A Drop of Night(27)

“See if they care. We have no idea what these people are capable of. Our boarding passes were enough to completely skip U.S. security. That’s a whole different level of rich.”

“They still must care about being caught, though,” Will says. “Otherwise why the big lie? Why bring us here in the first place?”

“And then let us get away,” Jules says.

“They didn’t let us get away,” I answer. This room is creeping me out. I have to force the next words out. “I don’t think we were supposed to wake up. I spat out most of my pills, which is probably why I regained consciousness sooner. And then I was able to wake you up, too, and Hayden—”

Hayden wasn’t so lucky.

“So now what?” Jules asks.

“Now we hide,” I say. “Dorf said they were three miles away. Those things, trackers, whatever—if they’re anything like the guys with Miss Sei, they’re fast.”

I walk to the table and grab an orange. I expected it to be fake, maybe explode into poisoned barbs and skewer my hand. It doesn’t. I can smell the sharp tang of the oil from its peel, rubbing off on my fingertips. I stuff it in my sweater pocket, grab an apple, a bunch of grapes. Will takes a pear cautiously.

“Dorf said they could see us,” Jules says. “They might be watching us right now.”

“Most likely.” I pivot, the apple still in my hand. I have a weird sensation as the room turns around me. The air is so still, but now that I listen—really listen—it’s not a dead silence. It’s charged, thick with a sharp, buzzing energy. The hairs on my neck stand on end.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Open them. “Which door? Pick one, any one.”

Will points his pear toward a door in the left wall. I head for it.

My brain starts up a panicky chant: There is no right door. They don’t want us dead yet, they don’t want us dead–– I drag on the door’s handle, peer into the next room. It’s a salon, the place where fancy French families receive their guests. Crusts of gilt. Red brocade wallpaper. Stained-glass wall panels and crystal chandeliers. Chairs waiting like empty mouths.

I walk in. The others follow at a safe distance.

“Thanks a lot,” I say, without turning. “Wouldn’t want to be killed along with Anouk if the room is rigged, right? You guys are dolls.”

This room has three doors, the one we came through and two in the far wall. What we’re doing is stupid. Running around randomly until we feel like we’re a long way from our starting point is not hiding, and it’s not going to keep us safe. Just because we don’t know where we are doesn’t mean they don’t.

We’re going to have to prepare for the worst.

I run over to the marble fireplace and try to lift myself onto its mantel. It’s taller than I am. I can’t get a footing on the smooth sides. I try again, slip off like a dork.

Jules hurries over. “Uh, what are you doing?” he says, and he’s staring at me like I should be put down for rabies.

I ignore him, drag a chair over. I climb onto the seat. It creaks under me. I make it onto the narrow ledge of the mantle and start toeing my way toward the center. The others are probably contemplating leaving me behind as a peace offering to the psychos at this point. I don’t care. Above the fireplace, fixed inside a decorative coat of arms, are two swords—curved sabers with spun-gold hand guards, making an X.

I grab one and try to slide one out. It doesn’t budge. I pry at the coat of arms. Unlatch it from the wall. Whoa. It’s heavy. I tip back. Realize I’m going to fall off the mantle if I don’t let go of the shield. Whirl and let the whole thing drop.

It clangs against the floor, deafeningly loud. I leap down after it.

“Are you crazy?” Jules hisses, and Lilly is turning circles, twisting frantically at one of the feathers braided into her hair.

“Weapons,” I say. “You should find some, too.”

I have no idea how to fight with swords. I can do a flawless dive roll and speak in length about the Florentine masters during the early stages of the Italian Renaissance, but I’m pretty sure whatever those trackers are, they will remain unimpressed. Still, swords are better than no swords, if you ask me. I brace a foot against the edge of the shield and pull with all my might.

Lilly catches on. She starts ripping drawers out of a side table, rummaging through them. Will goes to an armoire in the far wall. The first sword rips free.

I rub my thumb along its blade. Not very sharp, but the tip is. It will do some damage if I jam it in hard enough. I wiggle out the second sword. Lilly comes over with a long, ivory-handled letter opener. Will has a gorgeously curled fire poker. Jules has nothing, so he picks up a porcelain statue of a lady holding a parasol, because it’s closest, and waves it menacingly.

I grab it from him and smack it back down. Hand him Will’s fire poker, and since Will’s hand remains opened, like he’s still trying to catch up mentally with what’s happening, I replace the fire poker with one of the swords. Lilly grabs the other sword. I think subconsciously I wanted that, but whatever. Maybe she was a Viking in a past life. I slide the letter opener into my jeans pockets. Hope I don’t impale myself while walking, and face everyone.

It’s kind of sad. We’re like a pathetic group of mercenaries in a low-budget sci-fi movie, accessorizing with household items.