A Drop of Night (10 page)

Thick fingers find the sack's hem and drag it off my head. I am standing in a dark room, a jewelry box of red plush and smoldering gilt. My sisters are with me. The ceiling is tented, a canopy of ribbed silk. Dim lamps hiss softly along the walls. Father sits at the center of the room like a troll king in his lair, huge and hulking upon a delicate chair, one leg hooked over the other.

He is as enormous as Havriel, but that is where all similarities between them end: where Havriel is a mountain of calm and shadowy grace, Father is like a boar after the hounds have caught it, heaving and fighting and grasping for life, though the chance for that has long since fled. He wears a splendid coat of cherry red. On his head is a chalk-white wig. His mouth is in perpetual motion in his powdered face, shivering and twitching, forming silent words that he does not utter, and he holds a small tin mask full of herbs and
perfume to his nose even as he speaks. He has always done this, for as long as I can remember. The doctors say it will stop the plague, influenza, any sort of sickness from befalling him, but he looks a fool for it.

His hands have begun to tremble, the rings on his fat fingers clinking against the arms of his chair.

“My wife,” he says again. “Where is she?” He attempts to rise, collapses. Small black eyes skip across our faces and linger on the empty air at my side, as if he expects to see someone there.

Havriel's knuckles tighten around the blindfold in his hands. “Frédéric?” he says gently. “Frédéric, you must listen to me—” He goes to Father's side.

“Where
is she
, Havriel?” Father hisses, and beside me Delphine jolts upright. She must have been dozing as she stood.

Havriel lays a hand on Father's shoulder. Father shrugs it off. Again he tries to stand and again he fails. “Where is Célestine? It promised we would be safe, the wicked thing, it promised—”

“The guards are with her as we speak,” Havriel says quickly. “She did not want to leave the château, but they will no doubt bring her safely down—”

“They shot her,” I say. My voice is just a thread, but it jerks Father's head up like a puppet. Havriel does not turn. He has gone deathly still.

“She did not want to come,” I go on, louder now, and my voice turns taunting, bitter. “She was afraid. She was so afraid she was willing to die rather than come into your paradisical underground realm. Why might that be, Father, pray do tell?”

But Father is no longer listening. He is shrieking. He curls in the chair, his spine contorting, his hand scrabbling up the cushion as if he seeks to climb over the back of it, and Havriel is gripping him, and Delphine is whimpering.

“Frédéric, calm yourself! They are bringing her to safety as we speak! We do not know the extent of the damage—”

“They shot her!” I shout. “They shot her, and if they had not, she might have done it herself!”

I'm crying, and as I move toward Father, Havriel spins.

“Stay back, Aurélie,” he spits. “Stay back.”

Havriel's bell rings. A door opens. Someone is here. The sack falls again over my eyes. I'm being bundled away, and I don't know where my sisters are, but suddenly my body is
wax and twigs and straw hair; I am a drained, brittle husk, too tired to fight. I walk on and on, through echoing halls, my feet aching inside my shoes. It feels as if I walk for days, soft hands guiding me through the dark, and yet I can still hear Father screaming.

We stagger away from the wires, examining our bodies for
wounds. My foot feels like it's been sawed off. I pull up my pant leg, bracing myself for partial amputation, exposed muscle, the works. I've got a cut just above the knob of bone in my ankle. It's tiny, the size of a fingernail clipping. The definition of anticlimactic.

I collapse against the wall next to Jules. He's testing his hand, watching it swell red and shiny where it caught his fall. Lilly's on her knees in front of the wall of wires. Her head's slumped to her chest, hair hanging lank over her face. I can't see if she's hurt. She's breathing, at least.

I lean back against the wall and close my eyes.

“What do they want from us?”

It comes out in a rasping, grating croak.

No one answers. I roll my head to the side, try to catch Jules's eye. “I'm serious, what? Why didn't they just kill
us in the mirror room? Or at dinner? Or on the freaking airplane? And why are there traps? Dorf said they could see us, they know we're here, so why did they stop the wires? Why didn't they just finish us off?”

Will eases himself down next to us. He has a cut on his arm. One of the long sleeves of his T-shirt is sticking to his skin, soaked dark and glistening. He rips the other sleeve along the seam at the shoulder and starts tying a tourniquet above his bicep, the knot held between his teeth.

“They don't want us dead,” he says.

I see the barbed nozzle, sliding into Hayden's skull.

“Really?” I say. “Because they sure wanted Hayden dead.”

Will pulls the tourniquet tight, wincing. Jules has his head between his knees. All I can see of him is his black hair, hanging toward the floor. I feel like throwing up, and I also feel like I want to smack someone, or argue and figure things out, but everyone is just
sitting here
!

I stand abruptly, ignoring the pain in my foot. “We need to get out of here.”

Jules starts gasping. He's sobbing, his head still pinched between his knees. Will glances up at me. His eyes are
clear and still. He's not crying like Jules, but I think he might if no one were around.

