The Lost Codex

by Lyons, Heather

  Once the body beneath me ceases its twitching, I tell Finn, “You ought to sit down and rest.” To Grymsdyke, I say, “I’ll take first watch. Get some rest, as we have a long day before us still.”

  My assassin scuttles to the top of the armoire, coughing as he constructs a web.

  Finn motions toward one of the beds. “There are straps both on the head and foot boards.”

  I dust off my skirt as I peer more closely at the items in question. “I promise not to strap you down.” I force a naughty grin, even though my stomach churns at the thought of such confinement. I get to work on lighting the remaining two candles in the room. “Unless, of course, you want me to.”

  His laugh is little more than a soft burst of air, punctuated by a wince.

  I hurry to his side, herding him toward the bed. It isn’t soft, but the sheets are clean and tucked in neatly. Whoever sleeps within this room may require restraints but also possesses a sense of discipline. “Let me look at your wounds.”

  He brushes off my concern like a bothersome Gnat buzzing about. “We—”

  “Finn.” I adore him dearly, but I refuse to allow senseless ego to override common sense. “Although I would love to admit my concern for your health is purely due to the strength of my feelings for you, I must also selfishly admit I am not the only person depending on you today.”

  Resistance melts into curiosity.

  I carefully peel off the tattered shirt as I recount my meeting with Harry and about the gunpowder stockpile. Too many pieces of cloth stick to his wounds, and the urge to simultaneously weep and rage at the destruction wreaked against his beautiful body nearly drives me back into madness’ arms.

  His back is nothing but slashes of angry lines. His front is a puzzle missing several pieces.

  “We have to find Victor,” he snaps as I rummage through the armoire.

  I select a plain cotton shift hanging within and begin ripping it into shreds. “All the more reason you’re needed in decent fighting condition.”

  “I won’t let you blow this damn mountain up until I find him.”

  I take no offense to this, either. Instead, I wet some of the strips with water from the washbasin and gently dab at his wounds. He hisses, and I wish oh so much that I could strip all his pain away.

  I can no longer hold back the tears. What must he have endured while I slept?

  I clean the dirt and crusted blood covering and surrounding the cuts littering his body. Winces erupt as I methodically, gently, make my way across this new map. Each bit of pain I uncover stokes the fire within me, until I am certain that if another of the Chosen, let alone the Piper or the thirteenth Wise Woman, were to stand before me, I would shred their heads from their necks with my bare hands and jagged, dirty nails.

  When I am finished, he wipes the traces of my anger and helplessness away with his thumbs and sweet kisses. “I’m okay,” he whispers, but I know this is a lie.

  I set aside a bloody rag and pick up a clean one. He asks, “What about you?”

  Soft snores drift down to us from the top of the armoire. At least one of our party sleeps. “I am fine. Lift your chin, please.”

  “Alice. . .”

  Beneath the stubble are yellowish bruises that claim days of residency. “Hush. I’m almost finished cleaning. Afterward, I’ll need to wrap your wounds until we obtain medical attention.”

  My stubborn Finn fails to do as requested. “Where did they keep you?”

  I stare ahead, into the darkness encroaching upon us. “The dungeons.”

  I can feel his eyes trace over me. I am filthy, and a bit worse for the wear from the day’s altercations, but it is starkly obvious that I have not been abused like he has.

  Nonetheless, he asks, “Did they hurt you?”

  My conscience throbs. “Please, do not worry needlessly about me.”

  “I worried when I couldn’t find you.” He presses his forehead against my cheek. “No one would tell me about you. Not that I expected them to answer, but still. It was like you disappeared. I was so damn terrified that something bad happened.”

  “There is nothing to tell.” My truth is brittle. Resentful. “From what I gather, no one could wake me from whatever sleep the Piper lured me into.” Or the twelfth Wise Woman.

  His breath heaves. “Thank God.”

  With my teeth, I tear new strips of cloth from the shrinking shift. “Did you also sleep?”

  It is a plea, to be honest. A fervent wish.

