Zak snuffled back tears and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. He’d said that, and then he’d seen Tommy, talked to him.
He looked to his right. There, down the street, a flash of blue and red and gold glimmered for just an instant.
Tommy.
Zak’s heart throbbed in protest, but he managed to hoist himself to his feet. With one hand braced against the wall for support, he staggered in the direction of the light.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“Young man, if this is a joke, it is most definitely not a funny one.”
Khalid ran a hand through his hair and paced another circuit of the alleyway. He was positive that this was where he’d left Moira and Zak. The buildings out on the street were familiar, and the alley looked exactly the same.
But Moira and Zak were nowhere to be found.
“Right here,” Khalid said, forcing his voice not to tremble. It wasn’t easy; he wanted to whimper like a baby, the terror and the disbelief clogging his throat. “They were right here. I swear.”
Dr. Bookman, standing at the mouth of the alley with his arms folded over his chest, sighed and shook his head. “Is this an initiation of some sort? Are your gang brethren going to assault me once I step into the alley?”
“I swear to God, Dr. Bookman. They were here.” Khalid kicked at a loose chunk of concrete; it skittered along the ground until it hit a plank.
“Have you considered that your friends might be playing a prank on you?”
“Zak was dying. He’s in no condition to play a prank.”
“If the situation is that dire, you should just call his parents and be done with it.”
Call Zak’s parents. Ha! Khalid wished he could do exactly that. If he could call Dr. and Mrs. Killian, then that would mean he wasn’t stuck in another universe, away from everything he knew.
And it collided with him then, the enormity of it all, the impossible but undeniable power of it. He wasn’t lost. He wasn’t in a place where a kind stranger or a cop or the right phone call could fix everything. He was in an entirely different universe, and his best friend was dying, and no one could help. He’d known it before, but there was a difference between knowing something and understanding it. He knew that gravity kept his feet on the ground, but he didn’t understand exactly how.
Now, though, he both knew and understood: He wasn’t lost; he was trapped. With no way out.
“Oh God,” he muttered, and sank to his knees. “Oh my God. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.”
Dr. Bookman made a show of examining a bracelet. Maybe there was a watch embedded in it or something like that. “If that is all, I really should return to my office.”
“Please don’t go.” Khalid had meant to shout the words, but they came out as a whisper.
“I’ve spent enough time on this particular jape, far more time than one should spend on a joke one doesn’t get. I’m sorry, young man.”
“Wait!” Khalid jumped up, remembering something. “Wait!” He dashed over to Dr. Bookman and grabbed the man by the lapels. “That glass you had me touch. In your office. And then you came here with me. That was a lie detector, wasn’t it?”
With a cautious but confident move, Bookman plucked Khalid’s hands from his jacket, then smoothed out the creases. “No. Nothing so specific or so crude. It merely ascertains whether or not you mean me harm.”
Merely.
“Then you know I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“I know you don’t intend to hurt me. But someone else could.”
“Please. I’m begging you, okay?” Khalid actually dropped to his knees again, grasping the tail of Bookman’s jacket. “Please. You have to help me.”
Bookman sighed again and rechecked his bracelet. It was slender and segmented, polished silver, and Khalid was convinced it had some kind of watch built into it.
“Very well. Five more minutes.”
Khalid jumped up and hooted with joy. He dashed back into the alley and stood off to one side, pointing. “This is where we were. Right here. I remember that standpipe because it’s painted blue, which is weird.”
“Weird how? Most standpipes are blue.”
Not in my world, man. “Anyway, this is where we were. We had Zak propped up a little and sheltered a little.”
Dr. Bookman sauntered into the alley and glanced around. He came over to Khalid, studied the ground, and gazed up and down the nearest wall. When he turned around, his foot hit the concrete chunk Khalid had kicked earlier. It rolled against the plank and turned the board over.
“Oh, my,” Dr. Bookman said, and took a step back.
