Ink Blood Sister Scribe, page 24
“Room four,” she said.
Room four was at the end of yet another hallway, and the guard pushed Esther in before him, then locked the door behind them with a click that echoed horribly through Esther’s nerves.
The gray room was bare but not empty: in one corner was a large cloth-covered object.
In the other corner was a person.
A grown man, sitting slumped against the wall with his head hanging onto his bare chest. He was in only boxers and socks and Esther felt a thrill of pure panic run up her spine. Would she, too, have to submit to being undressed and searched? The man in the corner raised his head and looked blearily up at her, and something about his face was so uncanny that at first she didn’t realize what exactly she was seeing—but when she did understand, she let out a small, involuntary noise.
Aside from a streak of drying blood on his forehead, he looked exactly like the guard. Exactly. Same bland features, dark hair, defensive mustache. Same face.
“Don’t mind him,” the guard said in that flat American voice. The man said nothing, eyes unfocused, head sagging back down.
“What is this?” Esther said, dropping her duffel bag and turning to the guard. She kept her voice firm to maintain some shred of dignity and control, but the guard merely smiled at her.
“He’s had a few sedatives,” the guard said. “He’ll be all right, don’t worry.”
Esther was not worried about the man on the floor. She was worried about herself.
The guard leaned down to the unclothed man and took a fistful of his hair in one hand, jerking back his head with its identical face. Almost tenderly, like a mother wiping away dirt, the guard licked his thumb and rubbed off the blood that was smeared across the man’s forehead.
“Let’s give it a moment,” the guard said, “and see if you remember me.”
Esther had no idea who the guard was and was about to say so, when suddenly she saw that he did, in fact, look vaguely familiar. Something to do with the set of his mouth, maybe, or the tilt of his eyebrows, which were so light they seemed to disappear against his browbone.
She blinked. The mustache hiding his upper lip faded away as she stared at him, and his brown hair was lightening rapidly to a cornsilk blond that matched his eyebrows. His soft chin was now hard, with a decisive cleft in the center. In the space of seconds, he had a completely different face—and suddenly she did remember him. Reggie’s apartment in Spokane and this man’s pale face hovering above their bed, the glint of his gun in the dark. The way Reggie’s head had snapped back when the man hit him.
Esther said nothing, because if she spoke he would know without a doubt that she was absolutely terrified, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Where’d you get this passport?” the blond man said, taking it from his pocket and flipping through it. “It’s good work.”
“Isn’t that how you found me?” she said. “Weren’t you tracking it?” If she tackled him right now, she could catch him off-guard, she could angle it so his head would slam against the wall and—
With a gesture so casual Esther could tell he was enjoying himself, he pulled his jacket aside and rested his hand on the hilt of his gun. The tense line of his arm said he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he wouldn’t give her the chance.
“Tracking your fake passport?” he said, and threw it at her feet, laughing. “Come on. There was only one flight off your research base scheduled for weeks—it wasn’t tough to figure out you’d be on it. I’ve been following you since you got to Auckland.”
“Are you going to try to kill me again?” she said.
In answer, he backed toward the cloth-covered object in the corner opposite the drugged man and tugged the cloth away with a flick of his hand to reveal a large mirror. It was leaning against the wall, its silver surface dotted in blood.
Esther’s heart, already in her throat, surged further upward. Magic had been all over this airport since she’d walked in, it had been stalking her, and she’d gone to a bar and had a drink like a senseless lamb lapping at a trough before a slaughter. Her sister would have known. Joanna would have sensed the magic the second the blond man approached with his face-stealing glamour, but Esther was ignorant and insensible to it. Useless.
She was so angry she almost forgot to be frightened.
“I’m not going to kill you,” the man said. “Not outright, anyway. I’m going to push you through this mirror. Do you know what going through a mirror does to a person?”
Esther didn’t answer.
“You do know,” the man said. “Because you did it to Tretheway. He was a good friend of mine, by the way.”