  “A bit.” He shifts upon the mattress, and one of the wounds bleeds anew. “I wanted to continue sleeping, to be honest, but . . . I had to keep my promises.”

  I motion for him to lift his arms so that I might begin the bindings. “Did you dream? Or . . . perhaps believe all of this was merely a dream?”

  The sound of his uneven breathing is all I hear for several beats. But then admits, “Yeah.” The ghost of a laugh runs its transparent fingers against my neck. “Thought I was back at the Institute, and everything was like it used to be. I wanted it to be real. Letting go wasn’t easy.” Another pause stretches between us as his words resonate all too strongly. “You?”

  I knot the end of two strips together. “The same, only I believed I was in Wonderland.”

  “Our safe places,” he murmurs.

  I shake my head, my golden strands mixing with his. “We are safer together. Wherever that is, is our safe place.”

  He grabs one of my hands. Kisses it.

  I tie off an additional strip of cloth. “Get some rest before we head out to find Victor. You will need your strength.”

  Praise Wonderland, he does not fight me when I urge him down onto the mattress. “Sara, too.”

  Sara? It takes a moment before the name resonates. Sara Carrisford, Finn’s former partner. We saw her amongst the Chosen shortly before our capture.

  I keep my tone neutral. “If she’s here, Finn, it may be too late.”

  “She helped me. Risked getting caught to help me when. . .” His swallow is audible. “She’s fighting it. She’s not one of them, at least, not fully. I won’t leave her behind.”

  I wish I shared his optimism.

  “Stay here, with me?”

  I’m relieved to hear that the onslaught of drowsiness has settled in.

  “Of course.” I press my hand in his as I sit next to him. “Sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

  “Don’ let me sleep too long.” His childhood soft twang emerges. “Gotta fin’ Victor an’ Sara.”

  I brush aside sweaty, golden-brown curls from his forehead. “I’ll wake you in an hour.”

  I snuff all candles save the one lit when we entered and then wait by the door, a knife in hand. One occupant lies lifeless beneath a mattress, purple and covered in dried pus, but there are two beds within this room.

  I am not one for surprises.

  Fatigue worms its way into my muscles and eyelids, which makes little sense, considering I spent the better part of the last several days sleeping. I refuse to wake either Grymsdyke or Finn until they have had enough rest, even if I wish for their counsel.

  Neither Finn nor I have our editing pens in order to depart this Timeline. In addition to finding Victor (and apparently Sara), we must track down one or the other’s device in order to escape this infernal mountain, unless Harry or one of his comrades knows of an exit.

  My plan was a poor one, built upon desperation and fervor. I conscripted the help of an equally desperate man who has little to no experience in such matters. For all the good it may do, I may be sending innocents to their grave come dawn.

  I may be sending Finn and Grymsdyke to the same graves.

  I would happily sit at the Caterpillar’s feet once more, if only he could offer me sarcastic, at times belittling, yet always sage counsel.

  The door latch depresses, and the fatigue so freshly plaguing me retreats. I swiftly step to the side of the door, knife bared, as it swings open. I waste no time grabbing hold of the visitor, kicking the door shut. My
blade rests against her windpipe.

  “Move,” I whisper, “and you will have savored your last breath.”

  Bristled legs appear on top of the dark hair facing me. Grymsdyke must not have been sleeping as soundly as I hoped.

  “Say the word, Your Majesty, and I will take care of this villain.”

  “Not yet,” I tell my assassin. “I possess questions that require answers.”

  “A-Alice?”

  Her voice is familiar, and while hesitation sets in, my blade presses more firmly against her throat.

  “Oh, thank goodness.” The woman I’m holding does not move, nor does she struggle. “You found Finn. I have been in a tizzy, wondering how to get to him tonight.”

  I’ll be damned. There was no need to search for Sara Crewe Carrisford, Finn’s former partner, as she has gone and found us.

  “We don’t have much time.” While she remains still, urgency hurries her words. “Check-ins begin in twenty minutes. Strap me to the bed if you must, but please, they cannot find him here. Or you.”

