Chameleon by Cidney Swanson Read Free Book Online
Authors: Cidney Swanson
my–neck–got–tired.
I closed the book, nestling it into my bag. I closed my eyes upon the image of Will’s form surrounding mine. Aching, wishing, breathing in the clean–washed scent of Will’s hair, I wandered at last into sleep.
Excerpted from the private journal of Helga Gottlieb, circa present day
The time is ripe! The girl will be mine.
Hans has warned me that should some accident befall the girl, Father’s retribution would be swift. I do not doubt that Father would kill me. As surely as he employed me to kill others of his children, he would employ one of them to dispatch me.
But only if he knew!
From this will come my triumph: I need not take the child from her sleepy home town. Oh, not at all! She travels to France! A mishap in France, while dutiful Helga works in her laboratory in California—such a thing could not be linked to me. I shall send Ivanovich for the girl. I trust no one else.
Oh, Father, I shall best you! Hans, you, too, shall bow before me in time. In the establishment of a New Race of Man, I shall be victorious.
To the victor go the spoils!
Chapter Eight
FRANCE
I woke to the sound of someone pounding on my door. My dad, I thought blearily as my eyes tried to make the darkened room resemble my bedroom.
Then I sat up, remembering I was in France— in France!
As I pulled socks and boots back on my feet, the door–pounding recommenced. I grabbed my bag and threw open the door.
“Never open a door if you don’t know who is on the other side,” barked Mickie, glaring at me. “Can you be ready in two minutes? We all overslept. Madame Evans is taking the group to the castle now. ”
“Sure,” I said, grabbing my jacket and bag.
I rubbed my eyes and recalled yesterday’s travel. Or was it today’s? The journey from San Francisco to Paris had wearied us. The train to Tours and bus to Chenonceaux remained only a blur of jostlings and legs that fell asleep, hands that cramped clutching suitcase handles.
Sir Walter had suggested giving us twenty–four hours to acclimate before meeting him, and now I understood why. My eyes saw bright daylight, but my body protested it was only 3:00 in the morning in California.
Our connection with Sir Walter had proven a useful one for the French Club. Mickie’s “rich uncle” would be our host family— well, host person— for a three–day home–stay where we would be sent off in pairs to experience the holidays with French families at the end of our two–week trip.
Sir Walter had also secured discounted group lodging for our first several days during a season when many hotels closed. Although apparently he didn’t think much of elevators. Upon our arrival at the Hôtel de Rose , Chenonceaux, we hauled our bags up endless, narrow flights of stairs. I silently thanked Dad for making me pack light. Mick had her own room.
“The size of a half–bath,” she whispered to Will and me as we sat in a group meeting designed to inform us that we were in France where the spoken language was French. We also received a lesson on currency and an envelope apiece with one lunch’s–worth of Euros. Finally, we heard that we had the next two hours free until 1:00 PM when we would walk as a group to the Château de Chenonceau, the first of our Loire Valley castle–tours.
“I know what I’m doing with my two hours,” said Will. “Sleeping.”
“Wrong,” said Mickie. “You’re asking the French–speaking desk clerk if there are any messages from our uncle.”
Will grunted in discontent, but shuffled from the small breakfast room into the lobby where he asked, in passable French, if there were any messages.
“ Non, monsieur ,” was an answer even Mickie could understand, and the three of us hiked up to our respective rooms.
That had been my first morning in France.
Now that it was afternoon, I finally felt awake. And hungry. My stomach demanded breakfast. Downstairs, Will had scored some croissants from a bakery next door to the
I closed the book, nestling it into my bag. I closed my eyes upon the image of Will’s form surrounding mine. Aching, wishing, breathing in the clean–washed scent of Will’s hair, I wandered at last into sleep.
Excerpted from the private journal of Helga Gottlieb, circa present day
The time is ripe! The girl will be mine.
Hans has warned me that should some accident befall the girl, Father’s retribution would be swift. I do not doubt that Father would kill me. As surely as he employed me to kill others of his children, he would employ one of them to dispatch me.
But only if he knew!
From this will come my triumph: I need not take the child from her sleepy home town. Oh, not at all! She travels to France! A mishap in France, while dutiful Helga works in her laboratory in California—such a thing could not be linked to me. I shall send Ivanovich for the girl. I trust no one else.
Oh, Father, I shall best you! Hans, you, too, shall bow before me in time. In the establishment of a New Race of Man, I shall be victorious.
To the victor go the spoils!
Chapter Eight
FRANCE
I woke to the sound of someone pounding on my door. My dad, I thought blearily as my eyes tried to make the darkened room resemble my bedroom.
Then I sat up, remembering I was in France— in France!
As I pulled socks and boots back on my feet, the door–pounding recommenced. I grabbed my bag and threw open the door.
“Never open a door if you don’t know who is on the other side,” barked Mickie, glaring at me. “Can you be ready in two minutes? We all overslept. Madame Evans is taking the group to the castle now. ”
“Sure,” I said, grabbing my jacket and bag.
I rubbed my eyes and recalled yesterday’s travel. Or was it today’s? The journey from San Francisco to Paris had wearied us. The train to Tours and bus to Chenonceaux remained only a blur of jostlings and legs that fell asleep, hands that cramped clutching suitcase handles.
Sir Walter had suggested giving us twenty–four hours to acclimate before meeting him, and now I understood why. My eyes saw bright daylight, but my body protested it was only 3:00 in the morning in California.
Our connection with Sir Walter had proven a useful one for the French Club. Mickie’s “rich uncle” would be our host family— well, host person— for a three–day home–stay where we would be sent off in pairs to experience the holidays with French families at the end of our two–week trip.
Sir Walter had also secured discounted group lodging for our first several days during a season when many hotels closed. Although apparently he didn’t think much of elevators. Upon our arrival at the Hôtel de Rose , Chenonceaux, we hauled our bags up endless, narrow flights of stairs. I silently thanked Dad for making me pack light. Mick had her own room.
“The size of a half–bath,” she whispered to Will and me as we sat in a group meeting designed to inform us that we were in France where the spoken language was French. We also received a lesson on currency and an envelope apiece with one lunch’s–worth of Euros. Finally, we heard that we had the next two hours free until 1:00 PM when we would walk as a group to the Château de Chenonceau, the first of our Loire Valley castle–tours.
“I know what I’m doing with my two hours,” said Will. “Sleeping.”
“Wrong,” said Mickie. “You’re asking the French–speaking desk clerk if there are any messages from our uncle.”
Will grunted in discontent, but shuffled from the small breakfast room into the lobby where he asked, in passable French, if there were any messages.
“ Non, monsieur ,” was an answer even Mickie could understand, and the three of us hiked up to our respective rooms.
That had been my first morning in France.
Now that it was afternoon, I finally felt awake. And hungry. My stomach demanded breakfast. Downstairs, Will had scored some croissants from a bakery next door to the