The Sleepless Stars

by C. J. Lyons

  Each morning, I’d watched the boats dock at the landing outside the gates, saw their clever use of small cranes to transfer prepackaged bundles to and from the dock, noted when and where the boats were left unattended, if even for a few seconds.

  The boat operators weren’t especially security conscious, not like the guards who never left the gates to the dock unsupervised. But if I could make it to a boat from the water, the view from the dock would be blocked by the cargo and the boat’s hull.

  All I had to do was find a way past the walls and bars and into the water.

  It was Daniel who gave me my answer. During my exploration of the island, I’d happened upon an alcove on the first floor of the ancient monastery building with a display of very old glass bottles and vials. There were droppers, calibrated measuring tools, sealed jars of all shapes and sizes, even distillation vessels. Apothecary tools. Hand blown, some exquisitely delicate.

  A memory from Daniel filtered through my vision: Francesca showing him this same display, explaining how for centuries the family had their own glass factory, creating the special equipment they needed to distill their venoms, creating both poisons and cures. She’d led him down a set of worn, stone steps, deep into a subterranean grotto carved out of the heart of the island. It was cool and damp, a constant stream of water circling in and out via a pristine tidal pond filled with crystal-clear water. Beside it were the ancient stone ovens used to forge the molten glass before it was blown, manipulated, and cooled in the water.

  At the time, thirty-some years ago, the abandoned glass forge was their secret rendezvous site. Now, it was the start of my escape.

  I waited until even with the irregular sleep-wake cycle of my fellow fatal insomniacs, the monastery had gone silent. It was just past four in the morning on the thirty-first. As I’d done on previous nights, I tossed and turned and finally left my bed to go into the bathroom and use the isolation tank—the one place where I’d be free of the EEG monitor and the ubiquitous surveillance cameras. I turned the lights off in the room, climbed into the tank for a few minutes, then with the lights off in the tank, climbed back out and redressed in the dark.

  Knowing that I’d be going for a swim, I sealed a set of pajamas—the only clothing Francesca had allowed me—into a plastic bag stolen from the packaging of one of the EEG caps and slipped out of my room. The lights in the corridor were dimmed, and no one was around.

  I hugged the wall and followed a path of what I hoped were blind spots from the cameras. It seemed they’d been designed and positioned more for patient safety—to make sure no one wandered into danger while disoriented from a fugue—than for security. Made sense. As Francesca had said, no one visited the island except family members suffering from fatal insomnia. Other than the lab, there was no need for any security. And it was pretty obvious that they’d never kept anyone prisoner here before. The only guards I’d seen during my time here were the men stationed at the main gate and the entrance to the lab.

  I liked the idea of using their hubris against them and especially enjoyed the fact that Francesca’s youthful indiscretions with Daniel Kingston were the path to my salvation. I followed the ancient stone steps down to the grotto where the glass-blowing furnaces sat empty, my footsteps disguised by the lapping of water in the tidal pool. It was the end of December, making hypothermia a definite risk, but I didn’t have to swim very far. If I’d timed it right, I wouldn’t be in the water for long.

  I waded through the pool, shivering. The water was maybe fifty degrees at most. At the grotto’s entrance, the water became deep enough for me to swim. I tied the plastic bag to my waist with a spare bathrobe belt, dived in, sputtered against the cold, and swam.

  The dark water closed over my head, and I realized the one thing I’d forgotten to factor into my plan: the current.

  Chapter 47

  AT FIRST I panicked, allowing the greedy sea to smother me with its freezing embrace. The currents tugged at me, pulling me out to sea, no matter how hard I thrashed. Ryder’s pendant bobbed up, but noticing it brought me the calm I needed to focus. That and a memory of my father teaching me and my baby sister to swim, coaxing us through our fear of the water.

  I forced myself to relax, kicking only enough to keep my head above water. As I floated, I realized the current was doing the work for me—it flowed naturally around the island and was taking me toward the side where the dock was. Soon, I was treading water out of sight of the guards inside the gates, waiting for the first boat to arrive.