  My options are rapidly dwindling. I spin her around, knife still at the ready. Sara obliges by continuing to remain docile.

  Her eyes are green, not black.

  “You are not in rapture.”

  Her lower lip tugs in between her teeth. “I fight it best I can. Sometimes there are moments of clarity, and I cling to them as one would a piece of driftwood after a boat capsizes. I am not always successful, though.” Her attention shifts, settling upon Finn’s still sleeping form. “My worry over whether or not he would live this day has kept the rapture at bay today.”

  “Grymsdyke, you may leave her person,” I begin, but Sara turns her head, slowly but assuredly.

  “Is your spider poisonous?”

  “Venomous,” Grymsdyke answers. “The one we met coming out of this room now lies lifeless beneath the bed we stand before.”

  A shuddery breath lifts Sara’s chest. “Then do not leave me. If I fall prey to rapture, give me the same fate.”

  The assassin settles in, twisting his legs into strands of her hair. “Your hair will make a decent nest.”

  “You need to leave,” Sara says, and my laugh is just as quiet and bitter all at once. “Get Finn back to the Institute. He needs a doctor. They took him to—” Words clog within her throat. “He needs to see the Librarian. She’ll know.”

  “I would like nothing more than to immediately exit this place,” I tell her, “but as neither of us are in possession of our pens, and Victor is still missing—”

  “I don’t know where Victor is. No one has mentioned him.” Her hands, lacing in and out of one another, tremble. “You’re wasting time. They’re coming for check-in. If they find you, if they take you to the witch. . .” She sniffles loudly. “If he goes back to her. . .”

  A blizzard of questions nearly weighs me down. I settle on the most pressing. “Will you assist us?”

  “I cannot promise to remain myself. I’ve tried so hard, for so long, to resist the music. I am nothing more than a bomb waiting to explode. Leave me behind.” She wipes angrily at the wetness staining her fair skin. “Better yet, have your spider bite me to guarantee my silence.”

  In Wonderland, perhaps, I might have considered such an action merciful. But I know Sara’s story, I know the strength of her heart, of her convictions and love for her colleagues within the Society. She is a victim, used badly by the Piper. Sara Carrisford is yet another reason he must pay for his sins.

  I roll my shoulders, stretching my still-stiff muscles. “Finn will not leave without you. He has made that clear.”

  I will not leave without her.

  “Tell him I was in rapture. Better yet, tell him I attacked you.”

  “You have yet to attack anyone,” Grymsdyke mutters.

  “This is not who you are, Sara. Rather than give in to the Piper and hurt your colleagues, you ran far away, back to your Timeline. You remained vigilant. You fought for Finn when he showed up at your house. You continued to fight for him here. Fight for yourself, too. Do not give up so easily.” I take her trembling hand in mine. “You are not alone, Sara. Your life has value, it has worth—not to the Piper and the Chosen, but to all those who know you. To all of the Timelines you have aided over the years. But most importantly, to yourself.”

  Her breath is a cross between a hitch and a hiccup. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “I wish it were. I have long learned that life, itself, is not easy. It just is. Death is easy, though. There are times when death is necessary, when it is the right choice. And there are other times when it is the coward’s way out. Help us, Sara. In turn, we will help you. There must be someone within all of the Timelines who possesses the ability to remove this festering so-called rapture from your and Wendy’s minds.”

  Her hesitation is small, the span of a heartbeat, maybe two, before she offers me her silent agreement.

  There is no time to take pause and enjoy relief, though. “What will happen when they find one bed empty, and the body of another occupant dead beneath the frame?”

  “I don’t know.” Her whispered words tremble just as badly as her limbs. “They confine those of us who are not elevated to our beds.”

  The elevated . . . “Do you mean the original children the Piper kidnapped?”

  “No one has clarified, but that is my guess.”

  Frabjous. Undoubtedly, an alarm would be triggered, and a search.

  I make my way over to Finn. “Well then. I suppose we must find a secure location so that I can fill you in on the rest of the plan.”