Khalid peered around to see what had caused Dr. Bookman’s reaction.
On the end of the plank was something brownish, dry, and flaking. It looked like paint at first, but Khalid realized what it was in the instant before Dr. Bookman said, “Blood.”
* * *
Moira didn’t have to wait long, which was good. She was impatient, but more than that, she was worried about losing her nerve. It was one thing to plan an escape and let the adrenaline of it consume you. It was another thing to lose that adrenaline rush and wonder, Is this really going to work?
The other women in the cell were either napping or—she couldn’t believe this—sharing tips on what Moira could only describe as “auction etiquette.” The best way to talk to the buyers. The cues and hints that indicated “a good one.” She couldn’t believe she was hearing it, and the outrage she felt fueled her conviction.
She had hoped that at least one of the women in the cell with her would offer help, that at least one of them would be more like the women back home. But what were the odds that, in a world of sexist repression, she would happen to be locked up with this world’s Xena, Warrior Princess?
Pretty dismal odds.
Some of her cellmates were playing with or cooing over the pins she’d given them. She’d traded a couple of them to the blond woman for what she needed, and then given away all but two.
Her plan. It had to work.
The man—Salazar—had mentioned an estate on an island somewhere. She was probably still in Manhattan, but if she allowed herself to be hauled off to who-knew-where, she would never find her way back. Even if she escaped from the estate, she would be trapped, surrounded by water, with nowhere to go and no way to find Zak.
She had to escape now.
Thrill competed with nausea deep down in her gut.
Once, her mom had let her drink half a Starbucks coffee. The sugar and the caffeine had provided a jolt, not only of energy but also of clarity. Everything had seemed obvious; everything had been possible. She’d barely noticed the crawling, vibrating sensation on her skin, the way she couldn’t stop tapping her toes.
She was tapping them now. She was alive and quivering.
And everything was very, very clear to her.
Escape. No matter what the cost. No matter what she had to do.
Eyes and neck, she reminded herself. Eyes and neck. Stay calm. Don’t just flail around. Eyes and neck.
The door squealed open and—joy of joys!—it was the Dutchman who’d started this all, the one who’d first threatened her in the alley. His bandanna had been replaced with a plain white bandage, speckled here and there with bleed-through.
That made what she had to do easier.
“Victuals,” he said with a sneer, swaggering over to the cage. He grinned at Moira. “Maybe now you’ll be a little nicer? Not such a snapping chica?”
Moira didn’t respond. She was afraid her voice would betray the thrilling, horrifying excitement coursing through her. She kept her hands clenched tightly.
And carefully.
Very carefully.
The Dutchman put down the tray and unlocked the cage. Moira told herself to wait. It was tempting to shove the door open—she’d noted already, based on its hinges, that it swung out, not in—but she needed to be patient.
He hauled back on the heavy door, and Moira, watching his
struggle, congratulated herself on not flinging herself at it once it was unlocked. As heavy as the door was, that would have been pointless. And embarrassing. And futile.
Once he had cracked it open enough, he gathered up the tray. The women at the back of the cage waited patiently.
He entered.
Not yet, Moira told herself. Her palms went damp, and her breath quickened. She forced herself to breathe more slowly.
He paused just inside the cage, taking it in: The women, clustered together. Moira, alone, sitting against the bars off to one side.
He grinned as though to himself. There was a row of small covered pots on the tray, along with a row of plastic-looking bottles. He put the tray down on the middle of the floor and brought a pot and a bottle over to Moira.
“Now,” he said, “maybe say you’re sorry for our little snap back in the alley, and I won’t take these with me.”
Moira stared at him. She wondered if the full impact of the hatred she felt at that moment could be communicated through her eyes.
No, that was impossible. If he could feel her hate, then he would have spontaneously combusted by now. There would be nothing left of him but ash and a blackened, charred skeleton.
“Come on, little hen,” he cooed. “Bygones, eh? Say you’re sorry and get your victuals.”
