“Probably,” I say at the same time that Ford says “No.” He shoots me a surprised look, but I just shrug. Gavin is somewhere nearby, I’m sure of it. I just have to come up with a plan to make them let him go.
“Here’s my biz card,” the kid says, passing me a hand-lettered card.
Rufus Mitz
Hades tour guide, marbles champion, small hands for big jobs
“If you come back, you’ll probably need my help,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. We would never have found the bookstore without him. I reach out a hand to ruffle his tight curls for a second before he squirms away.
“I’ll show you a better way out of here, free of charge,” he offers, and we follow him down a set of back stairs filled with other kids his age. I wonder if all of them are orphans or if their parents are here somewhere, working the black market. I wonder if all of them sell drugs, if their bellies are always empty, if they sleep here, but I don’t ask. I don’t want to know the answer.
When we get outside again, Ford gives me a hard look. “Don’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“You know what,” he says. “Don’t go back there. Not until you’ve got an army to go with you. Ambush them somewhere else. Not here. People die in this building, and nobody ever knows about it, Anthem. And the setup of that bookstore,” he goes on, pacing the blacktop and flipping his hood up to keep the drizzle off his head. “I don’t like it. If you get inside, you have only one way out. They could lock you in. . . .”
I nod, but I’m only half-listening. Because no matter what Ford thinks or says, I am coming back. Alone.
By three that afternoon, I’m back at home wolfing down a bowl of pasta with sugar sprinkled on top, watching Lily prepare a pumpkin soufflé in the kitchen, thankful for her easy company that doesn’t require me to pretend or really to say much at all. When I hear my parents arrive home from wherever they’ve been, I paste on a bright smile and take a deep breath, waiting as they hang up their coats. Lily looks up from her stirring and winks at me, and I wink back. Under her black Fleet Industries baseball cap, her soft, full face and big green eyes register the fact that there’s been tension in the house—it’s pretty impossible to miss it—and I think she knows that our PR story is a lie, but I haven’t told her what’s really going on.
My mother comes in and gives me a dramatic kiss on both cheeks, her skin still cold from the outside. She sits down next to me at the kitchen barstool and daintily clears her throat. “We’ve been talking, sweetie,” she says quietly. My father comes into the kitchen and leans against the threshold of the door. He nods hello to me and smiles flatly. “And since we haven’t heard anything about your . . . friend . . . it’s probably time to go to the police—”
No. I stiffen, my mind running through what to say. We can’t go to the police. If they somehow figure out where the kidnappers are, and move too fast, Gavin could be killed. I can’t let anyone interfere now—not when I’m so close to taking care of it myself.
“I was just about to tell you,” I say, looking at the counter and speaking softly, trying to fake a combination of relief and sadness.
My mother rubs my back. “Tell us what?”
“They let Gavin go. This morning. He called me. You were right, when we didn’t pay they just gave up.” I slouch a little, trying to draw wetness to the corners of my eyes. “But don’t worry—I ended it. It would never have worked out.”
Lily looks up from her soufflé batter, and I take care to avoid her eyes. It’s one thing to lie to my parents, but it’s another to lie to Lily.
“Well.” My mother pauses and looks unsure about what tone she should strike. Her eyes dart across my face, trying to read me. “Thank goodness the ordeal is over.”
“This happened today?” my father says.
“This morning. He came to see me after ballet, and I broke up with him,” I say robotically.
“And you’re . . . okay?” my mother asks.
“I’m fine,” I sigh. “Sad, but fine.”
My parents nod and look seriously worried about me, but they both soon find excuses to go to their respective parts of the house—my father to his office, my mother to her bedroom to lie down.
I’m left alone with Lily, who hands me the bowl from the soufflé batter to lick, just like she used to do when I was ten. “Ant. Really?” she whispers.
I shake my head and put my finger to my lips.
“Are you okay?” she whispers. “You don’t seem okay.”
“Not so good,” I admit, barely holding back tears. I used to tell Lily everything when I was a kid. Not anymore. “But I’m going to fix everything.”
