The King's Gold Read Online Free PDF Page A

cradle—and you had never been born—then today, the Morenos would still be one, big adorable family.”
    I had my back to the bookshelf, and my pulse rattled in my throat. Marco stepped very close to me. He was a good foot taller than I am, and he drew so near that I could smell the spice on his skin. I could also see the tears suddenly welling up in his black-shadowed eyes.
    My heart began beating irregularly. “Who are you?”
    A tear rolled down Marco’s face. He had turned very pale.
    “Oh, God.”
    “Yes, I suppose I’ve shown my hand, haven’t I?” he asked. “It’s a family trait. I can’t seem to control my grief.”
    “What are you—his—the colonel’s—”
    “I’m Victor’s only son, Lola.”
    The tears fled down his cheeks and, appalled, he wiped them off. The salt water clung to his hands, wet and shining. Flicking his wrist in disgust did not help, and he quickly resolved his conflict by putting his glistening fingers on my face and so anointed me.
    “Get away—get out of my place,” I barked.
    His hands were on my jaw and my throat, caressing my skin as he rubbed in the tears. “Oh, I will, but with you, of course. You little mongrel. You little bitch.” From the trembling of his mouth I saw that he was trying hard to master himself. “You should be happy that I’m inviting you along, Lola. I see now that Soto-Relada was right, about your value. In helping me find this gold. Yours was a nice little performance.” He squeaked out, in a tinny voice: “ ‘Versipellis, it’s Latin for skin-changer.’ Because if your wits had been a hair duller, then…well, I would have had to leave you in the same condition that you left my father.”
    I snatched the letter out of his grasp, kicked him, and ran past him, shrieking.
    “Help me! Someone help me!”
    But I am no natural sprinter, or fighter. Marco grabbed me brutally around the waist. We went tumbling down to the rugs on the floor, knocking over the table so its sherry bottle poured down in a red, staining splash, like blood. I madly scrambled away, holding up the letter to protect the pages from the wine. Marco snatched hold of my neck and yanked back, hard.
    “No!”
    “Blasej,” he barked.
    The redhead moved forward and with one lunge had me in his huge and bulbous arms. The blond had grown excitable from the violence and breathed hard while looking around for something to trash. He walked over to the bookshelves and began tearing the volumes out, throwing and gruesomely breaking three precious octavos against the walls.
    “Don’t hurt the books, you ass!” Marco hissed.
    The blond stopped, his arms hanging at his sides, and looked at the redhead.
    “Cool out,” Blasej said.
    The blond nodded. “Yeah, sorry, boss.”
    “Christ. Go get her passport, in her file cabinet—it’s probably in the back room.”
    “Okay.”
    “Get her up!”
    The redhead hauled me to my feet and half-carried, half-dragged me out into the street. It was twilight now, and Sunday. Since bookselling isn’t the most lucrative business, I had stationed the Red Lion in a barely trafficked, low-rent, dead-end road in an “up and coming” business district. This same street was thus empty of any possible good Samaritan as I was tossed into the backseat of a silver four-door Mercedes.
    “Help! Help!”
    Marco muffled my mouth and sat on me while I struggled.
    “Dammit. What a mess.” He surprisingly started to laugh. “Lola. Lo-la. My filthy little floozy. Calm down. It’ll be better that way. Look, I know I got upset, and we haven’t really gotten off on the right foot, and I want to snap your neck and everything—and might —but if you just listen to me, you’ll be begging to come along on this little vacation.” He turned his head to Blasej. “Or maybe I should just drug her?”
    I began to scream inside the car, and as all the windows were rolled up, my shrieks stabbed into our eardrums.
    “Ah, ah, help!”
    The men covered their