Trev. He must be talking about Trev. “You saw me do that?” she said, skin crawling at the thought that it had been him behind the mirror the whole time, watching her.
“We saw the aftermath,” the man said. “That was enough. He looked like he’d gone through a meat grinder.”
We again. Esther swallowed. “Are you going to shoot me first, like I shot Tretheway?”
She was stalling and he knew it, but he let her, as she had suspected he might—because if this was revenge, he’d want it to go slow.
“Maybe,” he said. “You shot him right here,” he tapped his shoulder, “but I think I’d aim a bit lower. A gut shot sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
Amid her panic, a tiny ray of relief shone. So he thought she had shot Trev, which meant he—or they, whoever they were—hadn’t seen Pearl. They wouldn’t know she was involved; they wouldn’t go after her. Pearl, at least, was probably safe.
Was he bluffing about shooting Esther right here in the airport? Surely someone would come running at the sound of a gunshot. Unless everyone in the vicinity was somehow working with him . . . but then, why go through the trouble of taking the guard’s face? She thought of the pink-lipsticked woman at the desk, the way she’d nodded at the blond man; she, at least, was likely in on it.
“I can tell what you’re thinking,” the man said, smirking. “You’re thinking you’ll fight me, you’ll get my gun, you’ll turn the tables, blah blah blah.”
It wasn’t at all what Esther had been thinking—but it was true that the scenario he’d described was pretty much her only option, and her best weapon, surprise, was no longer possible. Her mind flashed desperately on all the chances she’d missed to escape: she should’ve turned and run when the gate agent had confiscated her passport, she should’ve run while he was marching her down the hall, she should’ve run before he’d locked her in this room, but she didn’t, she hadn’t, she’d frozen, and now she was utterly and entirely shit out of luck.
Unless . . .
Unless Pearl had been right, back on base, that Trev had never wanted to kill Esther in the first place. If Trev had been seeking information about her family instead, if what he really wanted was access to her sister and her sister’s books, then this blond man probably did not want her to die, either. The gun was just a threat, and the mirror wasn’t there to kill her: it was there so whoever this man answered to could watch him interrogate her.
“I won’t fight you,” she said, spreading her arms out, testing her theory. Taking a chance. “Go right ahead and give me that gut shot.”
He shook his head at her, as if he was disappointed. “You wanna make it easy for me?” he said. “Fine.” And he flicked off the gun’s safety.
Esther’s limbs went numb. She’d been wrong. He wasn’t asking her a single question; he really was here to kill her. He aimed the gun at her legs, finger finding the trigger, and said, “Let’s start with the knees.”
Every muscle in her body tightened as she stared at his trigger finger, preparing to throw herself out of the way, preparing herself for the crack of a shot—but the next sound that echoed through the room wasn’t a crack, but a click.
The door was opening.
“What the—” the blond man said. His eyes darted from Esther to the opening door and back to Esther, gun still level in his hand. Nothing happened, no one entered. Holding the gun in both hands now, like he thought he was in a spy movie, the man backed toward the open door, glancing out into the hall, and because this was the only chance she had, Esther took it.
She lunged to one side and then the other in case he shot and threw herself toward the door—right as it slammed shut again under its own power.
“Jesus,” the blond man yelped, and Esther hurled herself against him, getting so close he wouldn’t have an angle to shoot, but she didn’t have much leverage and her body hit his with a soft, weak thud. It shouldn’t even have been enough force to make him stagger—yet he did stagger, badly, and a second later he collapsed at Esther’s feet, cracking forehead-first against the ground. He went absolutely still.
