“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“One hundred fifty people die every year from food allergies, sir.”
“Yes. And peanut allergies are among the deadliest. I am a trained physician,” said Fritz. “And, I believe I’m done conversing with you about allergens.” The smile was gone.
“You hired me to keep the building secure, sir.”
“But the building is not secure if someone like you can walk into my office.”
“True, sir,” replied Skandor. “As I said, I saw the door ajar and I was intending to close it, but then I saw the contaminants on your desk—”
“You’re lying. My door is never ajar.”
“I don’t lie, sir,” lied Skandor.
“And I don’t really care,” replied Fritz. “The truth is, you’ve been in my office for an indeterminate amount of time, and I have no way of knowing what you’ve uncovered or discovered in addition to the food hazard on my desk.”
Skandor swallowed. This was not going in a good direction. What would Loki do now? Suddenly, Skandor didn’t care what Loki would or would not do. What mattered was what Skandor was prepared to do for the girl who’d kissed him in this room less than ten minutes ago. Something brave and pure unfurled inside him, and Skandor knew the answer: he would do what it took to keep Fritz preoccupied. Whatever it took to keep Fritz preoccupied.
“Sir, I appreciate your reluctance to devote your valuable time to informing the employees as to the hazards of—”
“Stop.” Fritz interrupted Skandor, holding up a hand. “Now then. Listen carefully. You are a dead man.”
What?
Having said this, Fritz clutched the revolver.
Blood pounded in Skandor’s ears: thrum-dum thrum-dum thrum-dum. He thought of a lizard he’d caught early last summer. He’d held the small creature in his palm, its tiny heart ready to burst through its skin. He’d tried to count the beats per minute but had given up. It was a lot.
You are a dead man. How many times had Skandor caught lizards, holding the terror-struck creatures with no real consideration for what they felt? You are a dead man.
It was impossible. It couldn’t be happening. Except, it was.
“You’re going to shoot me?” Skandor’s voice sounded wrong, muffled by the terrible whoosh of his pulse. He felt cold prickles in his stomach, like he might be sick.
He pushed back against the feeling.
“I shall probably not shoot you,” replied Fritz. “Unless you leave me no choice.”
Skandor felt a moment’s hope, but it was crushed by the next words out of Fritz’s mouth.
“I shall, because I am in need of entertainment following the decision of the San Francisco International Airport to suspend departures, allow you to choose the method of your death.”
Skandor swallowed, forcing bile down. He was going to die. Everyone died, eventually. He would simply die today instead of eventually. He nodded, but the nod wasn’t for Fritz. Skandor wasn’t sure who it was for, really. But it originated from that unfurling place of strength, of courage, of hope. Perhaps this … this—and how strange it was to imagine it—perhaps this was the destiny toward which he’d felt himself hurtling. To die so Katrin could live? Now, that was a destiny.
He nodded once more, a sort of salute to Katrin.
Let Katrin be safe.
Let her be happy.
And then Fritz was speaking again. “Allow me describe your options.”
29
A WISE DECISION
Well, thought Fritz, this aggravating evening was about to get interesting.
“You have, I surmise, a deadly allergy to peanuts,” said Fritz. “Yes?”
Skandor gave a barely perceptible nod.
Fritz reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. From there, he withdrew a vial with an orange label and the components required to inject it into Skandor’s bloodstream.
“So, as I said, I will allow you to make the choice yourself. Nuts or needles?” Fritz smiled.
The boy looked as though he might be about to faint.
How fun it would be to awaken him from a faint—to watch the terror consume him a second time, as the boy remembered where he was and what he was about to face. But the boy did not faint.
Nor did he respond. Perhaps he needed a bit of prodding. It had been a long time since Fritz had studied anything so mundane as anaphylactic reactions. He leaned forward. “How long do you estimate it would take for peanuts to do you in?”
The boy’s color shifted again. “Five minutes. Maybe less. Each exposure tends to increase subsequent reactions.”
