Into Darkness (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  This was Liesel’s gentle way of deflecting attention from Lu. She’d done it a thousand times before. But today—maybe because of the shock of finding out Dieter wasn’t who she thought he was, or because she was just so, so tired of holding her tongue—Lu spoke up.

  “How could it be anything but perfect? It’s from Lars.”

  Liesel flashed a warning look in her direction as Lars narrowed his rodent eyes. Lu felt his inspection as a flush of heat on the nape of her neck. He was trying to decide if she was mocking him or not, but she figured ego would win out in the end.

  It did. Lars sniffed and made a sound of agreement, lowering his hands to his hips. “You’re right. My sauerbraten is the best in the district.”

  “Probably the entire Federation,” agreed Liesel, sending Lu a conspiratorial wink. Caught up in planning for the change, Lars didn’t notice. He clapped twice and began barking orders.

  “Listen up! Finish the apfelstrudel, chop the cabbage, make the dumplings, get the spätzle ready—”

  “And then we’ll set the tables with the good lace cloths and the Federation china while you put the finishing touches on the meat,” said Lu, turning to give Lars a wide, innocent look over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, herrchen, we’ll make sure everything is smooth as silk for the Grand Minister’s visit.”

  Lars’s nose twitched in pleasure, reminding Lu of a happy ferret. He loved it when she called him “master,” never recognizing the sarcasm in her tone.

  “You better.” He brushed past with an imperious lift of his chin. “Because I’ve heard that son of a bitch is as cold as a witch’s tit and twice as ugly. If anything goes wrong with the meal, I’m holding you responsible.” He swept from the room just as abruptly as he’d arrived. The scent of cheap cologne lingered behind him in a sour cloud.

  Liesel muttered a curse in German. “All the responsibility and none of the benefits. Typical.”

  “At least we won’t have to suffer through another of his ‘legendary’ batches of schnitzengruben today. Last time I thought I’d contracted dysentery.”

  Liesel grunted.

  “And what is that stupid saying, ‘cold as a witch’s tit’? What does that even mean?” Lu was growing more and more irritated, irked by her earlier premonition of doom inspired by Liesel’s story, her father’s fraught warning, and the pending visit from the goon squad.

  Liesel sighed, and pushed back another flyaway strand of hair from her face. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.”

  Liesel began to flatten the kneaded dough into a thin layer with a wooden roller, and Lu followed her lead, realizing with a shiver that she didn’t want to find out, either.

  Unfortunately, she had a dark, gnawing feeling that she would.

  By the time the caravan of sleek black vehicles bearing the Grand Minister and his entourage pulled into the loading dock behind the Hospice on silent wheels, Lu’s nerves were as shredded as the red cabbage she’d prepared for the sauerbraten.

  Like a nest of tumors, tension had been growing in her stomach for hours.

  She’d dropped a tray of dumplings, burned her hand on one of the racks in the oven, and snapped at poor Mr. Kirchmann when he’d asked her to read to him during her rounds. She made it up to him by giving him a girly magazine—purloined from her nemesis Cushing’s extensive personal collection, which he’d compiled over years of searching the luggage of new arrivals—but she still felt guilty. It wasn’t his fault she couldn’t get her act together.

  It wasn’t his fault she had a target on her back.

  She wasn’t the only one suffering from nerves, though. The entire staff was on edge. To the Hospice guests, a visit from such an infamous character as the Grand Minister was a welcome distraction from their banal daily routine, but fear ran rampant through the kitchen, the laundry, and the administration offices. Fear that if an Aberrant was exposed within the ranks, everyone might be held accountable for harboring the enemy. Two fights had already broken out so far, minor skirmishes where one party accused the other of either being the culprit or having knowledge of who it actually was, and the feeling of hostile scrutiny increased to the point that Lu felt as if she were walking around under a giant, unblinking eye.

  That feeling would pale in comparison to the first moment she locked gazes with the Grand Minister.

