We are exactly the same, Ana thought. She walked closer and let her hand rest on its frozen counterpart. Am I dead? she wondered. Am I a ghost? Is this my body? She shook away that thought. She was breathing. Her lungs still hurt from the gas. Only the living felt pain. She was alive.
Did she have a twin?
“Ana.” Ms. Kandinsky’s voice traveled to Ana as though she were underwater—slow and distorted. It punctured the bubble, ringing harshly in her ears. “The skin, Ana, look at the skin.”
Ana did. This body was flawless. There were no scars, no sun damage, no cuts, no bruises, no freckles, no moles, not even a blemish. It was the skin of a newborn. No one got through life in this condition, Ana thought. Ana herself had tons of scrapes and bruises and scars—the telltale signs of a childhood with three brothers.
Ana bit her lip and looked back at Ms. Kandinsky. “How?” she asked.
“Science,” Ms. Kandinsky said shortly.
“Not on Earth,” Ana whispered, wrapping her arms around herself.
Ms. Kandinsky looked at her for a long moment before turning wordlessly back to the freezer. Bags of frozen vegetables sailed through the air like cannonballs, covering the patio with their wreckage. Ana helped lift some heavy bags of ice that were trapping her doppelgänger’s legs. “So,” she started. “What exactly are we doing?”
“Faking your death, of course.”
* * *
“What about my brothers? I can’t let them think I’m dead,” Ana insisted.
Their argument had been going on for a few minutes now.
Ms. Kandinsky put her hands on her hips. “Who said we would? I’ll make sure they know you’re safe and sound.”
After several rounds of negotiations, in which Ms. K swore up and down on her life that Ana’s brothers would be protected, the agreement was made. Ana would fake her death, and they would leave tonight.
As they exited the apartment, Ana kept looking down at the body. She couldn’t help it. Even with Ms. Kandinsky’s mauve bedsheet concealing it, she knew what she was carrying. The height, the weight, the sliver of exposed pale skin—everything was a perfect match.
Petrie knew it too. He was snaking in between Ms. Kandinsky’s legs meowing insistently. Ms. Kandinsky grunted, pushing him aside with the toe of her shoe.
“Go on, Petrie,” Ana said. “Shoo.” He was going to trip one of them.
It would be hard to explain why they were moving a dead body at three o’clock in the morning—even if it did look just like her. People would assume she had murdered her twin. As Ms. Kandinsky shifted to get past a support beam, the sheet drooped a little, revealing short locks of dark brown hair. Ana looked from apartment to apartment, praying that all the blinds would remain closed and the lights turned out.
When they finally reached Ana’s apartment stoop, Ms. Kandinsky shifted the body’s weight over to Ana and opened the door. The smell of gas had grown even stronger. Ana felt certain that if she had continued to sleep, she would never have woken. The thought frightened her.
Though the late night was stretching into the early morning, Ana could see that her roommate was still not home. Her keys were not hanging by the door, her high-heeled shoes were not discarded by the couch, and the smell of her perfume did not linger in the air. It wasn’t that unusual. Her roommate often crashed with friends who lived near the bar where she worked. Ana wasn’t too worried, but she did feel a nagging sensation to check.
They heaved the body—her body—onto the couch, allowing the sheet to float silently to the floor. Ana left Ms. K, who dismissed her with a grunt and a wave, to double-check her roommate’s bed. It was as expected. Empty.
Ana was beginning to feel light-headed again. She hurried to her own room and tossed some things into a backpack—dirty clothes, a family photo, a hand-me-down bracelet, and a sketchbook. She reached into the bottom drawer of her dresser and fished out a lumpy sock filled with cash and coins. She stuffed it into her front pocket, where it bulged.
She fetched the cat carrier from the back of her closet. Petrie, who had been laying on a pile of laundry, ran under the bed. She groaned and reached a hand under to grab him. He hissed and swatted at her.
“C’mon boy,” she coaxed. “You can’t stay here.”
Petrie was unmoved. She retrieved a bag of cat treats from her bedside table and dumped half of its contents into the carrier. Unable to resist the treats tantalizing salmon scent, Petrie crept into the carrier. Ana slammed the door shut.