Esther stared down at him. After a few seconds had passed and he didn’t move, she did, because there would be time to unpack this new mystery later, if she survived. Even if his collapse was another trap, it was also the only hope she’d felt since this man had closed his fingers around her arm at the gate, and she wasn’t going to waste any time. She pulled her duffel bag back onto her shoulder, scooped her fake passport up from where it had fallen on the ground, and glanced back at the drugged, half-naked mustached man in the corner, whom she’d nearly forgotten. She did not know what she could do for him at this point except wrestle the gun from the guard’s limp fingers, empty the bullets into her palm, and smash the butt of it against the mirror as she left the room.
Her body screamed at her to run, but she didn’t, because running invited chasing. Instead, she walked quickly down the hall, slowing only slightly when she saw that the pink-lipsticked woman was slumped back in her ergonomic chair, mouth wide open, unconscious behind her computer. There were no signs of a struggle. Goosebumps rose on Esther’s arms. She didn’t stop moving though, only dropped her handful of bullets into the wastepaper basket beside the desk as she passed. Back in the main room, harried-looking travelers were still submitting to searches and questions. A few of the security personnel glanced at her without much interest as she passed toward the door. She focused on projecting an air of absolute confidence and ease despite the fact that her hands were trembling and she was cold-sweating uncontrollably. She even managed to smile at a uniformed woman, and a second later, she was back in the main airport.
Everything felt unreal, staged: the overhead lights, the speckled tile of the floor, the hum of a passing cart loaded with luggage, all the people calling for their kids and queuing at gates and frowning at their phones. She didn’t look behind her to see if anyone was following but she did pick up her pace a little, glancing up at the signs to find the direction of the exit.
Suddenly, someone grabbed her wrist.
She yanked away on instinct and whirled around, but no one was there—in fact, the closest person was nearly ten feet away, a man in a business suit standing at a vending machine. Her breath was coming fast, almost in pants, her whole body alight with nerves; had she imagined the feeling of cool fingers grabbing her?
“I’m right next to you,” said a voice in her ear, and this time when Esther whipped around, she felt the unmistakable brush of fabric against her hand. “Don’t say anything,” said the voice, which was light and female and had a New Zealand accent. “And don’t leave this airport. They have people waiting at the exit for you in case you try. Go into the nearest washroom and wait for me.”
“Wait for—who are you? Where are you?”
“We’ll talk in a sec,” said the voice. “All you need to know right now is that I’m the one who saved you back there, and I promise I’m on your side.”
Esther started walking toward the exit again, even faster this time. She had never heard of any circumstance under which listening to a disembodied voice had been the right course of action.
“Esther,” the voice said, those cool fingers touching her wrist again—and then, in faltering, unimpressive Spanish, “La ruta nos aportó otro paso natural. Did I say that right? Please believe me when I tell you not to leave this airport.”
Esther didn’t know if it was the sound of her own name or the sound of that familiar phrase that slowed her steps, but she did stop. She stood there, duffel bag digging into her shoulder, T-shirt damp with anxious sweat beneath her jacket, teeth gritted against a scream of frustration. She just wanted to take one step that belonged to her, make one move that she had independently decided to make, but at every turn it felt as if her strings were being pulled by unseen hands.
“The last time I trusted that particular sentence,” she said quietly, “it led me here, straight into a trap.”
“That trap wasn’t laid by the person who sent me,” the voice said. “I swear it.” Then, with a gusty sigh that ruffled Esther’s hair, “Please, come into the washroom and hear me out? Being invisible is actually so uncomfortable, it’s like bees are crawling inside my skin. I’m really over it.”
If this little glimpse of humanity was a trick, well . . . Esther was tired and friendless and let herself fall for it. Silently, her jaw still clenched in fury, she turned on her heel and stalked into the nearest restroom, then stood there, arms crossed, as a tiny redhead finished putting on a layer of mascara in the mirror and hurried out, casting Esther a nervous glance. Once the redhead had gone, one of the taps turned on by itself, and a paper towel unrolled itself from a dispenser, tore itself from the roll, and floated over to dampen itself beneath the water. It began scrubbing away at something unseen, and then a young woman stood over the sink, holding a book and a paper towel with traces of blood from where she’d wiped it off the page.