Still she remained silent. Her palms itched. She prayed nothing would slip, when the time came.
“See them over there?” he asked, jerking his head toward the other women, who were sharing out the other pots and bottles in a depressingly efficient manner that indicated this wasn’t their first time in such a cage. “They follow the rules, they do all right. It ain’t tough. Even a little frau like you should get it.” He cleared his throat. “Sor-ee,” he enunciated. “Sor-ee. Just like that. Try it. It won’t hurt.”
Now? No. Not yet. Wait for it. You’ll know the moment. You’ll know the time.
He tried a few more times to coax an apology out of her, then gave up. He shrugged and said, “Well, I’m gonna leave these out there, then,” inclining his head toward the cage door. “Next time I check on you, maybe you’ll have found your voice.”
He turned to go, and that was his mistake.
Now.
Moira pounced, opening her hands. She swung both arms in a wide arc, then brought them together, slapping her hands on either side of his neck. The Dutchman screamed and arched his back, arms flung wide.
Twin gouts of blood spurted from the sides of his neck.
She had bartered with the blond with the bad skin, trading some decorative buttons for the rubber bands that held her hair back in a ponytail. With those rubber bands, she’d then tightly bound two of her buttons to her palms, with the sharp pins standing out. Poor weapons, but the only ones she had. She wielded I like you ironically in her right hand and a button that read To err is humna in her left.
She’d tried to barter for the nail file, but the woman who had it was too interested in her beauty regimen. Oh, well. Improvisation mattered.
The Dutchman gasped and clapped both hands to his neck to stanch the bleeding. Knees buckling, he staggered forward amid choking exclamations from the other prisoners. Moira wondered if she’d punctured anything essential. Carotid? Jugular? She didn’t know. But he was stunned and distracted, and she had to act quickly.
A part of her had hoped that the other women would, when given proof of the vulnerability of their captor, join in, piling on the Dutchman and making this whole endeavor a bit easier. But she wasn’t that lucky. The women instead shrieked as if with one voice and one set of lungs, then huddled together at the back of the cage, terrified.
So much for sisterhood, Moira thought darkly, and kicked the back of the Dutchman’s knee. He went down.
“New York can be dangerous,” her mother had told her once, omitting for a girl, though Moira knew the phrase lurked there. And so had followed two years of self-defense classes. Which, it turned out, were pretty good for offense, too.
The Dutchman gurgled and rolled over, his eyes alight with the sort of hatred that Moira knew gleamed in her own as well. Angry, not frightened. She hadn’t hit anything necessary after all, and she couldn’t rely on the shock of her attack to keep him down for long.
She had the advantage, but only for a moment. Pressing it, she jumped on top of him, landing with her knees on his stomach. He whiffed out his breath and groaned, his hands coming away from his neck. The blood flow there was steady but not spurting, so Moira brought both palms down on his face, aiming for his eyes.
She missed, but not by much, hitting him just above the eyes, then raking the pins down. They broke off against the hard bone of his brow, but the jagged metal slashed red trails down his eyelids to the sides of his nose. He screamed again, this time higher, his eyelids cut in half. He thrashed like a storm-driven wave under her, throwing her off, his hands coming up to cover his eyes.
“My eyes!” he howled. “My snapping eyes! You frau! You snapping hen!” He kicked his legs with uncontrollable pain. She wondered if she’d punctured his eyes or just scratched them.
Didn’t matter. She needed him quiet. She scrambled to her knees just above his head and grabbed his ears. Before he could move to brush her away, she lifted his head as high as she could and then slammed it down with all her strength on the concrete floor.
He thrashed again, and she felt something wet and remembered that the pins were broken but still sharp. She’d cut into his ears. She almost lost her grip on him as he flailed, now his hands coming off his bleeding eyes to snag her wrists as he bellowed curses at her, and she lifted his head and brought it down with all her might a second time. He groaned, and his hands went slack but still held on to her, so she smashed his head against the floor a third time, then a fourth, and then she lost track as her vision went dark and all the sounds of the cage seemed far, far away.
