by A J Rivers
"Or earrings?" Sam asks.
I nod slowly. "Yes. And if I have to venture a guess, I'm going to say that woman is missing a pair of silver earrings."
"Emma…"
"It was a really silly tradition, and I'm fairly certain he kept up with it mostly because of how weird Mama thought it was. But it ended up becoming something we really loved. He would joke and call it my 'real' birthday and say the twenty-third is just a formality. My eyes, brain, and heart were all out on the twenty-second, so I was here, according to him."
"I never knew that," he says.
"No one does, Sam. I've never told anybody about that. Especially after Mama died. It was something really special just for the two of us. Other than when we were in Sherwood, we didn't even celebrate on the twenty-third. But, again, that's not something I told anybody. The only person who would know about that is my father."
Thomas comes back, and I brush fiercely at tears that have appeared on my cheeks.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
"I'm—I’m fine," I say, taking the sweatshirt he hands out to me. "Thank you for getting this for me."
He nods. "I don't know if I can be of any help with what you found there, or if it would be more beneficial for me to continue on with my work to try to keep people away from this part of the train."
"You should do your work. I’ll come find you if I need your help."
"I will keep my eye on Mr. Steele," he says.
"Mr. Steele?" I raise an eyebrow.
"The man sitting a few rows behind you," he explains. "I thought you knew his name."
"No. He never introduced himself. Dean Steele?"
"Yes."
"Has he been on the train many times before?" I ask.
Thomas shrugs. "Honestly, I can't tell you. I don't remember him. His name just stuck with me when I looked at his ticket."
I nod. "Me, too."
He walks away, and I sit down on the floor, pulling out my computer.
"What are you doing?" Sam asks.
"I'm staying here for as long as I can to try to keep people out of the baggage car."
"Read the clue to me again," he says.
I read him the card.
"A new game. So, not hide and seek, anymore. I'm not sure I believe that considering this bomb is still hidden," I say.
"But there's a new game to figure out what to do next. Only this time, he doesn't tell us which one."
"’Catch me.’ That's what he keeps saying. And he mentions the time again. But this end part. The lion and the eagle. That's something. That's a message," I point out.
"A symbol of some kind? The train cars don't have symbols or mascots or anything. Maybe an organization?" Sam asks.
"Wait. Sam. A lion and an eagle. A griffin. My name. It asks if I'm feeling mixed up, then mentions the lion and eagle."
"That next part, it's not what it looks like. Isn't a griffin exactly what it looks like? A lion and an eagle?"
"No," I murmur, shaking my head as I continue to stare at the note. "That's the point. It's not. It looks like someone took an eagle's head and attached it to a lion's body, but that's not what it is. In mythology, it's actually its own creature. It's something totally separate."
"The woman? We thought she could have something to do with this, so it looked like her, but it wasn't?" Sam suggests.
"No. I don't think it means 'look' that way. These notes have been telling us to look for something this whole time. Keep looking. It's talking about something tangible. Something with the appearance of something it's not." I read the note again, breaking it down into its parts, the sections that go together, and the ones that stand apart. "It uses the word 'watch' twice. Are you watching the time, and watch yourself."
Snippets of conversations and flashes of images go through my head. Little bits of moments that don’t seem to have anything to do with each other but have now suddenly converged. I draw in a breath.
"Emma? What is it?" Sam asks.
"I think I have an idea."
Chapter Thirty-Three
Anson
Five months ago…
Anson's room was taken over by sketches and plans. Every time he finished one, his fingers itched to start the next. He told himself to take his time, to slow down, and go one step at a time. He had to build, to climb on the shoulders of one to get to the next. But he was too excited. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt alive.
It was a strange sensation, feeling life flowing through his veins and waking up every part of him when he hadn't even realized he was dead.
He had become exactly what Lotan wanted from him. That was a hard lesson. To go from thinking he mattered and was an important part of the mission, to knowing he was nothing but flesh and brain signals. Lotan didn't choose his followers lightly. He wasn't the type of man who assigned value to devotion in whatever form he could find it. There were plenty who would fall at his feet and do anything he said, simply by merit of the power of his speech. He could weave words and manipulate thoughts in a way unrivaled by anyone Anson ever met. Anyone he had even heard of.
But Lotan didn't just want worshipers to line his floor. He was looking for only the best. He wanted those who would believe what he believed, follow what he followed. As great and as extensive as his influence could be, the one humility about him was that he acknowledged he was just one man. What Lotan was capable of doing was tremendous on his own. But if he could find those who understood what he wanted, and could offer skills and intelligence, he could do so much more.
It took time for Anson to recognize it, but he eventually realized everyone who became a part of Leviathan went through the same process. They began as individuals. Lotan charmed them and showed them appreciation. He emphasized the very features he chose them for and ensured they knew he saw them. He looked right into their eyes. He spoke their names.
