if we were going to spend time here, but I don't want this house."

As she continued to ramble about selling the house, Casey wondered first what her mother would think if she did so. Next, he remembered how he had stopped a similar case of babble once before and wondered if the same tactic might not calm her down. Shifting closer, he cupped her cheek, and her words stopped. He leaned in, kissed her. "Do whatever makes you happy," he told her, "but don't make a decision you might come to regret just yet."

"I just want this to stop," she said, but her whisper still sounded like a wail.

He kissed her forehead, certain they were getting to what really troubled her. "With any luck, it will now."

"I want this out of my head," she told him.

He breathed in, thought. Bartowski's father had done that for Chuck, but that had been Stephen Bartowski's design. He wondered if ISI had lost their records or if someone had just stolen copies. He'd talk to V. H. in the morning, insist that the elder Bartowski be allowed to look at the designs for whatever the Canadians had done to Riah. He was certain the man could do what she wanted, but he knew the Canadians would have to cooperate.

"I don't want Victoria to be in danger, John," she said.

"Agreed." He had a feeling she wouldn't be the cause of that, that people would make their daughter a target as much because of him as because of Riah. He couldn't promise they'd be safe, though, so he didn't. "You need sleep, Riah," he rumbled.

Her hand stroked his cheek, and then her thumb glided lightly over his lower lip. He settled her a little closer. "Love me, John."

He accepted her invitation, did as she asked, and afterward, he lay awake, listened to her even breathing as she slept, and wondered how to take the targets permanently off his family.