“You mean Mrs. Kaufman taught you?” I said, unable to believe that our rice-cake-eating Spanish teacher—who I now realized was going to be a killer, if she wasn’t already—was behind everything.
“No.” Abigail gave a short laugh. “Not her.” She giggled hysterically; then stifled her laughter. “My mom. She’s a witch, a real one, yes, and the library is where she has her meetings, her séances, but only at night.”
“What do you mean?” I said, forgetting about being subtle. “Are you saying you never met your own mom till that night?”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” Abigail raised her voice and stepped on my head again. “Before that she wouldn’t let me go to her meetings; she said I wasn’t right for them.”
Her pressure on my head lessened. “But I begged her. So, she finally said yes, and I proved myself. I proved to all of them I could do it.”
I froze—not that I was moving much anyway, since I could not even raise my head—but did her last statement mean it was true, that she had been slowly poisoning me?
What was in my blood? Would it affect me the same as it had Pamela, or had it been interrupted?
I had been feeling strange but had not completely lost touch with reality. Since Abigail had already proved herself to be a liar, was she lying now or just going along with Mrs. Kaufman?
“The library is the perfect place,” Abigail said dreamily. “They have a security alarm, but she knows how to deactivate it. Unfortunately, someone got there early one night and didn’t wait for her. The alarm went off, the air supply was sucked out, and the person suffocated. We left the body there, went on with our séance and received our instructions. When the séance was over, we just stepped over the body on our way out. My mom took care of whoever it was and reactivated the system.”
“Took care?” I said. “What did she do?”
Abigail leaned closer and whispered, “She made the body go away. She can do that.”
If it were possible, my spirits sank even lower than they were. Her story was believable. We had all been warned to stay out of the library after hours or we would face terrible consequences. There is an armed guard—or was—and we just assumed the “terrible consequences” were that he would arrest us. I didn’t know it meant we would suffocate.
“That’s where you’re going, Olivia,” Abigail said, her voice sounding like she was promising me a surprise—which she was. “And Pamela, too.”
“Pamela? Where is she?”
Several thumps and a muffled scream came from the back of the car.
“In the trunk,” Abigail said. “You should be happy we put her there instead of you.”
“That’s really generous of you. I—ouch!” Abigail’s foot almost crushed my head.
“But Pamela is making too much noise.” Abigail turned and as she did her foot scraped my cheek. She shifted around and the car seat squeaked. She lifted the console lid. Screams blared from the trunk.
“Let me out of here!” Pamela shrieked, as the gag was pulled away.
There was a brief tussle. I heard a sharp slap.
“Shut up or I’ll do it again.” Abigail must have stuffed something in Pamela’s mouth and pulled the gag back up because the screaming stopped.
The console lid clicked. Abigail sat back in the seat.
Stifled crying and choking came from the trunk.
“I said ‘shut up.’” Abigail pounded on the console and the crying stopped.
“There, that takes care of her.” Abigail brushed her hands together. “That should keep her quiet for a while.”
I heard the satisfaction in Abigail’s voice and did not ask any more questions. Instead, I listened to the steady rhythm of tires spinning over black top. Every time the car went over a bump or hit a pothole, it jarred me, and my head hit the floor.
How much time was left before they reached their destination? Was Mrs. Kaufman taking the fastest route up Sepulveda, or going the long way on the 405 Freeway? Should I try to get away when we arrived, or scream for help?
My thinking went no further. Abigail grabbed the back of my neck and pressed the same foul-smelling rag over my nose and mouth. I tried to twist away from her, but she gripped harder.
I wanted to grab her arm and break it; grab her hair and yank it out. I wanted to . . ..
Chapter 33. Encased
Voices surrounded me. I tried to recognize at least one of them. If I did, I could appeal to their better nature, beg them to listen, make them regret—what? I didn’t know what was in store for me and Pamela, or maybe I was denying they were going to kill us. At the same time, it would be more dejecting to know someone I trusted had betrayed me. Better to think they were all strangers than lose what little hope was left.
I was no longer in the car and my eyes were blindfolded. One of my captors grabbed my arm and shoved me forward. I couldn’t see where I was going, and my foot jammed into a hard object. I stumbled.
“Watch your step.”
I should have guessed it would be Mrs. Kaufman shoving me around, but whatever they had knocked me out with left me too dazed to think right. I winced as Mrs. Kaufman clenched my upper arm in a vise-like grip. Then I stepped forward hesitantly.
When did she get so strong, I thought, still hazy?
“More stairs ahead,” Mrs. Kaufman said. “Now up we go. That’s a good girl. I don’t want to drag you by your hair.”
With Mrs. Kaufman guiding me like a jailer, I took a few more careful steps.
“Take off the hood. Whether she sees anything or not makes no difference. She will not be speaking to anyone.”
Charlotte Glasspool.
We were doomed for sure.
Mrs. Kaufman yanked the hood away, pulling out a few strands of hair along with it, and at the same time shoved me forward into a large circular room.
I clenched my jaw, and mentally added her to the list of people I would get even with if I ever got out of this alive. Fortunately, my hair had also been pulled over my face and it hid my eyes which were now glaring daggers at her. Staring at someone that way is not a good idea when they may be getting ready to throttle you.