Over time, that faded. The details of them as individual people begin to fade away. They were broken down to their base elements so they could be used as tools. One by one, they gave up the details of themselves, the quirks and bits that made them into who they were.
For some of them, it was easy to overlook the sacrifice. They did not even realize what was actually happening. Because to them, they weren't giving those pieces of themselves up. They weren't losing them. For every piece of themselves, every detail, every memory, every trait they offered up to the Leviathan, the tattoo on their back, became more complex. Rather than defining themselves as who they were within, they displayed their worth on their skin.
That would always be with Anson. But he wanted more than the ink. More than the prestige and rank. He wanted to claim back what was taken. He wanted to understand Lotan's attachment to a woman far from his grasp. He wanted to prove even the mighty Lotan wasn't safe from chaos.
This is how it would start. A simple plan, but one that wouldn't soon be forgotten. And from there, another. Lotan was so used to being the one in control he wouldn't recognize when that was being drawn out from under him, little by little, like the tide washing away a sandcastle until there was no choice left but to watch it fall.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lamb
He hadn't heard anything from Finn in weeks. Not that he expected frequent contact. That would be far too dangerous. Any time he was able to communicate with him at all, it was dangerous. Either of them could get caught, and the consequences would be unimaginable. Lamb just had to wait patiently. He had to embody the name given to him. As much as he despised it, he embraced it as well. It reminded him of all that happened. How he got here. It wouldn't let him forget. Every time he heard it, it was just another chance for him to feel the disdain, to remember what this man thought of him.
Lotan used it as a way to break Lamb down. That's one of the many ways he had gotten into the minds of his followers. What at first seemed like a gesture of kindness—like a gift—became a weapon. Became a means of control. He had already watched so many of them fal
l. One by one, they let themselves get tangled and twisted into being a part of his thoughts. They were no longer their own. They were no longer the people they were before they met him and fell into line. They were a moving, breathing creature. A single writhing mass. A leviathan, under his control.
It was masterful to watch. The switch wasn't sudden. Often it was so gradual and subtle the person being dragged down into the darkness didn't even know what was happening. It was like a person stuck in a room filled with nitrogen gas. They craved Lotan's attention, like the body craves oxygen. They sought it out, clawed for it, tried to sip it from his breaths, his words, a fleeting glance. But it was never actually there. Their minds twisted these small moments to seem like they were still being acknowledged, still being honored. Just like every cell of the body will take in nitrogen and pretend it's oxygen.
It couldn't last forever. They were suffocating. Drowning. Yet they continued to try desperately. They worked harder. Devoted themselves more deeply. They dug down inside themselves to find anything that was left and give it over to him. Just like a person gasping in their final moments, they still believed they could find in him what they needed.
Lamb didn't tumble into that. He wouldn't let himself. There were moments when he almost did. He wasn't going to lie and pretend he always maintained absolute control. That wasn't realistic. Lotan's entire existence in his life was a matter of falling under his control, if only for a minute. He gulped the false air. He let himself slip under. But every time, just before drowning, he broke through the surface and found air. In the end, he knew something about Lotan no one else did. Something he didn't even know himself. And that's what kept Lamb's head above the water.
What happened now was for Emma. If he could figure a way out, he would go, but the chances of that happening were getting slimmer by the day. Ever since Finn left, Lotan's visits had become more frequent. He didn't just leave him there in the dark as he had before. There were times when he cast Lamb into a room and left him there with no light. No sound. He had no idea whether it was day or night or how much time had passed. He never explained it or even acknowledged it happened. There would just come a time when the door would open, light would sear into his eyes, and he would go back to his room.
Not anymore. Now Lotan came nearly every day. Some days, more than once. Sometimes he would ramble and rant, asking questions and demanding answers Lamb didn't have to give him, then spilling out the rage and frustration inside him. Sometimes he spoke calmly and quietly, almost like he didn't even realize Lamb was there. He spoke about the past; he dreamed of the future. Sometimes, he did nothing at all. He came in and sat, not moving, completely silent. Hours might pass with the almost tangible silence between them; then, he would simply get up and leave.
Lamb was watching him unravel. Something was happening. Something was chipping away at him. It was a tenuous time. At any moment, he could shatter, his life and empire flailing into tiny bits. Lamb could only hope the work was done by then, and that he would not be caught by the shrapnel.
Chapter Thirty-Five
"The word 'watching' isn't accidental. He knows. He knows what I've been doing, but it's exactly what he wants me to be doing," I say.
"What are you talking about?" Sam asks.
I open my computer and pull up the vlog.
"Eric has been trying to get access to Mary Preston's private messages so we can find out what she was talking about with this See-at-Sea person. But since that might take a little bit of time, Bellamy looked the profile for me. She wasn't able to put a whole lot of time into it, but she gave me some really interesting insights. A lot of it went along with my first instincts. The name was odd and didn't make a lot of sense, but she looked at the profile and saw things in it that I didn't. She said it didn't look like it was supposed to.”