Her eyes lingered on her room for a moment. This would probably be the last time she ever saw it. Ms. Kandinsky’s voice cut through the stillness. It was time to go. Ana tried to look at the body on her way out, but Ms. Kandinsky shepherded her out the door. “You don’t want to see that, doll.”
Ms. K’s floral muumuu dragged across the dirty pavement as she led the way through the dimly lit parking lot. She stopped at an old station wagon with wood paneling and tossed Ana the keys. “Crank her up,” she ordered.
Ana stared at her. They shouldn’t just stand around—not after what they’d done. “What? Where are you going?”
“Forgot my purse. Crank the car and wait in the passenger seat. Okay?”
Ana didn’t have a chance to protest. Ms. Kandinsky turned her back, leaving Ana standing alone, keys in hand. Ana didn’t have a lot of driving experience, so she slid into the driver’s seat with a measure of excitement and nervous energy.
The car was remarkably well preserved. The leather looked brand-new, untouched by the sun. The wood paneling on the interior was polished. It was all very old-fashioned, until Ana turned the key. The car roared to life with impressive force. Blue LED lighting lined the interior. The engine hummed with power.
It reminded her of something she had seen once at a car show with Fletcher. Old grocery-getters with unassuming exteriors souped-up to do crazy road speeds. Fletcher had joked about doing it to the family minivan. In fact, it was his love of cars that had landed him the job at the manufacturing plant. The car was very much like Ms. Kandinsky herself. Unassuming on the exterior. Turbocharged on the interior. After all, how many seventy-year-old women kept bodies in the freezer and harbored victims of attempted murder?
Ana let her foot off the brake cautiously. To her relief, the car didn’t roll. She opened the door, and a hideous wail broke through the late-night lull. Fire alarms blinked, and carbon monoxide warnings blared. Residents of nearby units began to pour out of the building. Among them, Ms. K hobbled along at top clip. Her muumuu flapped around her in the wind.
By the time she made it to the car, Ana was already waiting in the passenger seat. Ms. K got into the car with a grunt and released the parking brake. Ana noticed Ms. Kandinsky was still not carrying a purse. The only thing in her hands was a small black plastic square, resting between two long mauve fingernails.
As the car pulled around the corner, Ms. K slowed and pushed one nail firmly into the black square. A red light flashed under the plastic casing. Her lip twitched with the hint of a smile.
Boom! The ground shuddered from the intensity of the explosion. Behind them, a pillar of dark smoke rose from the roof of Ana’s building. Windows were blown out. People screamed. Dogs howled.
The station wagon sped out of the apartment complex and onto the open road.
Ana was shocked. It was several minutes before she could even speak. She cut her eyes over to Ms. Kandinsky in a panic. “Did you—”
Ms. Kandinsky barked out rough laughter.
“You—you—” Ana was having trouble forming words. “You might have killed someone!” she accused, stabbing a finger toward Ms. Kandinsky.
Ms. Kandinsky didn’t bother to look over at Ana. “Of course not. There were only three units impacted by the blast: yours, mine, and Ms. Klein’s, who is away visiting her son in Florida. You should really get to know your neighbors, Ana,” she said with a chastising waggle of her large eyebrows.
“How can you be sure?” Ana demanded. “Did you se
e the smoke? The windows?” Her pitch grew higher with each word.
Ms. Kandinsky took her eyes off the road to stare at Ana with ferocity. “Never,” she punctuated. “Question my math.”
Ana looked away. The lights of the little town began to fade as they zoomed down the road with Ms. Kandinsky at the helm. The houses woven so tightly together grew farther apart. Soon, the lights from their windows were only passing beacons in the countryside. Then they were swallowed by darkness with only their glowing headlights to guide them.
Ms. K had led her to believe they would be going to an airport, but Ana hadn’t seen a building in miles now.
“Where are we going?” Ana asked.
Ms. Kandinsky glanced over. “Somewhere safe.”
