Indigo Rain

by Watts Martin

  Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t paid attention to the footsteps behind her on the sidewalk until they stopped nearby. “Nice afternoon, isn’t it?”

  She turned to look up, startled, to see a burly human—around his mid-thirties, if she knew how read their ages correctly—standing by the bench. He dressed like a dock worker, rough denim pants and jacket. “It’s pleasant enough, yes,” she said, smoothing her dress down.

  He clucked his tongue at her, looking sympathetic. “You look like you’ve been crying.” He reached into a jacket pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, holding it out to her. The carriage came into view, turning a corner and heading down the street along the square toward her.

  She swallowed and took it, dabbing her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Guess you’ve been having a trying day.”

  “That’s a good enough description of it,” she said, handing the handkerchief back.

  “You’re real far from home, aren’t you? Most Procya are from down south in Orinthe, right?”

  “Yes,” she said, mildly surprised that he used the formal race name, let alone knew anything about them. “I’m probably not staying here in Achoren much longer. Not that it isn’t a beautiful place, but…”

  “But it’s not your home,” he supplied.

  “No, it isn’t.” She sighed a little and smiled. “I should be on my way back now.” She started to stand up.

  The carriage, just passing by, stopped.

  “Why don’t we give you a ride?” He put both hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down against the bench. The door opened and another man jumped out. He held a black sack in one hand, and rope in his other.

  Roulette’s ears went flat and she twisted in the man’s grip, pulling away and starting to stand again, but the men grabbed her arms.

  “Let me go, you—”

  The sack came down over her head, and her nostrils flooded with the scent of cinnamon. She screamed, still twisting, trying to keep her arms from being pulled behind her back. “Get her up quick,” the first man muttered.

  They lifted her up into the carriage, and she kicked wildly. Her foot connected with something soft but solid, and she heard a clatter and a curse. This gave her a little satisfaction, but didn’t save her from being shoved face-first against the carriage’s wall. She screamed again, her panic rising. Someone tied her wrists together as the carriage rolled off at a much faster clip.

  “Let me go!”

  “Shut up,” someone—the second man, she guessed—yelled above her. Then pain lanced through her side as she was kicked. Kicked by someone with a boot. She curled away, sobbing, and tried desperately to clear her head.

  Cinnamon oil, definitely. She’d read about this trick—it blocked the nose of kidnapping victims with a good sense of smell as effectively as the sack blocked their eyes. It could also partially mask more nefarious chemicals, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t hold her breath for long. It didn’t stop the burning in her nostrils. She kept herself from crying now, tried to keep her breathing shallow and even, and tugged on her wrists and jerked her head from side to side, trying to shake the sack off.

  “Stop squirming like that,” the first man’s voice said. “It’s tied loose, but you got a big fat muzzle that’s holding that bag in place, animal girl. So just sit quiet until we get where we’re going. Just a couple minutes.”

  Roulette shut her eyes against the cinnamon fumes and finally just sagged in place.

  When they pulled her out of the carriage and marched her into—somewhere—she didn’t struggle; it likely hadn’t been more than a five-minute ride, but the fumes had made her start to feel light-headed and a little nauseous.

  The floor became bare, cold stone, very much like the Aid Society’s. For a moment the feverish thought that it was the Aid Society flittered through her mind, that somehow they were all in on this together, but that didn’t make much sense. And she doubted Lisha was that good an actor.

  Someone shoved her down into a wooden seat and yanked the sack off her head. Her eyes watered so much she could barely see, and even after several heaving breaths all she could smell and taste was cinnamon.

  “Stay still,” the man in front of her—the one who’d first approached—commanded.

  “So this is what killed Jerald?” someone else—the second voice from the carriage—said, tone bitter.

  “Did a hell of a number on him.”

  “Time to pay attention,” the first one said, slapping her cheek twice lightly and snapping his fingers in front of her face. “How did you get into Jerald’s room?”

  Her vision had started clear; she tried to focus on both faces.

  “How’d you get your hands on his herani?” the other one asked.

  The first one shot the second a warning glance, then looked back at her. “How’d you even know where to find him?”

  “He let me in.” From what she could see, the room they’d taken to her was still in use as a warehouse. Boxes were pushed up against a few walls, and some drawings had been pinned to one of those walls. Architectural plans?

  “He let you in,” he repeated, then sighed. He knelt down in front of her, so his eyes were level with hers. “Look, animal girl, we’re being polite about this right now, but we don’t have to be.”

  Her feet remained free. She considered kicking him in the face, but resisted the temptation. Unless she could free her hands, she was helpless. “He saw me dancing,” she said. “In the square where you grabbed me. I was there every day.”

  “We don’t go uptown much,” the second one said in a dry tone.

  “He asked me to come to the Blue Orchid after dinner. I did. He didn’t tell me his name, he just wanted to pay money to have me dance for him.”

  “What kind of dance?” the second one said, gaze narrowing.

  “What kind do you think?” Roulette said steadily, looking directly into his eyes.