THIRTY-NINE
Zak’s legs had gone leaden and numb. He walked like a zombie, shuffling his feet along the sidewalk. Banners that hung from the lampposts read KERMIS PARADE! with an August date that was only a few days away. Zak stumbled along, not sure what “Kermis” was and doubly unsure as to why he couldn’t stop thinking the word: kermis kermis kermis kermis. He thought of the Muppets and giggled uncontrollably.
Pedestrians pulled away. Some even crossed the street as he neared them.
He was sure he looked terrible. He felt terrible. His legs were the least of his troubles. A constant sheet of sweat spilled down his forehead, and he’d given up wiping at it—lifting his hand took too much energy. His shirt clung to him like a desperate child. His heart flapped and fluttered like a caged bat spooked by sudden light.
He stumbled forward two more steps and bit back a muffled cry. Deep in his chest, something was powerfully wrong. He gagged on his own spit.
“Help…” He tried to scream the word but could only whisper it as he dropped to his knees.
Zak.
He hadn’t the strength to look up. His neck muscles had gone loose and slack, and all he could see was the pavement and his own abraded knees, crisscrossed with bloody etchings and peeled-back scabs.
Zak, I know it’s tough. You have to get up. You’re almost there.
Tommy? Is that you again?
Zak, please! It’s important! Move! Now!
He forced himself to look and realized it wasn’t Tommy—it was Godfrey. Leaning toward him, emerging as from a dense, ever-shifting fog. Zak was finally face-to-face with him. After the dreams and visions he’d experienced from Godfrey’s point of view, it was strange to see him from the outside for once.
He was white, or at least mostly white. Other details began to filter in through the fog, but then a sharp pain burst like lightning in Zak’s chest, drawing a hiss of agony.
I know it hurts. I know you’re in pain. Trust me, though—I’m trying to help you.
I thought you were Tommy at first. You sounded like him.
Just keep moving. It’s only another bl
ock. One more block and you can close your eyes—I promise.
Zak tried to draw in a deep breath, but the sharp, stabbing pain from his heart forced the air out in a harsh gasp. I can’t. I can’t make it. I’m dying. I’ll be like you soon.
No. If you die, it’s over for you. Tommy and I aren’t truly dead. We’re trapped in a limbo world. In the no-space. Suspended above the Secret Sea but still linked to it. Me, because of the spell I cast. Your brother because of his connection to you, Zak.
Zak coughed, the motion causing his chest to contract painfully.
“Tommy’s not dead?” he muttered.
One more block. That’s all.
Crazy. Godfrey sounded so much like Tommy.…
Do it, Zak! Come on!
“We’re trapped in a limbo world.”
“Limbo…”
Zak spit something thick and whitish onto the sidewalk.
“Me, because of the spell I cast. Your brother because…”
Get up!
Zak’s arms trembled as he pressed his palms against the ground.
“Your brother because…”
He got one foot under himself and paused for a moment, gathering his energy.
You can do it!
Tommy wasn’t dead. Not really. He was in limbo. Because …
“Because of his connection to you, Zak.”
If Zak died, then Tommy would truly be dead.
He couldn’t let that happen, no matter how much his heart complained.
Gritting his teeth, Zak forced himself to stand. And then—one hand against the wall and the other pressed to the jackrabbiting sensation of his own heart—he shuffled farther down the street.
Godfrey was gone.
FORTY
“We have to call the police,” said Dr. Bookman.
Khalid had been staring at the blood on the end of the plank. Whose blood was it? Zak’s? Moira’s? Someone else’s? Maybe it belonged to the person who had taken them. They must have been taken, right? Zak couldn’t have run away in his condition, and Moira never would leave a Basketeer behind. So someone had taken them both and—
“Did you hear me?” Dr. Bookman said. “We have to call the—”