Ana frowned. It wasn’t the answer she wanted. Maybe the crazy old woman next door had saved her only to take her into the middle of nowhere and chop her into pieces or serve her up to a cult leader. The possibilities were endless.
“And my brothers? They’re definitely safe?” she asked for the tenth time.
The two-lane road was rocky and ill-maintained. Loose gravel and potholes made the ride loud. Ms. Kandinsky raised her voice, “Your mother had many friends. Just as you are watched over, so are they. Still, the farther you are, the safer they are.”
Ana wasn’t sure what to make of this. She knew she was a burden, but was it possible she was an actual danger to her brothers?
Ana looked to Ms. Kandinsky for more answers but saw her gaze was focused on the rearview mirror. In the distance, the headlights of an SUV drew closer. “Do you see them?” Ms. Kandinsky asked.
Ana bit her lip and nodded. Petrie yowled in agreement, and Ana scratched behind his ears. He purred and settled into her lap.
“Hold on,” Ms. Kandinsky ordered.
The engine roared to life, and the station wagon surged forward. The force sucked Ana into the back of her seat like she was on a roller coaster. She could only watch as they flew down the road. The SUV behind them kept pace. They were going much faster than should have been possible. The speedometer hovered just under 200 mph.
Ms. Kandinsky slowed and took a hard turn, leaving the paved road behind. They were on a dirt road now surrounded by tall stalks of corn. To Ana’s horror, headlights filtered through the cloud of dust behind them. The SUV continued its pursuit.
Ms. K swore and increased speed. The dust churned under their tires. Ana gripped the handlebar so hard her knuckles turned white. A structure loomed in the distance. As they grew closer, she could see it was an old wooden barn, not the kind with fancy stalls but the open kind you stored equipment under or maybe hay bales.
Ms. Kandinsky gripped the wheel and kept her eyes on the road. “When I say go, you go. Alright?” Her tone was strained.
“Go where?!” Ana cried. Was Ms. Kandinsky going to leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere under an old barn while some crazy SUV tried to run her down?
“The barn, of course. Knock twice on the metal hatch in the ground.”
Ana pulled on her backpack. “You’re not coming?”
Ms. Kandinsky laughed. A deep, true laugh. And in it, Ana could hear her age for the first time. “I need about a decade of rest after this, kid.” She cleared her throat and glanced at Ana. “Ready?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. She pulled the emergency brake, and the car flew sideways across the dirt, creating a thick fog of dust. “Go!” she shouted.
Ana fumbled with the heavy door handle and scrambled out of the car. Petrie flew out of her lap, hissing and spitting. She lost him in the plumes of dust. The door had barely shut before the engine roared to life again. Tires spinning and dust flying, Ms. Kandinsky turned the car full circle and headed straight for the oncoming headlights.
She was trying to buy Ana time. Would it be enough?
Ana heard a gunshot in the distance and knew she had to go, no matter how much she wanted to look for Petrie. She ran for the barn as fast as she could, faster than she had ever run before. Her lungs sucked in burning air.
When she finally reached the structure, she realized just how old and decrepit it was. She hoped it would hold a little while longer. The sounds of gunshots grew closer. Her eyes searched the floor, and she spotted it. A metal hatch, surrounded by dirt.
Ana flung herself to the ground and slammed her fists against the cold steel, not twice as instructed but over and over again. Gunshots rang in her ears. Bullets ricocheted off rusted farm equipment. Ana felt something hot and painful sear her left side. Fueled by her terror, she rained down her fists with abandon, crying out for help.
In her periphery, a middle-aged man reached the edge of the barn. His ruby ring glinted in the steady beam of headlights, and Ana recognized him as the man from the diner. He reached for something metal at his side. A gun?
This was it.
She was going to die here. In the middle of nowhere. In an old barn. In a cornfield. Banging on an old metal hatch. Like an idiot.
And then, the hatch opened.
5
Flight of the Bumblebee
Blinding white light flooded her vision as gentle hands pulled her down into the belly of the earth. Her heart was pounding. She could still sense the night sky above. She knew the gunmen were close.
When the metal hatch closed with a clang and hiss of pressure, Ana breathed a sigh of relief. She was safe. They couldn’t get her now. But where was she?