“Hmmm….” responded Fritz. “I should choose the candy, then, if I were you. The virus in this needle will make you miserable for several hours before you expire.”
A visible tremor ran through the boy’s body.
Oh, this was entertaining.
“Make your choice, then, boy. Or I might change my mind and shoot you after all.”
The boy looked from the bowl of candy to the syringe assembly and back again.
“The candy,” said the boy, his voice barely audible.
“A wise decision,” said Uncle Fritz. He rose, picking up the gun, and placed the bowl of candy on the floor. Then he used his foot to send it sliding across the floor to where Skandor stood.
Slowly, Skandor sank to the ground and reached for the peanut M&M’s.
“And, boy,” said Fritz. “Show any sign of throwing that glass bowl at me, and I’ll shoot you somewhere very painful. Somewhere that won’t kill you right away.”
“I would imagine you’re a good shot,” said Skandor, reaching for a handful of candy.
“I never miss,” replied Fritz.
Skandor popped a peanut M&M into his mouth.
He crunched. Within seconds he reached up a hand and scratched at the sides of his mouth.
He took a handful of candy. Scratched his lips vigorously.
Fritz thought he could detect the beginnings of labial swelling. He smiled lazily.
The boy rubbed his cheeks. Again. And again. He scratched his lips. His face grew red. He used his other hand to scratch at his neck. It, too, burned red with irritation.
Fritz listened—was that the beginning of a certain drag in the boy’s breathing?
Another minute passed and Fritz heard a rasping inhale. And then another. The boy’s systems were responding, an explosive chain of reactions encompassing the skin, lungs, nose, mouth, and throat. The gastrointestinal responses would be harder to see. The boy was weakening, gasping for breath, each breath more ragged than the last. He turned, as if to hide himself from Fritz’s gaze. Or perhaps the movement had been involuntary—a contraction originating in the intestines?
The boy tried to raise himself—to breathe, perhaps?—but the effort was too great. A bit of chocolate-y spittle drained from of one side of his mouth. He reached for his eyes, scratching lethargically, and then his fists curled unnaturally and his breathing ceased.
Fritz regarded him for a minute. And then, because it felt like the right thing to do, he said aloud, “Time of death: 6:11 PM.”
Well, that had not lasted nearly long enough. As he contemplated the boy, something familiar caught his eye. An injection pen rolled from the boy’s pocket. One belonging to Fritz.
Fritz rose, a rage swelling inside him. The boy had stolen something? Fritz bent down and retrieved the pen, shoving it angrily in his own pocket. Then he strode across his office and threw open the cupboard that contained the antidote pens.
It was empty.
Something inside Fritz prickled with fear. Who had the boy been working for? He was no caméleon himself, or he would have vanished. But he knew about caméleons. And Fritz had employed him down in security. In security!
“The perimeter,” he murmured. Was his alarm system still intact?
30
CAME CRASHING DOWN
Invisibly, Georg had watched the whole, horrible spectacle in a sort
of fascination. He’d seen a few deaths, but none quite so … dramatic. It was only after Fritz had fled the room that Georg remembered what he was here to do. Swiftly, he began to search the room for Katrin’s hidden form.
And then, Georg’s attention was abruptly taken away from his search. He heard Katrin. He heard her, without even trying.
She was screaming, crying, No! No!
It sounded so real. Where was she?
~ ~ ~
After leaving Skandor alone in Fritz’s office, Katrin had raced to find Georg, hoping against hope that the two of them could rescue Skandor. But Georg wasn’t in his room. Was he, perhaps, with the other Angels? What if he had been searching for her? Katrin checked her room. Came solid inside. Called aloud for Georg.
When he didn’t respond, she searched each of the other rooms, in turn. Georg was not to be found in any of those chambers, either. Would he have gone to the lab, to grab something last minute? Surely he’d noticed Fritz’s helicopter. Skandor had reported Georg as being in his room talking on the phone.