  It was the laundry man. Perfect. As his crane clattered and squeaked, hoisting bales of fresh linen onto the dock, I swam to the side and pulled myself up over the gunwale. I lay on a bale of uniforms that stank of dead fish, hauling in my breath, shuddering with the cold. Finally, I pushed two bales apart, leaving just enough room for me to hide between them, and rolled down into the space, the laundry on either side hiding me from everyone except the occasional seagull flying directly overhead.

  The boat pulled away without any sign of an alert from the island. We chugged out onto the rollicking open water. I was surrounded by dirty linen, which hopefully meant no reason for anyone to come near my part of the boat. It was a tight fit for changing into my dry clothing, but I managed it before the boat docked at its next stop.

  I waited past the island stops until the laundry boat docked at one of the hotels on the Grand Canal in Venice proper. Once we came to a stop, I raised my head up far enough to watch the boatman.

  He must have been friends with the staff here at the Europa, because instead of immediately unloading his baskets of fresh linens, he waved a hearty greeting to someone out of sight on the dock and hopped off, disappearing through the staff entrance. I edged past the bales of laundry until I reached the side of the boat. Grabbing on to a cleat on the dock, I hoisted myself up and over, then duck-walked through the puddles covering the dock to the guest side of the terrace where only a knee-high ledge with planters of flowers separated the working dock from a dining area.

  Two steps later and I was on the guest side of the wall and heading through the vacant dining room, out a set of double doors, through an empty ballroom, and into a large marble-floored hallway leading past the concierge desk into the main hotel lobby. A phone. I needed a phone and a place to hide—I was much too obvious in my silk pajamas and bare feet.

  I found both behind the chest-high concierge desk. The clock on the phone said twenty after six—the Lazarettos would know I was gone by now and would be tracing the laundry boat’s route. I hoped I hadn’t gotten the boatman into too much trouble.

  Behind the desk was a cloakroom and in the corner of that what appeared to be a lost and found. I stretched the phone cord as far into the cloakroom as possible and dialed Ryder. Had to hang up and do it twice until I got the country code correct. Not just one. Zero-zero-one.

  By now I was shaking with fatigue and fear. I wrapped an abandoned pink and yellow flowered raincoat around me. It was two sizes too large, but I didn’t mind—it was warm. I added a wool scarf to complete my disguise and hide my shaven head. No one had left any shoes behind, unfortunately.

  Finally, Ryder answered. “It’s me. Is it safe to talk?” I asked, not sure if his phone might be monitored. After what I’d seen of the Lazarettos’ operations, I wouldn’t put it past them.

  “Rossi.” His voice flooded with relief, as did my entire body. I sagged against the doorjamb, sliding to sit on the ground when my legs gave out. “Are you all right? Where are you?”

  “I’m okay, but they’re looking for me. I’m at a hotel called the Europa on the Grand Canal. That’s Venice. Italy.” How the hell was he going to get anyone here in time to help me? I was wasting precious time calling him—but I couldn’t help myself. I needed to hear his voice. And warn him not to trust any deal they made with Francesca.

  “We’re not far,” he replied.

  “What? How?”

  “Price. He tracked you to Venice, but after that, we lost you.”
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  Men’s voices came from the corridor. They sounded loud, angry—or maybe just Italian boisterous. It was hard to tell. They weren’t close enough for me to understand anything they were saying.

  I muted the phone but left the speaker on so Ryder could still hear. The footsteps grew louder, the marble floor making them sound like gunshots. Two men came into view: the boatman, talking very fast and gesticulating wildly, and Tyrone, who did not look happy, not at all.

  “Tyrone’s here,” I whispered before sliding the phone back onto the ledge beneath the desk. Then I scuttled back into the cloakroom to hide behind the door, pressing my eye to the tiny opening between the hinges. I hated that I was essentially backed into a corner here—Ryder would have scoffed at my tactical position, but I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

  Tyrone and the boatman stopped in front of the desk, arguing, their voices raised until a man in a hotel uniform approached from the lobby, clearly asking them to lower their voices. The boatman shut up and sidled away as Tyrone spoke to the concierge, showing him something on his phone—a photo of me, I was certain since he ran his hand over his head as if to show the man I now had no hair.