  Cushing saw him first. The orderly had been on lookout since the start of his shift, moving through the halls at double his normal snail’s pace, his thick arms swinging by his sides while his eyes darted to and fro, scanning faces and windows with equal intensity. Lu had been avoiding him as she always did, but the moment she heard his shout from near the loading dock doors, she bolted, anxious to get a glimpse of the infamous GM before he entered the building.

  Among a chorus of aggravated protests, Lu pushed to the front of the small crowd that had gathered at the wide double doors that led from the interior hallway of the Hospice to the outside dock area where the delivery trucks unloaded their goods. Through the round scratched windows, she saw a group of men in simple, severe black suits garnished with white armbands emblazoned with the IF’s sun symbol huddled around the rear of a van that had its back doors open. The men seemed to be trying to remove something from the van, but Lu couldn’t make out what it was. She stepped to one side to get a better look, and as she did, found herself staring into a face so familiar she was momentarily paralyzed by déjà vu.

  But it couldn’t be. She’d never seen this man before in her life.

  He, too, wore a simple black suit. More correctly, he wore a jacket and trousers that had been altered to accommodate his two missing legs and one missing arm. He was missing an eye as well—the hole was covered by a black patch, lending him a sinister, villainous air—and he was being carefully lowered by his companions into a waiting wheelchair. He was frail, with wispy white hair and a shrunken chest, the one hand like a skeleton’s, yet there was nothing frail about his energy. He looked up and caught sight of her, and Lu took an involuntary step back.

  His one eye—blue and cold as an arctic sky—fixed on her with the ferocity of a hungry lion.

  She felt pinned in place. She felt, for a moment, that the earth had stopped spinning beneath her feet and she might at any moment shirk the bounds of gravity altogether and go shooting out into space.

  Because in that fleeting look, she saw recognition.

  Recognition, and rage.

  Gasping in shock, Lu spun and flattened her back against the door. She was quickly pushed aside as others surged forward, but her knees wouldn’t stop trembling, and she had trouble regaining her balance as she fled back into the kitchen. She looked wildly around for someplace to hide, quickly realizing the stupidity of that plan. The only thing to do, the only possibility for getting out of this situation alive, was to remain calm. Panicking wouldn’t help. And if she ran, her father . . .

  She wouldn’t think about what would happen to her father if she ran.

  So she leaned against the stainless steel sink with her eyes squeezed shut until she could breathe again.

  Lars pounded down the hallway outside, cursing in German at the staff to get back to their posts. He burst into the kitchen, flailing his arms and shouting.

  “Lumina! Lumina, where in the hell—”

  He stopped short as he caught sight of her. “Oh. There you are. Where’s Liesel?”

  Mute, she shook her head, eliciting a dramatic moan from Lars. He thrust his hands into his hair. “Well, find out! I’ve got to finish the sauerbraten—”

  “Forget the sauerbraten!” snapped a female voice. Lu and Lars turned to find the Administrator, grim faced and tense, standing stiffly near the six-burner stove. Mathilda Gruenborn was tall and bone thin, with a schoolmarm’s fashion style and a sense of humor that could only be described as missing. At the moment, her pinched face was the exact color as her lumpy sweater: gray
.

  “You know the protocol: Assemble in the main hall and wait for me there. I’m going to greet the Grand Minister—”

  “But the sauerbraten!” Lars cried. “If I don’t time it just right, the meat will be—”

  The Administrator shrieked his name, her face flushing a deep berry red. Lars snapped his mouth shut, lifted his chin, and without another word, marched out of the kitchen. The Administrator breathed loudly for a few seconds, then nodded at Lu, her jaw tight. She spoke through clenched teeth. “You, too, Bohn. Don’t make me ask twice.”

  The itch in Lu’s palms, so irritating before, grew now into a hot, throbbing imperative. In an attempt to relieve it, she smoothed her hands down the front of her jacket, a motion which the Administrator mistook as an attempt to straighten any stray wrinkles in the fabric of her coat. She nodded, pleased, then turned and left without another word, leaving Lu to stare after her.

