Across

by Elizabeth Edson

  Chapter Nineteen:

  She awoke to a lurch. Where am I? she thought dazedly. She tried to move, but rope burned the skin of her wrists. She tried to orient herself. Her arms, she noticed, were tied beneath her legs, and her chin was pressed against her knees. Whatever she was in lurched again, and her head banged against something wooden. She twisted around as much as she could, and her feet slammed against something.

  She was in a trunk.

  Marie cursed. The trunk lurched again, and her head once more banged against its side, hard enough to send stars spinning across her vision. Something clattered beneath her, and Marie suddenly understood: The trunk was in a chariot.

  The chariot hit a bump in the road, and Marie hit her head again. Stars twinkled in front of her. Her shoulder burned from where it had slammed into the bottom of the trunk.

  I am going to be one big bruise whenever I get out of this. Marie winced as the chariot jerked again.

  They clattered on. Marie felt like a Christmas present rattling around in a box shaken by an eight-year-old. She almost wished Pamela had given her a stronger dose of chloroform. The chariot lurched again, and Marie’s back slammed into the bottom of the trunk. She could clearly feel the blade there, digging into her skin. At least she still had it, she comforted herself. Apparently no one had searched her while she was unconscious.

  After what felt like a torturously long time, the chariot slowed and finally stopped. She heard someone mutter something to themselves—a male voice, speaking in English—but Marie couldn’t pick up many words. Whoever he was, he lifted the trunk abruptly in the air, and Marie suppressed a squeal of surprise.

  The trunk swayed alarmingly before someone slammed it down. Pain shot up Marie’s back to her shoulder.

  “Heavy little thing, isn’t she?” grunted the man, and Marie felt a flash of indignation. She wasn’t that heavy! It had to be the trunk.

  “She’s about to be a dead little thing,” muttered Pamela.

  Something scraped the surface of the trunk, and the lid fell away abruptly. Marie squinted against the sudden influx of light.

  Pamela’s face appeared in her line of vision. “Ah, you’re awake.” She sounded surprised.

  Marie licked her lips. Someone had removed her gag. “Thank your damn chariot.”

  The man standing beside Pamela chuckled, but he quieted when Pamela shot him a vicious glare.

  Pamela ran her eyes over Marie, taking in her condition, before disappearing from Marie’s line of sight. “Someone get her out of there.”

  A beefy man with ruddy cheeks leaned over and grabbed Marie by the shoulder. She squeaked in pain as he hauled her out. Marie thought about kicking him in his ugly face, but realized she would drop the five feet to the floor if she did so. He dumped her on a table, and she glared at him.

  Pamela stepped in front of her. “You are going to tell us everything you know,” she informed Marie coldly.

  Marie smiled mockingly. Pamela wanted her to talk? Fine. She’d talk. She wouldn’t shut up. “Okay. Everything I know. You got it. I know you’re a miserable, ugly spindly woman who wouldn’t get a date if her—”

  Smack!

  Pamela glowered. “Don’t be difficult. These men are here to hurt you.”

  Marie’s eyes inadvertently flicked to the men. They looked like they belonged on the Army football team. Her stomach flip-flopped just from looking at them. But she hid her fear. She refused to let Pamela see her afraid. She faced the woman in front of her and arched an eyebrow. “Oh? So you’re not going to hurt me yourself? I would have thought a witch like you would have enjoyed that.”

  Pamela leaned down till they were eye to eye. She smiled sweetly. “Maybe later.”

  Marie sneered at her.

  Pamela straightened abruptly. “Cut her loose, take her to the back room, and tie her up.”

  The back room was small and square, with a large wooden table set in the center. A narrow ledge laden with wicked-looking blades, screws, and elaborate knotted ropes lined the near wall. Marie felt nauseated when she saw it.

  Seeing her expression, Pamela smirked. “Thinking of talking?”

  “No,” said Marie stubbornly. “Because I don’t know anything. Cristaña told me nothing.” Because she knew you’d catch me. Because she knew you’d torture me.

  Pamela’s eyes tightened. “We’ll see about that.”

  One of the men grabbed Marie’s arms, and the other picked up her feet, carrying her to the table. Marie felt adrenaline and fear rushing through her. Every sense felt hyperaware. Think, Marie! She needed a distraction. Something to allow her to break free.

  So she did the oldest, dumbest, and lamest distraction in the book, and maybe it was because it was so lame that it worked.

  “Hey—what’s that?”

  The hold on her hands loosened, and Marie jerked her right arm free, her hand diving to the lining of her belt.

  “What the—?” started the man, reaching for her.

  But Marie’s fingers had already curled around the handle of the knife, and she pulled it out of its sheath as she pulled it out of her belt. She twisted, kicking the man holding her feet in the jaw and burying the dagger in the chest of the man holding her arm.