  The concierge shook his head vehemently. They leaned against the desk, not four feet away from me. I tried not to stare directly at Tyrone for fear that he would sense my presence, but when I looked away, I saw imprints of my wet, bare feet clearly visible on the marble floor behind the desk. I cringed and glanced around the small room for anything I could use as a weapon.

  Ryder was on his way, I told myself. But that only made things worse, because then Tyrone would know he was here and might hurt him. I grabbed the nearest object as a weapon: a small, foldable pocket umbrella from the lost-and-found carton.

  When I looked back through the slit between the hinges, I swallowed a gasp. Tyrone was leaning over the desk, fumbling on the ledge for something. If he turned his head, he would see that the phone’s speaker indicator was lit.

  The concierge took umbrage over Tyrone’s trespass and practically slapped him away from his territory. He took a half step around the desk, grabbed a bowl of matchbooks, and offered it to Tyrone. When Tyrone took out his pack of cigarettes, the concierge shook his head and pointed to the door to the terrace, back the way Tyrone had come.

  Tyrone grumbled and frowned, but the concierge held his ground, and he finally left. Probably to question the staff in charge of the dock.

  My relief was short-lived as the concierge rounded the desk and seemed ready to start work. Where was Ryder? How long would it take him to reach me?

  A man’s voice called out from the main lobby. My heart sped. It was Devon. He was chatting up the desk clerks, playing the loud, ignorant tourist, and they were waving the concierge over to help.

  I edged past the door as soon as the concierge disappeared into the lobby, using the desk to hide me as I scanned both directions. I looked up to see Ryder beckoning to me from a corridor on the other side of the lobby.

  I fought not to stare at him. Not because of how bad he looked—he had a ball cap on, but nothing could disguise his black eyes, and he was much too pale.

  All I wanted to do was spend the rest of eternity looking at him.

  First, I had to focus on the job at hand. Cross the lobby without being spotted. Okay. Act natural. That was the best way not to draw attention. I drew my scarf up over my missing hair—slim disguise, but it was all I had—and strolled across the opulent lobby as if I belonged there.

  Ryder backed up behind two swinging doors, watching me as he held one open. I crossed into the hallway, out of sight of the main lobby desk, through the doorway, and fell into his arms.

  Chapter 48

  RYDER BUNDLED ROSSI into his arms. He squeezed her tighter than he needed to, as if she was a wisp of a dream that a strong breeze would steal away. They needed to move, move now, now, now, before Tyrone returned with more men, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed this. Just this moment. Not of passion or romance, but of relief. As if, finally, his heart was healed.

  Too soon, he set her on her feet and took her hand. “Move quickly but with confidence. Two tourists out for a morning stroll.”

  She nodded, wrapped the scarf tighter around her head—Christ, what had they done to her?—and gamely kept pace with him despite her lack of shoes. He led her down the carpeted hallway to the steps, then down and out the fire exit that was hidden down a short corridor. Price had disarmed the alarm when they came in, so no worries there, but still, he went first and scouted the narrow, cobblestoned alley beyond.

  No movement except a man pushing a cart away from them. Ryder beckoned to her, and they hurried down the alley. It was barely seven, the city just waking. He wished he could do something about her bare feet, but the best thing was to get her to safety, and they didn’t have far to go.

  “We’re working from a flat Price rented under a dummy name,” he whispered as they skirted puddles and hurried along the cobblestones. He had to admit, Price and the Kingston fortune were coming in handy. “It’s over near the opera house, just a few blocks away. Can you make it that far?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide as they crossed the main thoroughfare and headed down a side street populated by restaurants and jewelry shops. A small bridge crossed over a canal, another short walk to the plaza where the stately opera house stood, then a right turn down an anonymous alley so narrow they could barely walk side by side.