She nods cautiously. “I’m here,” she says. “If you need anything at all. And not that you’re asking for my advice,” she adds, “but boys aren’t always worth the time we spend on them.”
“This one is,” I say. “You’ll meet him someday. You’ll see.”
At 8:27 P.M., when I know Serge is upstairs with my father and Lyndie Nye for an emergency public relations meeting about the controversial Fleet Industries Stadium project, I’m in the garage of Fleet Tower, holding my breath as I press my thumb to the keypad on the door handle of the Seraph. My stomach jumps when I hear the muted thump of the Seraph unlocking. I pull the tiny glove compartment key filched from my father’s desk drawer out of the pocket of my jeans.
I’ve known about the gun Serge keeps in the glove box since I was ten years old, and as I turn the key on the lock I’m back inside the memory, waking up from a nap in the backseat and seeing Serge calmly, methodically cleaning a gun, unpopping the cartridge and disassembling each part, polishing every section of it before putting it all back together and stowing it in a compartment inside the glove box. I was scared of what I’d seen at the time and pretended to go back to sleep, but as I grew older I found it comforting that with all the crime in Bedlam, at least our car was armed and our bodyguard knew what he was doing. Until last week, I considered myself lucky to be so well-protected. Now I know that it was an illusion—nobody’s immune to danger, not in this city.
I’m terrified of even touching a gun, but I’m out of options. I can’t steal any more of my mother’s jewelry. It’s a miracle she hasn’t noticed the necklace has disappeared yet. I have nothing to offer the kidnappers. And when you run out of carrots to cajole a stubborn mule, you have to move on to sticks.
I open the glove box’s outer lock and feel along the side of it for the plastic seam. When my fingers find it, I snap the lid open, and then the cool matte plastic of the gun is in my hand. It feels heavier than it looks. I assume it’s loaded, not that I know how to shoot it. I just have to hope that pointing it at the right person might be enough to buy me some leverage. A life for a life, I think, and my forearms prickle with goose bumps. If it comes to that.
I wedge the gun into the back of my jeans and say a little prayer that I don’t accidentally shoot myself. Then I close up the glove box and shut the car door as quietly as I can. I flip the hood of my wool jacket over my head and set out on shaking legs, telling myself all kinds of lies to get my feet to keep moving: This is a solid plan. You can do this. Because even though I’m scared witless, my determination is all I have. Determination, and a gun I don’t know how to use.
CHAPTER 19
The third floor of Hades is full of people at night. The crowd is a little less rowdy than the marketplace down below, but here and there clumps of people—mostly men but some women, too, all of them in dark clothes, their faces weathered and wary—are gathered, talking quietly, playing cards, or drinking from paper-bag-shrouded bottles, and some of the same kids I saw on the back stairs shuttle envelopes and packages from one abandoned store to another. My chest rattles with adrenaline and nerves as I make my way toward the bookstore.
I slow my steps when I get near it, every cell of me alert for signs of Miss Roach or her people. If they’re all there together, I know I’ll have to come back later. When
I reach the open door, the main room of the store appears empty. The same teetering book towers tilt on the carpeting. Smitty’s comic book lies open on the counter where the cash register once sat—now there’s nothing on it but an ashtray overflowing with lipstick-rimmed rollie butts and a few empty bottles of Blackout Vodka. I linger in the door awhile to listen with my supercharged ears, trying to focus on what’s behind the walls of the store and assuring myself that nothing is moving and nobody’s there. I finally approach the counter. The open comic book is called Killerella—in it, a girl in a skintight dress and pigtails with eyes that take up half her face points a giant gun at a sea creature, a sort of half-man, half-squid. Girls with guns, I think, and a slick of nervous sweat blooms where Serge’s gun rests against my skin. I roll my shoulders back and straighten my posture, my eyes on the metal door in the back of the room.
Just then, I hear something moving. A grunt. And then a stack of books topples to the floor behind me.