  The first man backhanded her hard enough to knock her out of the chair. She couldn’t do anything other than steel herself for the impact with the floor.

  “You watch your mouth around us,” he growled.

  She rocked herself upright into a sitting position, remaining silent. She’d accepted that she was going to die here.

  “Now try answering the question again, and tell the truth.”

  “Do you want the truth, or do you want me to tell you what I think will keep you from hitting me?”

  He clenched his hands into fists.

  “The truth is your friend invited me to his room. And that had a bunch of perfume bottles already with him, all filled with herani.”

  The two men exchanged glances. “How’d you know he had that?” the second asked.

  “I didn’t. I didn’t even know what herani was then.” She smiled bitterly. “I thought it was perfume. I thought I was spraying perfume in his eyes.”

  “Why?” the first said, voice low and dangerous.

  “To try to keep him from raping me.”

  She expected the kick when it came, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. She wheezed, clenching her eyes shut.

  “We know who you’re working with,” he spat. “Killing him wasn’t enough, you terrorists have to ruin his reputation, too?”

  “Terrorist.” She rolled back into a sitting position a second time, still breathing hard, trembling with rage as much as fear. “You tell me why he had those bottles if I’m the terrorist.”

  “Don’t you—”

  “And if I’m lying, you tell me how they found his body.”

  They exchanged glances again.

  “Or do you two really think I broke into his room, killed him with his own acid, then pulled his pants down?”

  “Damn you!” The first one didn’t kick her again, but instead grabbed her by the shoulder and hauled her to her feet. “What did he tell you about the herani?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did he tell you?” he screamed in her face.

  �
�Nothing!” she screamed back.

  He spun her around and grabbed the end of the rope tied around her wrists, then dragged her backward, flinging her through an open doorway. She skidded along the floor a yard, hearing the door slam behind her. By the time she pushed herself upright she’d heard what sounded like a padlock clapping shut.

  The room he’d tossed her into looked like a now-unused office, barely six feet across on each side. It was dark, but light came in from a small window about six feet up, as well as seeping in from under the door—well over an inch of space there. The door had a lock on this side, as would be expected for an office. She wondered if they’d put the padlock on because they expected to use it as a cell, or just so it could double as storage.

  “—kill her now and be done with it,” the second man’s voice came. He was speaking low enough that she suspected he didn’t think she could hear.

  “Not without his say-so,” the first said. “We’re supposed to get her to talk.”

  “So go in and get her to talk.”

  “I have to want to not kill her first.”

  She tugged on the rope. It was a little loose, but not enough to pull free. She couldn’t even slide her wrists around. Much. She could almost curl her fingers enough to pull at the rope. Wincing with the stress, she forced them to curl just that much more, shifting her wrists up and down until the rope slid as far down one wrist as she could get it. She could prick the claws of two fingers into the rope fiber. She started pulling at it, first frantically, then patiently. Methodically.

  “—was a married man!”

  “One we heard rumors about all the time,” the second man responded, tone exasperated.

  The rope shifted; the fibers were shredding more than shifting. She couldn’t tell if it had gotten looser or tighter. Roulette gritted her teeth and kept at it.

  “I can’t believe you think she’s telling the truth!”

  “It’s easier to believe than any of the other options, and you know it.”

  They continued to argue, moving far enough away from the door that she couldn’t make out their words.

  Closing her eyes and tilting her head back, she kept picking at the rope. Her fingers and claws began to ache dully; her wrists felt like needles had been jabbed into them. She lost track of time to the point where it might have been another minute or another hour before the rope slid—just the barest amount—down her palm. She started working it down, ignoring the pain of the squeeze.

  The voices outside returned, now with a third she recognized. Massey.

  One of her hands popped out of the rope loop. She brought her hands in front of her and quickly pulled it off the other one, and rubbed her wrists for a few seconds.

  First things first. She stood up, walking in what she knew to a human would be complete silence—bare paws were an advantage over hard shoes—and locked the door from her side, turning the bolt as softly as she could.

  “—haven’t finished questioning the bitch yet,” the first man was saying, sounding sulky.

  “She doesn’t know anything,” the second man said.

  “Are you sure Jerald didn’t tell her more than he should have, thinking she wouldn’t be alive to share the information? We now have a sad abundance of evidence that he was as careless as he was perverted,” Massey responded.

  “Mostly sure.”

  “‘Mostly’ isn’t ‘sure,’” the first man snapped.

  Massey sighed melodramatically. “She’s not going anywhere now, I trust? Let’s review what you two need to do.”

  Roulette glanced at the window. She’s sure as hell going to try to go somewhere now. But if they were about to talk about their plans, reveal whatever plot Lisha had spent weeks worrying over, she’d better wait. If she wasn’t going to die tonight, she’d damn well get out of here knowing what these bastards were up to.

  The voices moved farther away, and she heard paper moving. The drawings on the wall. Dammit, she couldn’t see—

  Wait. She checked her pockets and found the little recording orb. Crouching, she set it down just by the crack in the door and leaned toward it, touching a finger to it. “Record,” she whispered.

