Maman is dead. Dad and Leo might be dead. I’ve been kidnapped by Shade.
Maman is dead. Dad and Leo might be dead. I’ve been kidnapped by Shade.
Maman is dead. Dad and Leo might be dead. I’ve been kidnapped by Shade.
The trio of thoughts march around the inside of my throbbing head, round and round and round. As they do, my limbs fill with that viscous fear that makes you panic on a mountainside or freeze up during a spar and brings all rational thinking to a halt. My breathing quickens. I feel my chest constrict.
No. Stop. You can’t afford to lose it, Lys.
It takes several attempts, but I eventually manage to do as my taekwondo instructor taught me, pushing the thoughts back, locking them up in a box in the back on my brain where they can scream all they want but I don’t have to hear them for an hour or two while my attention is on the task at hand.
The Eleanor Roosevelt Academy for Young Women, being an institute for rich and targetable teenage girls, holds yearly seminars on how to survive a kidnapping. Our lecturer was always a tad too upbeat for the subject matter. After recounting harrowing abductions of other rich and targetable teenage girls, he cheerily gave us tips like, steer clear of dangerous situations, and avoid antagonising your kidnappers, and don’t get injured. Also, avoid being taken to a secondary location, and always carry a device that tracks your location.
Well. I ran into a ballroom full of gun-wielding assassins, tried to kick an escaped convict in the head, got concussed, am now in some decaying dressing room, and have nothing on my person except an uncomfortable dress. Good job, Lys. Full marks.
Slowly, I sit up. One breath in. Hold. One breath out. Hold. In the depths of the mirror, my green-lit shadow-self hunches over, clad in black, eyes flashing.
Always look for an exit.
Once my stomach stops roiling, I ease myself out from under the covers and try the door at the head of the bed. It’s locked from the outside. The other opens into a tiny, dead-end bathroom that’s only exit is an empty square cut out of the wall high above the toilet that I guess used to hold a fan. Whatever the case, it’s too small to crawl through. A stream of cold air whistles through it and stirs up a sharp tang of lemon and baking soda. That’s nice. Shade has had the bathroom cleaned.
I stand on the closed lid of the toilet and thrust my arm into the vent, scrabbling around in the dust and cobwebs and smacking my knuckles against the smooth walls of the unbending metal tube. Nothing. I pull my arm out, flick off the black spider that is trying to crawl under my lace sleeve, and return to the dressing room where I knock on the mouldering wallpaper to no avail. No secret trapdoors or false walls or handy ventilation shafts covered in thin plasterboard. Damn. Now what?
The jolly voice of our seminar instructor chimes in. Do not neglect personal hygiene.
There are three soap bars on the shower shelves, helpfully stamped with body wash, shampoo, and conditioner and smelling like lemon and lavender. Two towels hang on the rail and on the edge of the sink is a toothbrush along with a little jar of white tablets labelled tooth tabs. There’s even a hairbrush. I wonder whether Shade considered I’d try to eat the soap to kill myself. Not that it would work. New York uses natural, non-toxic products by necessity.
The heavy bathroom door has a bolt on the inside. After rechecking it can’t be locked from without, I place the glass orb of Goo on one of the shower shelves, slide the bolt, and twist the shower knob to scalding. As the water starts to heat, I strip off the strangling dress and underwear and hang them on the rail, and use one of the gritty, minty tooth tabs. Eventually the spattering rain from the shower head reaches a few shades above tepid and refuses to get any hotter. I step under it and try to wash off the makeup and cooled sweat.
I get out when the water starts to cool. As I’m rubbing a second towel over my hair, I hear the click of the dressing room door. I freeze.
Heavy footsteps cross the carpet - not Shade’s, too heavy, which is not much of a comfort but enough to let me move again. Quick as a flash, I pull on my underwear and wrap the towel around myself, preferring to be underdressed and able to fight.
There’s a knock at the bathroom door. “Alyssa?” It’s a man. He speaks my name gently. He waits for a reply, which I don’t give, so he tries again. “How are you feeling? How’s your head?” When I still don’t reply, he adds, “I won’t hurt you.”
“Yeah, sorry if I find that hard to believe,” I snap.
Don’t antagonise your kidnappers, ladies!
I clench my jaw.
Shade’s henchman sighs and says, “Fair enough. My name is Carter. I’ve brought food and a change of clothes.”
At the mention of food, my stomach grumbles. A chill breeze whistles in through the vent and goosebumps erupt across my body. My head throbs. My toes curls against the freezing linoleum. I remain in the very centre of the dim, Goo-lit bathroom, arms crossed over my towel, staring at the thick lock on the thin door.
“Are Leo and Dad okay?” I ask.
“Yes. They’re in the Bronx. Your father has already mounted a search for you.”
Instead of feeling relieved, I curl in on myself tighter. “Was anyone else hurt? Apart from the Marines and Maman?”
“Thankfully, no.”
I bristle at the thankfully. “Then why kill Maman?” I hiss.
“I don’t know.” This Carter sounds so genuinely remorseful that I almost believe him. “He’s not himself right now. He says it was an accident. He came back from the Labyrinth with a fever.”
“Oh, poor little psychopath,” I sneer, even as I remember the bloodshot eyes and sweat on his forehead and the sallowness of his skin, and roughly shove the memory away. “I hope it’s terminal.”
“He’s promised to explain everything when he’s feeling better. It won’t be long.”
“Explain what?” I already know why I’m here. My father’s fears of Shade using us against him have come true.
“Try to eat something. I promise it’s not poisoned. I’ll knock before I come in next time.”
“What a gentleman,” I mutter. My headache is getting worse. The pinpoint light is flashing again. I shiver. Huh. Maybe I’m getting feverish too. Or maybe it’s just the concussion.
“I promise, I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can,” he says, and with that I hear the other door open and close and the lock click.
My knees give out. I collapse onto the linoleum, vision blurry, the world spinning. It takes a while for everything to come back into focus but even when it does I do not move, not wanting to leave the relative - illusory - safety of the bathroom for a room to which Carter and Shade hold the key. I lie there until I am shivering so much my teeth threaten to chatter and my stomach growls aloud.
Ensure your own wellbeing while imprisoned, says our seminar instructor.Your physical and mental health are your greatest assets.
Steeling myself, I get up and slide back the bolt.
The dressing room is empty. On the vanity is a tray of food – a quiche, a bowl of salad, an apple and an orange, a glass of water, and a steaming mug. A stack of fresh towels, sheets, and blankets are on the bed next to a pile of clothes with a period cup placed on top. I go to the other door. It is, indeed, locked. I sit on the bed and consider. My thoughts feel fuzzy.
“Okay,” I murmur to myself. “It’s okay. Dad is looking for me. I just have to hold on until he arrives. That’s all. That’s fine. I can do that.” In this sunless room without my meds and the threat of Shade or Carter or anyone coming in at any moment and my mother is dead and–
I silence those thoughts too and stagger over to the tray of food, then to the stack of clothing, and finally crawl under the covers with all the blankets piled on top. Unconsciousness beckons. Sparks dance at the edges of my vision, and there’s a roaring in my ears. Dad, you better come quick.
I really like the chunk size - perfectly just-too-short.