No—Skandor had mentioned the security room.
Katrin fled downstairs.
When she didn’t find Georg there, either, she returned to the tenth floor, checking his room one more time. She had to find him—she couldn’t rescue Skandor on her own. And then a dread chill filled her invisible form. How many minutes had it been? What if Fritz had gone back to his office?
Katrin pushed through the walls, frantic to be sure Skandor was still safe.
And then
the world
came crashing down around her ears.
Skandor lay curled into an unnatural pose, something dark dribbling from his mouth, Fritz standing over him, gloating, a gun in his hand.
She was too late.
No!
She shouldn’t have left.
No!
Skandor was dead.
No!
And Fritz was gloating. Gloating.
And she was…. Helpless. Heartbroken. Alone. Guilty.
Katrin fled her uncle’s office and returned to her room. Invisibly, she grasped along the wall by her bed, desperate to find the cookie tin Skandor had left behind. There it was. She pulled it free of the wall and came solid, clutching the tin as though it was a life preserver in the vast and wild sea of her visions.
Skandor, dead.
She howled, not caring if her uncle heard. Not caring if Georg never found her.
Fifteen minutes ago, she’d been kissing Skandor, and now he was dead. The loss pressed down on her, a living thing, exhaling coldly in her face, down her neck. She cried, tearing at her hair, her clothing, in alternation with clutching the empty tin of heart shaped cookies a boy had once brought to her.
~ ~ ~
Georg found Katrin in her room, in her solid form, inexplicably clutching a metal container of some sort. How had he missed her before? Had he searched the wrong room by mistake? The questions flashed through his mind, but then Katrin saw him and called to him.
“Ge-org,” she said, tears choking her. He’d never seen her so distressed.
He was at her side in an instant.
“Katrin,” he said, placing a gentle hand on one of her arms. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know. He was alive when I—” She broke off, unable to speak.
“Who was alive?” asked Georg.
Great sobs wracked Katrin’s frame. “Skan-dor!”
Skandor. The boy lying dead in Uncle Fritz’s office.
“He’s dead, Katrin,” said Georg, working as much compassion into the declaration as he could. “I’m so sorry.”
“He … was … my … friend,” she sobbed.
Georg thought this was a very odd claim for Katrin to make. But maybe the young man had done something, once, although Georg was at a loss to speculate what.
“We have to go,” said Georg. “Waldhart and Dr. Pfeffer and Martina woke the others and have taken them to safety.”
“I don’t want to see them,” sobbed Katrin. “I want Skandor back alive again.”
Georg glanced at his watch. It was 6:15. The others had left fourteen minutes ago. He didn’t have time for this nonsense.
“We need to leave before Uncle Fritz comes looking for us.”
Katrin hung her head as though it didn’t matter to her one way or the other. That was enough encouragement for Georg. He slipped an arm behind her back and, together, they vanished.
~ ~ ~
Back at the hotel, Martina was beginning to worry. It had been six minutes since they’d arrived. Why wasn’t Georg back with Katrin?
“I’m sure Georg’s on his way,” said Pfeffer. “Katrin may have had questions about the others. Georg indicated she was very insistent they should be freed as well.”
“I know, I know,” said Martina. “It’s just … I can’t hear her anymore.” She looked hopefully to Chrétien.
He shook his head, ever so slightly, murmuring an apology.
“Katrin keeps her thoughts to herself at the moment,” said Sir Walter, tugging at his tiny beard.
Another five impossibly long minutes passed, without bringing Georg or Katrin. Martina felt she had to speak her fears out loud.
“What if he’s double-crossed us?” she demanded.
“Georg? How?” asked Pfeffer.
Martina threw her hands up. “I don’t know. I just know that Georg is always in it for Georg and only for Georg. Maybe he decided he’d rather run off with Katrin alone.”