I whirl around to see a thin, strong-looking guy in his twenties with dirty-blond hair and a black leather jacket hurtling toward me, the butt end of a rifle raised above him. Instantly, my adrenaline spikes and my ears fill with the roaring of an ocean of blood. The moldering bookstore with its empty shelves fades to white all around him, and the moment stretches out into a series of micro-movements. Suddenly, I can predict where his feet will fall and see his lank yellow hair bounce up and down as he runs. And in the molasses crawl of the moment, I have all the time I need to attack.
I move toward him, my leg flexed, my foot raised high, my boot toe about to make contact with his head. But he knows how to fight. He ducks to the side and I land badly, stumbling into a sloppy roll on the carpet, momentarily stunned. Then he lunges at me again, the butt of his rifle aimed at my head.
I roll away just in time to avoid the blow, moving onto my feet again and leaping up—way up, higher than the laws of gravity should allow. I land on top of him, knocking him onto his back on the carpet, sending the rifle clattering against a metal bookshelf.
I straddle his chest and struggle to pin his arms under my knees. My heart is galloping so fast it hurts. There’s a sharp, glass-shards feeling in my chest, and for a split second, I wonder if this is it, if Jax’s creation will give out on me at the exact moment I need it to work the hardest. Then the pain passes, and I refocus on the man struggling underneath me.
His eyes meet mine, his thin lips curled into a sneer.
“Well, hello, princess. You are something else, aren’t you?” he purrs, his eyes glittering. I glare down at him, my fingers tensed, and imagine clawing his eyes out. A second ticks by, enough time for him to free one arm and grab me by my bun of red hair. A scream comes out of me that is inhuman and full of rage, and a second later, before I can even think about it, I’ve pulled the gun from the back of my jeans. I cock the safety with my thumb—How do I know to do that? but somehow I do it—and press the muzzle to his head.
“Hands on the floor. I’ve come for Gavin.” My voice is calm, but every cell in my body is thrumming with fear.
“Rosie,” he shouts, grinning at me crazily. “Get out here. You have a visitor.”
We stay like that—me on top of him, pressing the gun into his forehead, holding it with both hands, trying to keep my hands from shaking. His forehead is clammy with sweat, but he keeps smiling, defiant, his eyes mocking me.
A minute later, the metal door at the back of the store squeaks open. Suddenly, she’s right in front of me. Close enough that I can tell the gum she’s chewing is grape flavored and freshly unwrapped, even though I’m on the floor straddling her goon and she’s towering above me. Miss Roach herself. Rosie, I sneer inwardly, disgusted by the floral sweetness of her name. Her hair falls around her face in soft waves. Her makeup is severe, deep chrome eye shadow and harsh lipstick, but she’s lush and curvy in a pleather dress, and the makeup doesn’t disguise the fact that she’s younger than I thought—in her early twenties at the most. Her pug nose and wide blue eyes make her look innocent, babyish. Smitty follows behind her and closes the door behind him. They each have a gun in their hands.
“I will kill him,” I say simply, grinding the muzzle of the gun against my captor’s temple, feeling him squirm beneath my legs. “Before your bullet reaches me, I will have already shot through his brain. So put your guns on the ground in front of you.”
And slowly, miraculously, they do. Smitty goes first. Then Miss Roach snorts and rolls her eyes, but she bends down, and then there is her gun, in front of me on the carpet.
“I’m here for Gavin,” I repeat, my voice hoarse with what I hope they mistake for ruthlessness or insanity. “I won’t leave without him. Step away from your weapons and let Gavin go, or I shoot.”
“Ain’t got any sense in that pretty head,” Smitty mutters as he steps away from his rifle. His double chin is flecked with lettuce shreds as if I’ve caught him in the middle of a taco dinner. Miss Roach—Rosie—doesn’t say a word. She calmly adjusts her thigh-high boots and takes a few small steps backward, aiming her bright blue eyes at mine. She raises one thin eyebrow, a pitying half-smile twitching on her rose-red lips.
At last she shrugs, motioning to Smitty. “Just do it,” she says flatly. “Bring him out of the hole.”
Smitty lumbers over to the counter and presses a few buttons on the cash register. He stares at the counter. Nothing happens.
“Whatzit again?” he says to Miss Roach.