  I gently shake Finn’s shoulder. Sara asks, “You have a plan?”

  She does not hide her hope as he slowly wakens, even if it is all too evident she shares none of it for herself.

  “It is mimsy and riddled with more holes than a butter-sieve, but yes,” I admit. “I have a plan.”

  “Plans are good,” my love murmurs, sand still clinging to his voice and body. And then, “You found her.”

  “She found us.” I hold Sara’s eyes. “And she’s coming with us, too.”

  HAVING ONLY BEEN A resident of Koppenberg Mountain a single day before us, Sara’s knowledge of its layout is incomplete. Grymsdyke abandons his perch upon her head in order to scout, and it is clear Sara suffers from an internal argument over whether or not he must return in order to prevent her from going rogue.

  She refuses all weapons, even when Finn argues the necessity.

  Twice, we are forced to retreat within shadowy recesses when footsteps and voices come too close for comfort. Keen to prohibit any undue attention drawn to us, especially when Finn is in such delicate condition, I allow the Chosen to pass by without bloodshed.

  We descend two floors before entering an eerily unoccupied corridor, one that drowns in neglect. Long-abandoned webs covered in dust and neglect drape the scant amounts of visible furniture, and assumed electrical lighting gives way to dying torches.

  “Do you know this place?” My voice is little more than a whisper to Sara.

  Her response is even quieter than my own. “I was warned to never come down here, on pain of death.”

  My teeth are once more in danger of turning to powder.

  Finn groans and stumbles; I catch him before he falls. Fresh red stains bloom upon his tattered shirt. “Are you sure?”

  His eyes are not focused on me, nor Sara, but on a nearby door as he asks this.

  Sara hesitantly tries the closest door’s latch. “I’ve heard it at least two or three times now.”

  “There.” He winces as he gestures weakly at the painted black wood and rusty handle bearing a large lock. “We need to go in there.”

  Sara shares in my surprise, but immediately makes her way toward the door.

  I fumble for reason. “Finn, we don’t know who might be within. Let us—”

  He jerks away, brandishing the blade I’d given him. “I hope you’re right about this.”

  Sara attempts to grab hold of him
as he nears the door. “Finn? Are you all right?”

  He does not respond to her, either.

  Is he . . . hallucinating? From the fever? A quick glance shows his eyes beautifully blue-gray, not black.

  I am not quick enough to prevent him from slamming the butt of his blade against the lock. A peal rings out, followed by a second attempt. I drag one of my own daggers out, wary of visitors curious of suspicious sounds.

  But the lock gives way, clattering to the ground. Finn pushes the door open, collapsing across the threshold.

  Both Sara and I dart forward; she snatches a torch from the wall, I kick the lock within the room. Grymsdyke scuttles in a mere second before I shut the door behind us.

  I set the lantern down and bend down to assist Finn. I tell my assassin, “Scout the room to assure we have no surprise visitors.”

  “I will help.” Sara motions for him to climb upon her head. Together, woman and Spider need no further instruction before disappearing into the darkness.

  “Where is—” Finn’s swallow is audible as he struggles to stand. “I can’t. . .” And then he retches once more as I hold him in my arms.

  I am smoothing his sweaty hair back, murmuring words of love and encouragement, when the door and wall behind us begin to shudder. In firelight, we watch in stunned silence as seams stitch together and disappear altogether, leaving behind a room with no apparent exit.

  Finn’s inhalation is audible; mine is the same.

  We have seen such a door before. Victor disappeared behind a vanishing room the day we entered the mountain.

  Perhaps, once more, luck is smiling down upon us after abandoning us for days.

  “Victor?” Finn’s call is hoarse, a strangled pant. “Victor!”

  “Sara and Grymsdyke are searching,” I whisper. “They will find him if he is here. But if the creature is, too, we must not bring attention to ourselves.”

  Gleaming, wild eyes glance around the area around us. “We need to—help us find him. Please. I can’t—” He swallows once more. “He’s afraid of the dark. Always has been.”