It was quiet. Ana could hear only labored breathing. The gunfire and squealing tires had faded away. Her feet touched solid ground, and the helping hands released her.
As her eyes began to adjust to the bright light, she knew one thing for certain: she was not in a root cellar. For starters, there were no vegetables. Perhaps the largest giveaway was the floor and walls. The brushed aluminum floor hummed with power. The walls glowed—a mix of hospital sterility and flashy tech start-up. The tunnel around her had not been dug by hand. It was perfectly formed and spacious.
And then there was the matter of the two men. One was about her age with messy blond hair. The other one was much older with clipped gray hair and a matching beard. Despite their age difference, both wore the same green and ivory uniform. They looked like military uniforms, but she didn’t recognize the insignia.
The boy wore a single patch that read Rockwell along with three golden stars. The older man had only two stars on his lapel, though he had many other ornamentations. His name patch read Fairweather. The younger one—Rockwell, she presumed—looked over at her with concern, while the older one—Fairweather—looked on with a touch more caution.
“Young lady,” Fairweather said, his lips drawn in a straight line. “You kicked me.” Indeed, Ana could see a dusty footprint on his chest.
“Sorry,” Ana said sheepishly. “You dragged me.”
“Necessary to prevent both of us from being shot.”
“Are you alright?” asked Rockwell with concern, eyeing her tattered clothing and wild eyes.
As the adrenaline subsided, Ana became aware of searing pain in her left side and looked down to see that her shirt had been ripped.
Fairweather stepped forward. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the hem of her shirt.
She nodded.
Very gently, he lifted her shirttail up just enough to see her side. A small red gash dripped blood down her side. He dropped the shirttail. “It’s like a paper cut. It bleeds a lot. But it’ll be no worse for the wear. The nanos will take care of it.”
The what? Ana’s head was reeling. What is this place?
Rockwell glanced back up at the hatch. “Sir, do you think…?” he started. “Should we—”
Fairweather interrupted, “A few bullets are nothing the Bumblebee can’t sustain. Even if they drive on top of us, it’ll make very little difference.” He paused for a moment and stroked his beard. “I’ve forgotten my manners. My name is Captain Fairweather. Welcome to the SS Beatrice.”
Ana reached out and shook his proffered hand. His gri
p was strong and efficient.
“My pilot, Holden Rockwell,” he said, gesturing to the boy.
Ana raised an eyebrow. Pilot? This teenager? Where was the plane?
“Pleased to meet you,” said Holden, offering his hand. She reached out to return the oddly formal gesture, and his hand engulfed hers. It was soft with the exception of newly calloused skin at the top of his palm. She met his steady gaze, and her heart skipped. Had she been holding his hand for too long? She quickly let go and took a nervous step backward.
Captain Fairweather cleared his throat. “And your name?”
“Ana,” she said, glancing anywhere but at Holden.
He frowned. “We were told to expect an incoming guest, but something tells me important details have been left out. Who is after you?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
The captain stroked his beard. “Very well then. It’s never wise to remain in an enemy’s eye line for too long, eh?”
“No, sir!” Holden agreed.
“Are you prepared to take us up?”
Holden nodded.
“Good man,” the captain said, clapping Holden on the back.
When the captain’s back was turned, Ana saw Holden swallow nervously and take a deep breath. Holden was the sort of person who kept his emotions written right on his face. She liked that about him.
Following the brisk pace set by the captain, they were soon exiting the white tunnels and winding down narrow metal hallways. Ana wondered how far these tunnels went. Did they stretch all the way to the city? Would they come up at an airbase?
Ahead, the hallway came to an end at two large metal doors. The approached, and a wave of light washed over them.
A pleasant computerized voice droned, “Captain Fairweather, identity confirmed. Pilot Rockwell, identity confirmed. Family Member Halt, identity unknown.”
The captain’s jaw dropped, and his face turned as ashen as his hair.
Holden turned to stare at Ana. “But, she can’t be,” he said.
Seven Crowns (Bellaton Book 1) Page 3