Moriarty's Musician

Chapter 7: Siding with the Angels, Part 1

Annabelle's brow furrowed. "So you're using me to get to Sherlock?"

Moriarty's eyes glowed as he leaned forward in his seat. "Your father continues to be the bane of the upper crust's existence. Even in death, he has them shaking in their Prada. The man was a genius!"

Annabelle's face went white. "Please, stop with your damn riddles. Who is my father and why does Sherlock want me dead? I'm sick of asking, James!"

Moriarty stood up and reached out to her. "Give me your hand."

She looked warily at him. "Why? Is this part of your game? I already told you I'm not playing."

His eyes narrowed. "Then you will spend the rest of your short life not knowing. In case you've forgotten, my darlin' Annabelle, I have the keys to all your questions and much, much more."

Annabelle looked up into his dark brown eyes and could see the reflection of the fire dancing in their depths. A chill crept through her. Should she find out what he knew or was she better off not knowing?

As if he read her thoughts, Moriarty gently touched her cheek. "Knowledge gives you power, Annabelle."

The words of her tutor sprang into her mind. Knowledge is power. Using that knowledge will make you invincible.

"Alright." Annabelle placed her hand in Moriarty's and met his eyes. "Let's play."

Moriarty's eyes gleamed as he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed them across her knuckles. She stood on shaking knees as he led her to an ornate mirror tucked away in the corner of the room. He placed his hands on her shoulders, making her stand in front of him. Annabelle looked at her reflection then her eyes moved to his.

He smiled as he gently moved some of her hair off her neck. Annabelle swallowed, trying desperately to stop herself from trembling at his touch.

"Who do you see in the mirror, Annabelle?"

Annabelle shook her head and took a ragged breath. "A captor and his prisoner."

Moriarty's jaw tightened. "Look again. Have you seen those mesmerizing green eyes before? Search your memories."

Annabelle paused as she looked from Moriarty to her own face. She shook her head. "No, I haven't."

Moriarty leaned closer and whispered in her ear, "Look harder." 

He could smell the lilacs that touched the air at every turn of her head. He had a hard time resisting the urge to run his lips where his fingers had just been as he looked from her eyes to her translucent skin.

Annabelle turned, her face inches from his. "I was wrong. I can't play your games. I can't remember."

"You can remember and you will play," he growled.

Annabelle stepped back at the fierceness in his eyes. Moriarty tried to calm the desire that was blinding him as he saw her fear. He needed to concentrate on his plan and not on the fact that every inch of him craved her. He turned his back on Annabelle and walked to his desk.

"I told Sherlock you and I were going to write a concerto together and I didn't lie. This is where we start composing, Annabelle."