  After several moments of heart-pounding silence, Lu walked slowly out to meet her fate.

  THREE

  The main hall of the Hospice was thick with silk plants and brightly lit in a failed attempt to deflect attention from its startling similarity to an enormous cage. The requisite game tables, craft areas, and “meditation zones” on the second floor competed with the IF-approved library for title of most depressing, while the portrait gallery on the third floor—featuring grim gilt-framed oils of the Federation’s top leaders leering down at the guests in the main hall below—beat out everything in terms of sheer creepiness. Above the third floor were the “residences,” where Hospice guests would spend their final days in rooms so small one could almost touch both walls when lying in bed.

  Trying to look inconspicuous, Lu edged into a corner behind a fake giant philodendron so dusty it made her sneeze.

  “Better to be front and center than let them think you’re hiding,” scolded Liesel softly, coming up behind Lu and taking her arm. “You know what a cat does when it sees the mouse run?”

  A question that required no answer. Lu let herself be led away from the comforting cover of the dusty plant to the terrifying center of the room.

  Near the entrance and off to the side of the sea of dining tables where guests ate all their meals, the staff had lined up in three rows according to seniority. Administration and managers in front, clerical and support staff behind, then the orderlies with the kitchen and laundry staff. As always, Cushing stood a little apart and ahead of the rest of his line, convinced he shouldn’t have to stand with such plebs.

  The moment the Administrator entered the main hall with the Grand Minister, Lu’s nervous system went into overdrive. With the approaching hum of mechanical wheels, her heart twisted, her breathing increased, all the little hairs on her body stood on end. Every minute detail of the room honed to brilliant, blinding focus, and she felt for a split second as if an animal sleeping just under her skin had awoken, bristling, hissing a warning into her ear.

  Enemy! Enemy! Enemy!

  Her palms began to itch so violently it was all she could do to stand still. Up on the third floor, one of the paintings lifted briefly from the wall, falling back with a clatter.

  Then he was before them. A mangled body, a face full of rage, a white arm band with a brilliant yellow sun emblem, sinister for all its simplicity.

  “Good evening,” said the Grand Minister in a surprisingly gentle voice, squaring his wheelchair in front of the lines of staff. There was a murmured response, then silence.

  Two black-suited men the size of small buildings took positions a few feet behind the wheelchair with their hands clasped behind their backs, legs spread. Their eyes roved over the group with unblinking intensity. A swarm of others lurked in her peripheral vision, moving to guard exits and hallways, to flank the entrance doors. The Administrator stood several feet to the rear of the Grand Minister, her hands clenched to fists at her sides, her face now bleached from gray to white. Lu felt the blood drain from her own cheeks as well.

  “Before we begin, I’d like to put your minds at ease about something,” said the Grand Minister in his soothing voice, gazing at each person in turn. “You have, no doubt, heard many fantastical stories of my exploits, including, perhaps, the story of how I came to be in this wheelchair, missing a few important body parts. Yes, you don’t have to deny it; I know it’s true,” he chuckled, nodding as he watched the surprised expressions, the questioning, darting eyes. After a moment, he sobered. When he spoke again the faintest tinge of anger colored his voice. “My lifelong fight against the creatures who would kill every one of us if they could has indeed cost me a great deal. But I am not the only one who has paid a dear price, my friends. Each and every one of you has also paid. With your freedom, with your security, with the blood of your family and friends. We’ve all paid, in one way or another.”

  Shocked silence. His words edged close to treason. No one dared speak.

  “Even to the point of being denied the most powerful and beautiful natural resource of this planet, you have paid.” He paused, searching the gathering. “Who among you has ever seen the sun?”

  After a moment of breathless quiet, all the older staff members raised their hands. Beside Lu, Liesel’s arm lifted slowly, until her hand was high above her head, trembling.