I look to the golden doors at the end of the hall. They seem to be flaming in the light from the chandeliers, gathering it. “So
get up
!
”
My voice bounces through the hall, cold and hollow.

Nobody moves.

I start toward Lilly. I saw Hayden die, too, and I'm all for the four stages of grief and periods of mourning and all that, but I also don't want to be murdered. I grab Lilly's wrist and practically drag her to her feet.

“What is your problem?” Lilly sobs. “We almost—”

“Yeah,” I say fiercely. “We almost died, and we're going to completely die if we don't get moving!”

As if in response, a series of metallic pops echo behind the walls. Lilly and I freeze. The wall of wires starts sliding back along their tracks. They're not whirring anymore, not vibrating. It's like watching a wounded animal drag itself back into its hole. They reach the end of the hall and rise up, coming to rest in their slots above the golden door. Taut. Invisible.

“Will, get Jules,” I snap over my shoulder. “Dorf said they were dispatching trackers from the other end of
the palace. That means there
is
another end.”

Somewhere behind me, Jules speaks, his voice bitter: “You want us to just walk through those doors? Is that your plan? And what about Dorf? He said there's something down here. What if whatever he warned us about is right on the other side—”

“It's that or Miss Sei and her gas nozzle, so puzzle it out.”

I've got Lilly by the arm and we're moving quickly across the floor. The golden doors loom, spiny and vaguely surreal, Rodin's Gates of Hell. They're like a gold-drenched nightmare—gilt faces, contorted bodies, wings and hooves and claws, all struggling up through the golden mass. Jules and Will catch up, Will supporting Jules even though Jules's swollen hand is in no way impeding his ability to walk. We stand in a row, breathing hard, staring up at the doors.

“Maybe it's a trap,” Lilly whispers. “Maybe it's rigged.”

I put my hand against it.

“Maybe,” I say, and push.

It's not rigged. Or if it is, whoever's controlling this place decides
not to kill us. We slip around the golden doors. Will closes them behind us as quietly as he can.

This new room has nine more doors—three in each wall, not including the one we just came through. Everything is bone white. The ceiling, the walls with their curling plaster moldings, the circular table in the center . . . everything. The only color comes from a massive bowl of fruit on the table, a Dutch still life of grapes and oranges and ruby-colored apples, rich and vivid against the whiteness. Nothing else. It's utterly silent.

I glance around. I'm guessing it's some sort of antechamber, but it's not like any I've ever seen or read about. It looks drained somehow, desaturated, like an unfinished bit of computer animation. The ceiling is a butterfly again, a white one. This time the
eyes are almost closed. Not sleepy. Sly. Catlike.

“They can't do this,” Lilly breathes, and the words feel like a disturbance, a ripple in the dead air. “They can't get away with this. Our parents know we're in France. They don't know where exactly, but my mom will find out, and she is going to dig this place up with a spoon if she has to—”

“See if they care. 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.

“We were supposed to die in that cube room. But we escaped.”

“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, dangerous, 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, eyeing it like a puzzling mystery.

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

“Most likely.” I pivot. 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 the 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's staring at me like I should be put down for rabies.

I ignore him, drag a chair over, climb onto the seat. It
creaks under me. I make it onto the narrow ledge of the mantel 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 it 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 at length about the Florentine masters during the early stages of the Italian Renaissance, but I'm pretty sure whatever those trackers are, they will not find that impressive. 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. I get the first sword loose and rip it 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 the sudden lack of fire pokers in his life, I replace the fire poker with one of the swords. Lilly grabs the other sword. I think subconsciously I wanted it, but whatever. I slide the letter opener into my jeans pocket. Hope I don't impale myself while walking. Face everyone.

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

“Great,” I say. “Let's go.”

I head for the door on the left. Slip through it. It's like stepping into a picture frame, a 3-D masterpiece. The room isn't large, but every inch of ceiling and walls is painted with massive landscapes in oil: shadowy, visceral scenes of myths and betrayals, twisting figures and roiling bits of cloaks and darkness.

I know what this reminds me of: a miniature Sistine Chapel. I went to the real one at the tail end of the Italy trip last year. Rented a rooftop apartment in Rome and drank Montepulciano and ate pancetta with olives and pretended I was a grown-up. I had dramatic conversations with my parents in my head, screamed at the late-night revelers down in the street, the whole shebang. And when I visited the chapel, worming my way between the tourists, I remember tipping my head up and feeling like all those bodies on the ceiling were watching me. Here it's worse. They're closer.

I want to keep going—the others are already moving past me, drifting through the room—but something about the pictures makes me pause. The brushstroke faces look angry. The figures are fighting, locked in battle, their eyes so deep set in their skulls they're almost
black. The skies are bruised, the trees warped.

I imagine the trackers, streaking toward us through rooms just like this one.

This room has four doors. One in each wall.

The air still has that odd, prickling feeling.

And a man is standing in the corner. Bleeding. Watching us.