“Or perhaps he has run into challenges from cousin Fritz,” said Chrétien. “Mon père….”
Sir Walter turned and nodded. “I share your concern, my son. I believe we must return if we are to learn the truth.” He turned to look at Martina. “You know your brother best. Do you believe he might betray us to his uncle if he were … pushed?”
“Yes,” said Martina. “If Fritz so much as threatened to cut Georg’s fingernails too short, Georg would do whatever it took to save himself.”
“I do not like to suggest it,” said Chrétien, “but the thoughts I was able to hear from Georg were as from a mind conflicted, and, as Mademoiselle Martina has said, full of self-interest.”
“If we’re going back to Geneses, I recommend we change rooms in case Georg has run into Fritz and chosen to give us up,” said Pfeffer.
“There is another suite, two floors below,” said Sir Walter, “which I procured earlier for just such an eventuality.”
The hairs on the back of Martina’s neck prickled. She remembered how she’d thought this was overkill the first time Sir Walter had mentioned it.
“Someone needs to stay with the sleepers,” said Pfeffer. “If we are leaving, we cannot take them. Nor can we risk leaving them alone. What do you think, Martina?”
“The angels will feel more comfortable left with me than with any of you,” Martina said softly.
“Those are precisely my thoughts,” said Sir Walter.
From the room next door where the awakened angels sat, the evening news blared.
Martina nodded. “Okay. We move to the other rooms in case Georg … gave us up to save his own skin. I’ll stay with the angels and keep an eye on them.” Her voice shook a little, but Martina did not allow herself to shed tears. There would be plenty of time for that later, if Georg had failed them.
A few minutes later, Martina and the angels settled into the new rooms, and then Chrétien, Sir Walter, and Pfeffer stood ready to depart.
“It is 6:18,” said Pfeffer. “Martina, if we don’t return by 7:15, you should take the angels back to Las Abuelitas and tell the others what’s happened.”
Martina swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “I’m sure you’ll be back before then.” She smiled bravely at the three of them.
And then they were gone.
31
LOKI DESCENDING
Katrin came solid in Georg’s arms inside the Penthouse Suite of the Fairmont Hotel. There were signs of
habitation, but the rooms—and there were several—were all alike empty.
This awakened something in Katrin, pulling her from the agony of her despair. She was worried now, for those who still lived. Worried, but angry as well. Why weren’t they here? How was this fair? Maybe this was how you got through something too awful to get through—by meeting another crisis head-on.
“Where are they?” she asked, striding back to the first of the series of connected rooms. “Could something have gone wrong?”
“I don’t know where they are,” replied Georg. “Unless they’re all invisible.”
Katrin frowned. “They would notice us and come solid.”
Georg grunted.
Katrin tried to hold on to her angry frustration at finding the rooms deserted, but despair seeped back in and she collapsed onto an elegant couch. The city glimmered outside an enormous picture window, reminding her of the time she’d laughed with Skandor on the roof. She looked away, fixing her gaze on a clock whose angry red numerals announced it was 6:21 PM.
She looked away from the clock, twisting in her seat. And then, because it was uncomfortable to sit on them, she pulled two injection pens from her pocket.
“These are for Hanna and Michel and Leopold,” she said.
“Where did you find them?” demanded Georg.
The image of Skandor, dead in Fritz’s office, flashed before her again and she found herself unable to answer, I found them in my uncle’s office. She rose and began pacing, trying to outrun the memory.
“I said, where are those from?” Georg asked again.
“I stole them,” she said. She couldn’t think about that office. Not now. Before Georg could ask more questions, she added, “I think you should go back to Geneses. In case they never left.”
“I think we should stay here, in case they come back.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll go back on my own.” She flipped one of the pens end over end as she paced.
“No. Absolutely not. It’s not safe.”
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” said Katrin. She stopped and faced Georg, crossing her arms. “One of us is going. And I really don’t care who it is.”
Knavery: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 6) Page 19