My hands were still tied behind me. I pointed my lips to the side and blew at my messy hair so I could see where I was.
Charlotte Glasspool stood in the middle of a dimly lit room. Near her was Abigail, but the self-assuredness she had shown on the ride over was gone. She now looked small and bewildered; much the way she had the first time I ever saw her.
Enough of that, I thought. Don’t feel sorry for her. No matter how she looks, I don’t want anything to do with her.
Gradually, I took in my surroundings.
Niches were carved at intervals in the walls, a rigid body in each one. None of the bodies were mummified. Instead of being old, dried, and shriveled, they appeared to be asleep, or in a trance. But as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw their bluish pallor.
When I recognized the first person, I gasped.
Logan was in a niche halfway around the room, his eyes nearly closed. When we first came in, I saw the niches near the entrance, but the room was so dark I could not see them clearly. I looked away from Logan, and my knees almost gave out. Set deeply in niches on either side of the entrance were James and Jade. Their eyes open, staring straight ahead. Of all the bodies around the wall, they were the only ones who were not deathly pale. In the farthest niche I saw someone who looked like Ms. Renjen.
“Fae,” Charlotte Glasspool sneered.
I stared angrily at her and saw that her eyes were on James and Jade.
“I cannot kill them yet,” Charlotte Glasspool said. “They are warded, a protection of a different nature. Their Native American blood leaves them vulnerable to things such as mead, yet at the same time their magic is older, and they are impervious to things that Others cannot defend themselves against. Their mixed fae blood complicates matters even further.”
She paused and looked inwardly. “A lethal combination,” she mused. “In certain ways, th
ey are beyond my reach.” Her attention shifted toward me again. “Unless, of course, I wanted to bring destruction on the whole world, as opposed to just a small part of it.”
I smirked. What hubris to think she could destroy the world. Who did she think she was anyway?
“Go ahead, scoff, if it pleases you,” Charlotte Glasspool said. “What about angels, do you believe in them?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. Like my mom and the rest of my family we had not talked about it since we were kids, and even then, there was not a lot of discussion. Angels were brought out at Christmas and afterward they were bubble-wrapped and stored in boxes till the next year. It was tradition, the spirit of the season, and that had been enough. Her question, though, brought another thought to mind. If I did not believe, did that make me a heretic? After all, I had been raised to believe that angels existed.
“What’s it to you if I do or don’t?” I said. “You obviously don’t believe in anything, except death and destruction.”
“Well, dear,” Charlotte Glasspool taunted, “if you really don’t know, then I’ll give you an example. Angels have varying degrees of power, a hierarchy: angels, archangels, dominions, powers, and on up the ladder.
“The fae have a similar hierarchy. They also find humans more curious than threatening and for the most part do not take humans any more seriously than they do them. The fae think of humans as clumsy fools. Humans think of fae as little Tinkerbells or Periwinkles. The dummkopf who came up with that idea must have had his head wreathed in ganja.”
I had not thought of Disney-inspired fairies since I was a little kid. I much preferred the flower fairies—that is until Maleficent told her story which had changed my ideas about fairies, but I never believed they were real.
“What are you going to do with us?” I said.
“The fae do not care a whit about human rights or cruel and unusual punishment, so they made the decision for me. Those two will go where I should have put their mother and father.” Her eyes slid toward James and Jade. “A place where they will be out of my way forever. But I have a slight problem. I cannot do it alone. Not only are they warded the whole city is as well. I need to maneuver . . . around it.”
She lifted her hand and made a slow circular motion.
The wall, which had been solid, became misty. The mist cleared and a mirror hovered in a sea of clouds. Through it, the Manhattan Beach pier shimmered like a mirage in moonlight. Waves rolled in slowly and broke against the pilings. Foamy surf nibbled at the dark shoreline.
“And now for a closer look.” Charlotte Glasspool spread her fingers and moved her hand. A small flame danced on her palm. It became a ribbon of smoke and blew away. The vision of the pier blurred. When it cleared, I saw a building near and dear to my heart.
“The Roundhouse,” I said wistfully. I had fond memories of childhood outings where we took long walks down the pier, all the way to the end and there explored a magical place called the Roundhouse, a hexagonal, red-tiled building with a bright copper roof.
Inside are aquariums and tide pools, colorful red and purple starfish, thick sea cucumbers, bright coral and anemone. I touched my first spiny sea urchin there and saw my first shark up close as it swam by the glass.
Charlotte Glasspool rotated her wrist slightly. Again, the vision blurred and now I looked deep into the ocean.
“What is that?” I said.
A long dark creature moved through the water. Eerie light reflected from its body, the shifting rays marking its passage. Only a small portion of it could be seen at one time but it was enough to obstruct the entire view. It had to be bigger than a blue whale.
“You are looking at the Uktena a mythical horned sea serpent.”
“Where is it?” I said stunned.
“Far off the pier in deep sea, but not as deep as you may think
, and not quite in our time. They want to bring it back.” Her eyes went again to James and Jade. “And if they succeed, it will appear in the most sought-after and unlikely coast in Southern California, Manhattan Beach.”