“What do you mean?”
“According to her, that type of name sounds much more like a young woman who's trying to be artistic or creative. But the way the pictures are laid out on a profile itself, it looks like a man made it. It’s not artfully curated enough to be a photographer's page, and it’s not a personal page either. It's not what it looks like.”
“So, is that what the note's talking about?” Sam asks.
“Maybe, but I think it's more than that." I click on the name, but instead of the profile opening, a text box appears on the screen. "Wait, hold on. Something’s changed." I show him the screen.
"Has that ever happened before?" he asks.
"No. I've never seen anything like that. It wants a password." I look at the fine print under the open box. "One guess."
"What's your guess?” Sam asks.
“I have an idea, but I don't want to risk it. If he says one guess, that's what he means. I don't want to tempt him. but I think I know how to figure it out.”
"How?"
I dig through my bag for my pad of paper and pen. Turning the paper to the side, I write out the screen name in large block letters so I can see each individually.
“It isn't just the profile that isn't what it looks like. It's the name itself. When he references to the lion and the eagle in the note, it was talking about my name. My name is something that isn't what it seems to be. So, maybe this name is too.”
“What does it mean?” Sam asks.
“It's not what it looks like,” I whisper to myself. “It's not what it looks like.”
I touch my pen to the paper. I try to look at them differently, to understand what it could be that it doesn't look like. My hand shakes slightly as the realization forms in my mind.
"It's not words," I tell him. "The name looks like it's made out of words. But it's not. It's letters."
"I don't understand."
I draw a line down from each of the segments, reading it out to him as I do it.
"See, at, sea. C-a-t-c. He, me. H, em, e. H, m, e." My pen digs so hard into the paper it almost tears through as I write out the words. "Catch Me."
Chapter Thirty-Six
Anson
Four months ago …
Anson always hated the types of plans that didn't fall into place until the very last minute. He wanted things laid out in front of him, perfect and exact. He wanted to be able to envision every single moment and know the final outcome before it even began. He liked to watch the seconds fall like dominoes.
That wasn't the way this was. He had everything in place. His drawings had come to life. His sketches were now metal and powder. The final piece, the key that would make it all come together, wasn't there yet. He was confident it would be. He had been working for so long, doing everything he could to make it all work together. A little bit at a time. Cautious and strategic. At any point, it could have gone off the rails. But he controlled it. He continued until he could infiltrate not just her thoughts, but her very being. In a way, he became Lotan in those moments. He knew what it felt like.
But this woman would never be like Emma. She would never become his thoughts, his breath, his delusions. She was what she was, and soon she would be nothing. And yet, she would be everything. She would be exactly what she always wanted to be. Famous. Known. Maybe not in the way she ever expected. Maybe not in the way she ever wanted. But few ever got exactly what they wanted. Perhaps this was more than she ever could have expected.
The world would know her name. They would know her face and the sound of her voice. They would flock to her image and join the masses who mourned for an image. A concept. That wasn't wrong. Not really, anyway. People needed something to hold on to, something to identify with. They wanted to feel like they were part of something, even when that was grief and loss. It made them feel stronger. Like they had collectively overcome something they barely even experienced.
But in order for that to happen, she needed to agree. She needed to say the words Anson had been waiting to hear.
“This was my plan.”
It wasn't something she ever would have come up with on her own, but he needed her to believe she did. He ne
eded her to take his suggestion and fuse it to her own thoughts so much she believed she had come up with it completely on her own. That would control her words. It would filter out any reference to him. When she spoke, she needed to speak about herself and only herself. After all, that's what they were all waiting for.
It was only hours now. Hours before he would know if his plan was going to work the way he hoped. There was a sick feeling in the waiting, but also strange exhilaration. A rush, like that moment at the top of the hill on a roller coaster.
The car pauses, and you dangle, listening to the click of the brakes, waiting for the drop.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ian
Seventeen years ago…
“Do you really have to leave?” he asked, pulling his wife into his arms.
She smiled at him. That was a smile he could never get enough of. From the first time he saw it, it took hold of him and wouldn't let go. He never wanted it to. She had given that smile to their daughter. It wasn't all the way there yet. She was still too young. There wasn't enough in her yet to form a smile like that. But it would be there someday. The time would come when she would have someone to look at who would bring that smile to her face and it would become everything.
For now, Ian was more than happy to have their daughter at home. She was still young. He could still protect her. It wouldn't be much longer before she was old enough to want to take on the world by herself, and he wouldn't be able to shield her. Her entire life, all he had ever tried to do was shield her. She would understand that one day. At least, he hoped she would.
“Yes, love. You know I do,” Mariya said, looping her slim, graceful arms around his neck. "She needs me."
