She clenched her teeth tighter and tried to hold back tears she did not want the detective to witness. Noah didn’t say anything else. Just dropped the hand from Jenna’s shoulder and turned away, moving briskly around the confined space Jenna had chosen to defend, making up a better bed for Ianira. That it was necessary only upset Jenna more, because she hadn’t done a good enough job of it, herself. The Latin-speaking teenager returned a few silent minutes later, bringing a first aid kit, a heavy satchel that wafted the scent of food when he lifted the flap, blankets piled over one shoulder, and a couple of stuffed toys, which he gave to Ianira’s daughters. The children grabbed hold of the shaggy, obviously home-made bears, and hugged them with all their little-girl strength. Jenna’s eyes stung, watching it. No child only three years old should ever look at the world through eyes that looked like that. And Artemisia’s sister was even younger, barely a year old. Barely walking, yet.
“We can’t stay here long,” Noah was saying, voice low. “They’ll be searching for her. We’ll have to smuggle her up into the hotel room Jenna’s reserved. We can hide there until the Britannia Gate opens.” The detective checked a wristwatch. “We won’t need to hide long. But we’ve got to outfit for the gate between now and then. And find a way to smuggle Ianira through.”
“Us,” Marcus said sharply. “We all go through.”
But Noah was shaking a head that ought to’ve gone grey by now, if the detective’s private life was anything like what they’d already lived through. “No. They’re going to send a death squad after us, Marcus. They’ll send somebody through every gate that opens during the next week, trying to get her. I won’t risk all of you anywhere in one group. Just in case the worst happens and the bastards who follow her through the gate do catch up.”