“Ugh!” she said, shaking herself like she was casting off spiderwebs. “That was really unpleasant. You all right?”
Esther stared. It was the girl she’d seen in line what felt like hours earlier: the Asian girl with the huge red glasses who’d watched her being dragged off by the blond man. She seemed to be a few years younger than Esther and was wearing a black blazer, a black messenger bag, and very clean white sneakers. She looked like the kind of Young Professional that Esther had seen on TV but never met in real life.
“You’re okay,” the girl said, answering her own question. “Just a bit shaken, I imagine.”
A woman and two children entered and both Esther and the stranger went quiet, waiting for them to do their business, which seemed to take forever and involved a lot of arguing over whether or not the little girl actually had to pee. (It turned out she did; Esther had to listen to her do it.)
When the family left, Esther said, “What did you do to those people back there? The guard and the woman at the desk?”
“I injected them with a tranquilizer,” the girl said earnestly, pushing the red glasses up her nose.
“Who told you to do that?”
“I do wish I could answer you,” the girl said, “but, you know.” She mimed zipping her lips and tossing away the key. “Now listen, you’ve missed your flight, which really threw a wrench in things, but I got it sorted. That’s why it took me some time to break you out of there, by the way, my apologies for the delay, though he wouldn’t have actually hurt you. I’m told they want you alive.”
With this last horrible pronouncement, she stuffed the book in her messenger bag and passed Esther a sheaf of boarding passes, all in Emily Madison’s name.
“Your new flight to L.A. leaves in about thirty minutes, which is good, because the tranquilizer only lasts an hour or so and we want you gone by the time those people wake up and start yelling.”
Esther clutched the boarding passes in her hands. This stranger’s cheerful, no-nonsense attitude reminded her of Pearl, if Pearl was the kind of person who could ever keep a pair of sneakers clean, and though she wanted to resist, being told what to do by a pretty, authoritative girl was like balm to her frazzled soul.
“You won’t tell me who you work for?”
“I can’t tell you who sent me here,” the girl said. “I can tell you my day job’s with the Ministry for Culture and Heritage? But that isn’t exactly relevant.”
“If I take this flight,” Esther said, “what will happen to me?”
“Hopefully nothing bad.”
Not exactly the words of reassurance Esther wanted. “And if I don’t take it?”
The girl looked at her in sympathy. “Nothing good.”
21
Half an hour later, as Esther moved cautiously down the aisle of the plane toward her seat near the back, nothing on the flight seemed out of the ordinary. All the people around her were preoccupied with the business of stowing luggage and wrangling infants and loudly asking the flight attendants if they sold compression socks aboard and if not, why not. But any one of these people could be cloaked in magic and Esther wouldn’t know it. They could all have books in their carry-ons. They could all be working under mysterious orders, for people they wouldn’t name, for reasons no one would explain to her. They could all be threats.
Yet here she was. Closing herself voluntarily into a flying metal tube instead of making a getaway into the outback of New Zealand (did New Zealand have an outback?). Trusting a stranger, again, simply because she happened to know a sentence in Spanish, a sentence that meant a lot to Esther, a sentence that moved her. Literally, lately.
She’d been assigned a window seat. Neither the middle nor aisle seat were occupied yet, and she put her duffel in the overhead compartment and settled herself in, gazing out at the tarmac. If someone was going to kill her on the plane, fine. She’d rather die in the blue sky than in that gray detention room.
When she turned her gaze back to the aisle, someone was blocking it, staring down at her. Two someones, actually, both of them young white men around her own age. One was tawny-haired with reddish stubble, handsome and well-dressed, while the other man, towering behind him, was very tall and broad-shouldered, with bright blue eyes and a mouth that looked like it was about to curse.
Nothing about their appearance could quite explain Esther’s sudden inexplicable conviction that she did not want to be seated next to them.