  It started to glow, and she pushed it just under the door.

  “The best connection point we’ve determined is here.”

  “In the crawlspace?” The first man’s voice sounded tired.

  “Yes, in the crawlspace. The main water junction would be a little obvious, don’t you think?” Massey didn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “The timer’s preset for half past noon. You just need to get the bottles up there, hook them up, and run the tube to this pipe.”

  More arguing went on. She pressed her head to the ground and tried to look out to see what the recording ball might be seeing. She could tell the men were standing by the drawings, but that was it. She hoped it had a better view than she did.

  “—don’t like this,” the second man was saying, tone sharp. “We’ll win the vote without this.”

  “We’ll win it here, but we’ll lose it nationally,” Massey said. “Yes. This is a desperate, terrible measure, but this is a desperate, terrible time. Our country will die, Ferin. Something else will be in its place, something with the same name but unrecognizable, controlled by a distant throne and hostile to patriots.”

  Roulette made a face. He was a good speaker, she’d give him that.

  “You’re the only two among the Brothers I’ve trusted with this operation. We have to show the lengths that they’ll go to.”

  “I understand,” the second man said softly enough that Roulette could barely hear.

  “Are you in or out?” the first man growled. “Because ‘out’ is with her.” Roulette didn’t need to see to know he was pointing toward her prison.

  “Is there a light there?” the second man said puzzledly.

  Roulette’s ears folded back, and she rolled the orb backward. “Stop,” she hissed at it. It went dark. She hurriedly slipped it back in her pocket, then looked up at the window. Now or never.

  The men walked toward the office, footsteps echoing.

  She put her hands on the window sill, dug her claws in and pulled herself up. It wasn’t big, but she might be able to get through. It looked like it opened.

  The padlock outside clicked open, and she heard the latch being lifted.

  She pushed up on the window, and it didn’t budge. Was there a crank? No. It probably just hadn’t been opened in years, and she didn’t have the leverage to unstick it. She needed to use both hands.

  Someone tried to open the door, jiggled the doorknob, and tried harder. “It’s stuck,” the second man’s voice came.

  Gritting her teeth, Roulette brought one foot up, then the other, digging her toe claws into the drywall. Then she shoved the claws on both hands into the window’s inner wooden frame and started to push. Pain lanced through her feet as she forced far too much of her weight onto her toe claws alone.

  The doorknob rattled again. “It’s not stuck, you idiot, she’s locked it,” the first man said with alarm.

  Shoving up with all her strength, she moved the window up just an inch, only barely choking back a scream of pain as she felt one of her claws rip.

  A solid slam sounded against the door as one of the men threw his shoulder against it. It held, for now.

  Roulette got her fingers under the window and pushed it up the rest of the way, then stuck her arms and head through it. An alleyway. She started to wriggle through.

  Another slam from inside, and the sound of wood splintering.

  She pushed with her hands, until she was half-in and half-out. This would be tough. Taking a breath, she pushed again, twisting around so she was sitting on the window sill, then pulled her legs through and dropped down more roughly than she intended. When her right foot hit the ground the pain was strong it blinded her momentarily.

  The door inside slammed open, followed by curses. “Outside!” People running for the exit.

  She
looked both ways down the alley. Openings in both directions. The warehouse’s front door would be to the right. She sprinted to the left.

  Halfway down the alley, she passed by another building’s back door; she could smell freshly baked bread. A restaurant? She tried the door; it was locked. Someone had to be in there, though.

  It might not be someone friendly. But she didn’t have time to look for a second option. She banged on the door with both fists. “Help!”

  Someone opened the door; before she even saw who it was she threw herself inside. It wasn’t a restaurant, but a bakery, with two startled humans staring at the bedraggled, dirty raccoon woman who’d just burst in, bleeding from one foot. She hated to think it, but she’d have much rather have surprised non-humans.

  “People kidnapped me and I just escaped and if they find me they’re going to kill me,” she said breathlessly. “Please help.”

  They kept gawking, but a third man hurried in, another human, portly and mustachioed with thinning black hair. “Kill you? Calm down, miss. You can’t—”

  She heard footsteps in the alleyway, and her ears folded back. She spun around and locked the door behind her. The sound of someone trying the door came just a second later, followed by sharp knocking.

  The bakers all looked at one another, and remained silent.

  The footsteps took off at a run.

  “Here.” The older man pulled up a cushioned stool and set Roulette down on it. “Alfon, get the Guard.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I don’t—it’s—it’s hard to explain. Do you know where the Pan-Species Aid Society is? Just off Andersen?”

  “Sure,” one of the assistants said. “It’s just a few minutes away.”

  “Could—could you go there? Please? Get Tiran. Or Gregir.” She hesitated, then sighed inwardly. “Or Lisha.”

  “Tiran, Gregir, Lisha,” the assistant repeated, and looked at his boss.

  The older man nodded, waving the man toward the exit. Then the baker crouched down, lifting up Roulette’s injured foot.

  “Is the claw missing? I’m afraid to look.”