  He screamed and let go. Marie tugged the knife out of him as she fell to the ground, kicking the second man again and scrambling out of his grasp.

  Pamela reached for her, but Marie leapt out of the way, scrambled out of the room—“CATCH HER!”—through the empty building, and into an abandoned alleyway.

  Left or right? Left or right?

  Footsteps pounded behind her. Marie wheeled to the left. She ran. Her heart raced. Her lungs burned. Behind her, Pamela and the man burst out of the building.

  “That way!” Pamela screeched.

  “But what about Jack—”

  “GO!”

  Footsteps thundered behind her. Marie ducked right into another alley, her heart pounding.

  BANG!

  The bricks on the alley wall splintered.

  BANG!

  Something made of glass shattered.

  BANG!

  A bullet whizzed past Marie’s ear.

  “You guys are crazy!” she shouted.

  BANG!

  That bullet brushed the skirt of her dress. Marie’s heart skipped a beat.

  BANG!

  Marie screamed and stumbled. Her injured shoulder was on fire! She slid across the dirt ground, trying to maintain her balance, but she fell. The man laughed. Marie tried scrambling to her feet, but the man was behind her already. She twisted around. Her heart beat frantically. She saw the barrel of his gun, saw his sneering face behind it—He pulled the trigger—She closed her eyes—

  Click.

  She stared at him. He stared at the gun. He pulled the trigger again.

  Click.

  Marie scrambled backwards. He snarled and tossed away the gun, barreling towards her like an angry bull, his eyes bulging with rage. Marie backed up against the wall, and one meaty hand shot out to grab her shoulder.

  Pain blinded her, and Marie screamed. He squeezed, and she screamed again.

  “Damn it, Jenson, keep her quiet!”

  Pamela raced up beside him and stared over his shoulder, panting, at Marie.

  Marie writhed, kicking and flailing against the man, but his meaty hand grabbed her around her throat. His grip tightened. She gasped. Black spots dotted her vision. Her fingernails scraped his arm. Her lungs burned. Her vision went completely black—

  He howled and let go. Air rushed into her lungs. She gasped, her hands flying to her throat. She glanced up, confused. What had…?

  The man stood frozen, gaping at the blood pouring in rivers down his chest. Marie’s eyes traced the trail of blood from his navel up to his throat, from which protruded a long, steel-tipped arrow.

  Pamela screamed. Arrows flew.

  The boy arrived at the camp shortly after nightfall.

  One of the Earth-sol
diers stopped him in his tracks. “What are you doing here, boy?” His Maretzian was halting and heavily accented.

  The boy motioned to the small wagon he had been pulling. “I have vegetables to deliver to Lord Bernard.”

  The guard stroked his beard. “Don’t you normally deliver vegetables in the morning?”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy nodded earnestly. “But Lord Bernard said that because of the incident yesterday, he is out of vegetables and needs new ones.”

  The soldier thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Go on ahead then.”

  The boy dragged his cart past the guard, but not before the guard snatched up a red Guida fruit, guffawing. The boy glared at him indignantly, but said nothing.

  As he neared camp, several of the Earth-visitors emerged from their patched tents, staring at his goods hungrily as he passed by. A young man made to approach him, but a man in a soldier’s uniform cleared his throat loudly, and the other desisted.

  The boy came to a large campfire and stopped next to it.

  “Can I help you, boy?” The man who asked was older, in his early fifties, and losing hair.

  “Yes,” said the boy. His fingers crept to a pouch attached to his belt. “The layout of the camp has changed. Could you tell me where I might find Lord Bernard?” He pulled a few dark green leaves from the pouch.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Bernard can be found—hey, what are you doing?”

  But the boy had already tossed the leaves into the fire. Immediately, large clouds of smoke billowed up and out. Within a few seconds they had engulfed the entire camp.

  The balding man coughed once before falling to the ground.

  Lord Parvenin smiled across the table at Barnabas. “So where is Lady Pamela?” he asked innocently. “I see she is not here tonight. Most unusual for her.”

  Barnabas shifted uncomfortably. “She was not feeling well this evening, so she is taking the night off.”

  Parvenin’s smile tightened. “I see. Well,” he looked down the table and raised his glass, “I propose a toast to Lady Pamela’s good health.”

  Everyone raised their glasses; they clinked together charmingly.

  Barnabas took a large gulp of wine. Heaven only knew he needed wine tonight.

  A minute later, as he attempted to spear a slice of chicken, the world before him swam confusingly. He stared a minute. His head throbbed. Numbness settled in his limbs. He stared at Parvenin. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt thick and heavy.

  Parvenin set down his untouched glass of wine. “Emperor Sidriel sends his regards, Lord Barnabas.”

  Black spots dotted Barnabas’s vision, and he knew no more.