“Christ, Smitty. Your lobotomy is showing,” she snaps, then goes to type the numbers into the register herself. The countertop slides open, and Miss Roach leans over the counter to peer inside, muttering something that I strain—and fail—to decipher. It echoes inside the counter, leading me to believe that there’s a lot of space under the floor that they use as some kind of a holding chamber.
“Turn over,” I bark at the blond as I stand up off him, keeping one eye on the hole under the counter. “Hands on your head.”
After he’s turned over onto the floor, I kick Rosie’s pearl-handled snub and Smitty’s rifle behind me, still standing over my hostage, aiming my gun with both hands at his skull.
The seconds tick by. Nothing moves. I hear music coming from the outside of the bookstore, accordions and drums now in addition to the brass band that was already playing downstairs, the pounding of dancing feet drifting toward us. Good, I think. A crowd will help me get Gavin out of here unnoticed. Gavin—I stop myself. Can it really be that Gavin is here? Inside the counter of a “bookstore”? It could be a trick, I tell myself. Brace for the worst. They are animals.
But then a pair of hands grips the edge of the counter. And then the top of a head. Light-brown hair. Suddenly Gavin’s face pops into view.
“Hi, Anthem,” Gavin sighs, smiling at me weakly before hoisting himself out of the hole under the counter. He squints against the dim light cast by the store’s one working bulb and struggles to stand.
“Gavin!” I cry out, tears springing to my eyes. Up until this moment, I couldn’t let myself give up the fear that they had actually killed him. But now he’s standing four feet away from me, plain as day. The bruise under his eye is yellowing slightly, the upper and lower lid swollen and dark, so he’s in a permanent flinch. Otherwise, he looks unharmed. His hair is ratty and matted, but his clothes appear clean, and he hasn’t grown noticeably thinner. Every particle of my body wants to embrace him, to grab his hand and run, but Smitty and Rosie have quickly moved to stand on either side of him. Both of them are grinning a little, and suddenly something about what I’m seeing feels wrong.
“Are you okay?” I ask stupidly. Of course he’s not okay.
“I’m fine,” he says. “But Anthem, you should go.” He looks pleadingly at me.
“We’ll leave here together,” I say. Doesn’t he see that I’m the one with the gun? That I’ve come to get him out of here? But then I notice that there’s something attached to his shoe. He turns three-quarters to the left and I see he’s been shackled.
A thin metal band wraps around his ankle and the band is attached to a thick cable that snakes back inside the counter, attached somewhere inside the hole he crawled out of.
“I said to let him go,” I shout, moving to stand over my hostage again, aiming my gun straight down at his head. “Or I shoot your friend.”
“I have a better idea.” Rosie smiles at me. One of her teeth has a smear of lipstick on it. I look down for a second and discover to my horror that she’s got another gun in her hand, this one an old-fashioned silver revolver. “I could just kill Loverboy right now. Which one of us has the guts to shoot, I wonder? Me or you?”
“I’ll do it!” I scream, shutting my eyes and getting ready to squeeze the trigger, bracing for the impact of the gun . . . but I just stand there, frozen. I picture his skull exploding, the blood spattering everywhere, the ending of his life, however sorry a life he has led, and I can’t make myself do it. My arms begin to shake and falter. My only hope is that Rosie is bluffing, too.
“I thought so.” Her gravelly voice floats toward me. When I open my eyes, her gun is aimed at Gavin’s chest. He’s not struggling. Not begging for his life. Just staring into her eyes and waiting. “I think it’s time we ended this game. It’s getting boring.”
“No!” I scream. “I’ll put down my gun.” But she just smiles in a carnivorous way. I hear her take a breath.
And then time folds in on itself. There is the deafening pop of the gun going off, and through the ringing air I watch Gavin fall to the floor, a circle of blood blooming on his gray T-shirt, the stain widening and widening until his entire torso is black with it. My throat burns with an endless scream of NONONO and I’m shaking all over and in the space of that unreal instant, they are on me. Smitty’s hands cover my mouth and the other one pries my gun from my fingers and dumps the bullets out. They bounce like spilled jelly beans across the carpet.
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