“Why?” I spared a glance at James and Jade. Was that what Jade had meant when she said they were People of Uktena, that they worshipped this monster?
“Perhaps you should ask them,” Charlotte Glasspool said.
“I would, but I don’t think they can answer. They’re petrified—or haven’t you noticed?”
“You simply cannot stop being a smart ass, can you? Regardless, they are powerless to do it alone, but they do have help. My meddling sister—the one who put the blame on me for things I never did—will be here unless I can stop her. However, I do not intend to stand idly by till she arrives.”
She paused and her eyes shifted this way and that.
I shifted my eyes the same way she did, wanting to see what she was looking for. If her sister was anything like her, I did not want to be here when she arrived.
“I had hoped to finish the matter sooner,” Charlotte Glasspool said. “What a shame it is to be, how shall I say, interrupted by the Others.”
With another turn of her wrist, the Roundhouse vanished. Once again, I was surrounded by the circular wall, and the bodies in niches.
As the wall turned back into its original shape, I had glanced quickly about the room. We were not in a secret chamber, but in an old library; one that I had never seen. I had been so stunned, what with being brought here drugged and hooded, then seeing the bodies, that I had not noticed the books. There were volumes and volumes, on shelves, between niches, lining the corridors, everywhere. High above in the middle of the domed ceiling was an oculus.
Where are we, I wondered? How many more places are hidden in the city I have always thought of as home?
A corridor branched off near the entrance and led to a long hall. Sconces had been set at intervals and their dim light glowed unevenly through the hall and back into the corridor. Since it was at an angle from where I stood, I only had a partial view, but there were niches there as well set at the same intervals. Each had a plaque over it, a bead of light reflecting narrowly from a metal rim.
“We refer to that as the Donor’s Hall,” Charlotte Glasspool said, noting my confusion.
I wanted to know what she meant but did not ask, hoping to deny her the satisfaction of explaining.
“It is the silver level,” Charlotte Glasspool said, seeming determined to tell me the inner workings of their secret society.
I still did not speak. I thought of what my grandfather said about witnesses: If you wait long enough without saying a word, one of them will start talking and they might tell you everything you want to know. But if you ask questions, people clam up. On the other hand, if you must answer questions, keep it brief, “yes” “no” “I don’t know.” Volunteering information is exactly what they want you to do.
Remembering what he had said, I hoped I hadn’t unwittingly told her too much.
“The silver level means they gave enough money to be included in the vault,” Charlotte Glasspool said. “You, however, being the special girl you are, will be on the gold level. Donors have paid a fortune to be allowed a space there, but it will not cost you a penny. It holds the innermost secrets of our society and requires the greatest sacrifice. Perhaps you have heard the motto . . . Nec timeo, nec sperno.”
She waited for me to grasp the meaning.
I neither fear nor despise.
It was the motto of the Daniels clan from long ago.
“It’s the Labyrinthian,” I whispered. It was not a question. I had said it to myself, but in the chamber, it seemed to echo. Prisoner or not, I still had enough wits about me to be awed by the legendary library.
“I see you know of our little secret,” Charlotte Glasspool said.
“It isn’t your library. Of course, I have. Every—” I caught myself. She probably knew my last name but there was a chance she did not know my mother’s maiden name, Rowan. My mom had never said a word about a shared heritage between the Daniels and the Rowans, but
my great grandmother had told me. “Every Rowan knows of the Labyrinthian Library,” she had said. “I learned of it at an early age, and it’s time you knew. For two centuries no one has been able to find it.” I had asked my great grandmother how that could be. “Because it is displaced in time,” she had said. “Its various rooms have never been fully explored. Even if found, the rooms will not open in the same year or even the same century—unless a person knows the way into time and is one of us.”
As I had listened intently to my great grandmother, she had ruefully told me the rest: “The library was not all that we lost. The fae who guarded it were destroyed or turned to other purposes.”
I could hear her voice as clearly as if she were speaking to me now. Was this what Charlotte Glasspool wanted? Could she have found the library or was this another illusion of hers meant to hide something else?
“Have you ever seen evidence of so much failure?” Charlotte Glasspool said.
Without asking, I knew she meant the bodies placed around the hall, their lifeless expressions solemn testimony to having tried to recover the library, been thwarted, and in a matter of time would fall forever into darkness.
The Labyrinthian is guarded by ancient magic, the crossings retain their strength, but another magic has paralyzed it. My great grandmother had spoken of this as well before she became sick. I thought they were fairy stories meant only to entertain, but at times her voice had taken on an earnestness that was more than dramatization.
“I don’t know about failure,” I said, “but I do know about their courage. It’s something you will never understand.” I would not give her the satisfaction of looking down on those who were brave enough to try.
“Courage,” Charlotte Glasspool scoffed. “I wonder how much courage you will have when put to the test?”
“I have no intention of helping you.” I hoped I sounded braver than I felt. It was my defiance talking, with a good amount of fear. I had no way to stop her; she had ways of making people cooperate against their will. Only that would explain why Logan was here, and Jade and James, too, even though they were the only ones who appeared to be beyond her total control.
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 23