  Twelve seconds later, he’d unlocked a door with a polished lion’s head doorknocker, and they were inside, safe and sound. Finally, he did what he’d been desperate to do since the last time he’d seen her.

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She reached her arms up to encircle his neck, and his ball cap tumbled to the ground. He slid his hands beneath the bulky raincoat she wore, exploring her body as if assuring himself that she truly was unharmed. Her scarf slid free as they finally parted.

  “My God. What did they do to you?” he asked, tracing his lips over her shaven scalp. Leave it to Rossi to look even more beautiful without hair—although he would miss it. He loved how it fell, so silken against his chest when they made love, the way it cascaded and shimmered when she played her fiddle.

  “I could ask you the same thing.” She stretched a finger but didn’t touch the surgical horseshoe of staples along his scalp.

  “Not as good a job as when you stapled me together last month.”

  “Seriously, Ryder.” Her tone grew stern. He loved it when she played doctor. “You shouldn’t even be out of bed—”

  “I’m fine.” If fine included thundering headaches, vertigo, nausea, and ribs that tried to stab him with every breath. “Now that you’re here.”

  She shook her head, but couldn’t hide her smile. She kissed him again, gently. “I missed you.”

  “Easy fix for that.” He wrapped his arms around her once again.

  A key rattled in the lock. Ryder spun, reaching for the Beretta at his back. He pushed Rossi behind him.

  “Don’t mind me,” Price said as he opened the door. Ryder cursed his lousy timing.

  “Any sign of them?” Ryder asked, forcing himself to concentrate on the fact that they were still in enemy territory. Difficult to do with Rossi’s body pressed against him in the narrow hallway.

  “Yes, but nowhere near here. And before you ask, no, they didn’t follow me.” Devon shoved past Ryder to greet Rossi with open arms. “Angela.” His tone started out triumphant but twisted into regret. He gave her a long hug, then pulled her down the hallway to the sitting room that overlooked the canal. “Guess you’re one princess who doesn’t need a Prince Charming to come to her rescue.”

  “Give her a break,” Ryder said. “She’s freezing. The bath is upstairs, and I brought clothing.” He wanted to take her up himself, but he and Price needed to talk.

  She curled up on an armchair big enough for only one, her coat wrapped around her as she shivered. “No. I need to tell you first.”

 
“What?” Price asked, perching on the heavy coffee table in front of her.

  Ryder hovered behind her, wanting to pluck her from the chair and take her upstairs, get her warm and in bed, but he shoved those protective instincts aside to focus on the mission. She was right. A debrief took priority over her comfort, as much as he hated to admit that.

  By the time she finished telling her harrowing story, describing Francesca’s plan, the containment lab where the lethal prions were stored, the island filled with dying family members, he couldn’t help himself; he’d sat on the arm of the chair and curled his arm around her shoulders, refusing to let her go no matter how unprofessional it might be.

  “We need to go back,” she finished. “Destroy those prions.”

  “Major obstacles,” Ryder delineated. “We can’t let them grab Rossi again. That’s numbers one through ten. Then we have getting past the guards and onto the island—”

  “The grotto I escaped through.”

  “If they haven’t tumbled onto the fact that you used it. Big if,” Price put in, standing up and wandering around the room with its heavy antiques. He ended up at the other end, where a hall led past the kitchen to the front bedroom. Price held a hand up as if he’d just thought of an idea and vanished into the room.

  “I’m actually not too worried about getting in,” Ryder continued. “I have some ideas there. But once we’re inside, we’ll have the entire populace to deal with—”

  “Most of them are sick, unarmed. We can’t just go around shooting everyone.”

  “I understand. But that only gives the armed forces another advantage: human shields. Even beside that, our biggest obstacle—”

  “The containment lab. The only person I saw able to access it was Francesca. The security system is keyed to her biometrics plus special codes on every control.”

  Price returned from the bedroom. “How’d you two like a late Christmas present?” he asked, pulling a phone from his pocket and waggling it before them.