  The Grand Minister’s voice turned hard. “I was there when it happened, when these filthy animals declared war on the human race. I was at ground zero in the jungles of Brazil on that day twenty-four years ago, and watched it all unfold firsthand.” He inhaled a shaky breath, then said vehemently, “They took our sun. The lifeblood of our world. Would you not agree with me that the theft of such a thing is an abomination? That the scorched sky and poisoned atmosphere and the decimation and degradation of life as it had evolved over millions of years is a crime so heinous it can never be forgiven?”

  Vigorous head nods, murmurs of agreement. Lu tried to scratch her palms with the tips of her fingers, but couldn’t quite manage it while keeping her arms straight at her sides. The itch became almost unbearable, spreading out from her palms, snaking up her arms.

  The Grand Minister’s face softened. He leaned back in his wheelchair; his hand loosened its grip on the cushioned arm.

  “Friends, I’m not here to punish anyone. You’ve all suffered enough. On the contrary, any assistance given me today will be met not with punishment, but with reward. You may have witnessed things, heard things, perhaps even hidden things you thought might cause you or your family trouble if you spoke out. But speaking out will not get you into trouble. You have my word. Anyone who brings something to my attention that leads to the capture of one of these bioterrorists will be well compensated, treated as the patriots they truly are.”

  The tension easing around her was palpable. Lu thought, You sneaky son of a bitch.

  She was reminded of something her father often quoted, a line from the French poet Baudelaire. “The devil’s best trick is to persuade you he doesn’t exist.”

  Well played, Grand Minister. Well played. Hatred hatched inside of her, foul as a rotten egg. He wasn’t fooling her with his soft voice and promises of mercy and reward. She knew a snake when she saw one, even if his poisonous fangs were sheathed.

  Upstairs, several of the portraits began to shake, sending a tremor along the walls. The Grand Minister heard the sound and smiled, utterly without warmth.

  “So,” he said, turning brisk, “I’ll meet with each of you in turn, and we shall see if we can get to the bottom of this, and then get out of your proverbial hair.” His gaze flicked over the room, searching. Then, horribly, as if magnetized, it settled directly on Lu. His chilling smile grew wider.

  “Let’s start with you.”

  From behind the pair of dented metal filing cabinets overlaid with a plain slab of stainless steel that served as the Administrator’s office desk, the Grand Minister sat in ominous silence, watching Lu as she stood nervously across from him, tr
ying desperately to appear nonchalant.

  Failing to appear nonchalant. Her breathing sounded like thunder in her ears.

  “Fräulein . . .” the Grand Minister’s gaze dropped to the name tag on the lapel of her uniform. “Bohn.” His one blue eye gazed into her two brown ones. He seemed to be waiting for a response, so she nodded, and even that small motion felt loaded with guilt. She moistened her lips, waiting.

  There were six men in the small office with them, lined against the walls on either side. Four more were posted outside the door. None of them had spoken to her as she’d been led in. None of them had touched her. Every one of them peered at her as if down the sights of a rifle.

  All of them bore the faint scent of metal, and a much stronger odor of chemicals, bright as a new penny underneath the other scents of soap and cigarettes and skin.

  Guns. Collars. Tranquilizers. The only things they’d need to take her down, and keep her there. When they moved, she heard the muted, musical chink of metal on metal as the collars hidden beneath their clothes moved with them.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as the Grand Minister watched, his face devoid of emotion.

  “I’m informed you were an eyewitness to the incident that occurred yesterday evening.”

  Lu nodded, trying hard not to blink under his penetrating stare.

  “And?”

  Lu cleared her throat. “It was . . . ah . . . disturbing. Sir.”

  His nostrils flared slightly, and she wondered if the man could actually smell a lie. If so, she was safe for the moment, because the incident had been disturbing, even if she’d been the initiator.

  The Grand Minister kept staring at her in that inscrutable silence, and she was abruptly more angry than afraid. He’s trying to intimidate me into giving something away.