Savard clipped his shin on the corner of his coffee table and cursed, but continued pacing the length of his small apartment.
And fuming.
Delphine Claudel had not shown for their meeting. He’d waited well over an hour before realizing he’d been stood up. Two subsequent phone calls to Madame Claudel’s apartment went unanswered. By the time he’d hung up on the second call, he’d realized he’d been suckered.
Jack Luckett had alerted Solange and her granddaughter not to trust him. Of course, he could counter Luckett by maintaining he’d told Delphine the truth. He spoke buckets overflowing with fake sincerity every day.
But showing up at their home unannounced would only solidify Luckett’s claim. Solange wielded too much power, and he refused to lose the Council’s support.
Not now. Not ever.
He crossed to the bar cart near his balcony, poured a third whiskey into a cut crystal glass, and then stepped onto the terrace.
The city air blew hot and did nothing to calm his frustration. His heart raced almost as fast as his brain. He’d either combust or devise a new plan to capture the oracle.
Capture without Vipond’s knowledge. The chancellor—his chancellor—could no longer be trusted. And he’d prove that to the Council, once he’d garnered enough information to redirect the entire Society.
Then dishonorably booting Jack Luckett out of power would be easy.
Luckett’s admonishment of his perfectly logical plan to extract information from the unwilling oracle burned holes in his brain. Holes he filled with resentment and a driving need for revenge.
How dare that American upstart and his entire crew of misfits think they could exert control of the French Council? Or at least over Vipond.
But not over him.
Hell Runners needed to get back on track. Souls in dire need to be saved endured torture somewhere below the void of the First Ring. Baalberith must be located and destroyed. Swift too, as far as Savard was concerned. Demons are the enemy and so are their sons.
They needed the mind of the oracle. Unwilling, what choice remained beside force? The Council would see that once he produced viable information.
A pleasant thought enticed a grin to smooth away his bitter frown.
If he was promoted in the process, all the better. The Society lacked strong, fearless leadership. Apparent by the way the Americans ran roughshod over the rules.
Thanks to Jack’s misfits, the First Ring of Hell closed. Disappeared.
So had Jack Luckett.
Savard frowned again and went inside with his drink to check his computer.
At first, when Luckett announced his return to Philadelphia this afternoon, he didn’t think anything of it. In fact, he’d struggled not to show he’d been overjoyed. With the American chancellor out of the picture, he’d have no interference with the oracle.
Then the oracle didn’t show.
Coincidences were as mythical as unicorns and honest men.
He sat in his ergonomically designed chair and tapped the keyboard sitting on the glass-topped desk. His email account lit up with one line darker than the rest.
Herbert, the company liaison providing their private jets, responded to his late-night plea requesting a report of all company arrivals and departures with passenger manifests over the last twenty-four hours. Of course, he’d threaten the man with loss of his job if he didn’t cooperate within the hour. As the Society’s chief financial officer, he negotiated all contracts. If he even dared insinuate customer service caused a loss of their business, the man would be fired. Instantly.
He clicked on the email and read.
Jack Luckett departed for Philadelphia at 2:00 p.m. Alone.
Not what Savard expected to see. He downed the rest of his whiskey.
Though worn out, he couldn’t sleep—wouldn’t sleep—without a lead on the oracle.
But where to start.
He poured another drink, sipped, and pondered. His computer pinged.
Another email from Herbert. More flights?
He clicked.
Read.
Read it again and then grinned so hard his cheeks ached.