“Checking communication systems,” Wendy’s voice in my ear says at the same time a flickering image of her appears in the shield. “ALR, do you copy?”
“I’m disappointed in the lack of fanciful code names,” I tell her in return. “All the spy movies I’ve watched have them.”
“ALR’s systems are a go.” Her voice is crystal clear. “FVB, do you copy?”
Finn adjusts the matching headset he’s wearing. “Affirmative.”
We’re on the roof of a building less than a block away from Ex Libris. After going over building schematics, it was determined our best course of entry was from a window located on the east side of the fourth floor. But as Jenkins’ security system turns out to be more advanced than we previously thought, there wasn’t an angle from below we could successfully reach the building from.
So we’re coming from above. Once I told Van Brunt I’d seen Todd’s cohort, no time was wasted. We’re to hit the only location we’ve been able to pin them on and keep our fingers crossed we can find something. Personally, I’m hoping to find them.
“FVB’s systems are a go,” Wendy’s saying. “VVB, do you copy?”
Victor’s voice, just as clear as Wendy’s, answers, “Affirmative.”
“VVB’s systems are a go. JD, do you copy?”
The A.D.’s response is immediate. “Affirmative.”
Well, bloody hell. I’m the only one not technically affirmative.
“JD’s systems are a go,” Wendy intones, eyes locked on a screen just off to her side. “JD, what is your location?”
“Ground floor of the dry cleaners next door. Readings show the system originates in the basement, so I’ll be en route.”
Finn slips a pair of sleek black guns into equally black holsters strapped to his chest before tugging on his dark knit hat. I’ve got no guns, though. I’ve brought with me a set of blades Kip had fashioned just for me. I’m fumbling with the blade sheaths strapped to my thighs, though, and before I know it, my partner’s hands circle my upper thigh so he can adjust one to fit more snugly.
I forget to breathe until his hands leave my body. And then I mentally kick myself for swooning, because obviously this is neither the time nor the place for such trivialness.
“Did you ever break into somewhere before?” Finn asks me.
I’m mesmerized by his grin. “That’s debatable.”
He chuckles quietly. “Are you nervous?”
Not about the mission, I’m not. I shake my head. He passes me a knit hat and asks, “VVB, status?”
His brother wastes no time answering. “In position.”
According to the plan, Victor is to be on point across from Ex Libris with a sniper rifle, just in case things don’t go the way we hope. Who knew doctors were such gifted shots?
“I thought this would be simple.” I tug the hat over my hair. “Sneak in, nose around, sneak out.”
He brushes stray hairs that have slipped from my bun beneath the knit of the hat. “Better safe than sorry, especially when you’re dealing with people with predilections toward sharp weaponry. Are you ready?”
I nod. As if the hair bit wasn’t enough, Finn’s hands settle on my shoulders. “Any last questions?”
I shake my head. We both tug on our gloves.
“AF is a go,” Finn tells Wendy. “Radio silence to commence in three, two, one.”
AF. Alice/Finn. Goddamn my knees for being useless body parts. Why is it always my knees to go first? Don’t they know a lady needs to stand?
“Affirmative, FVB. JD, you have ten minutes. Countdown begins now.”
The A.D.’s laugh fills our ears. And then Finn takes a deep breath and sprints at full speed toward the ledge. He goes flying right off the edge, his body poised five stories above the pavement, before he hits the gravel on the other side. A duck and roll steadies his landing before he gets up and turns around. I’m already following his lead, though.
When I sail between the buildings, exhilaration I’d thought I’d left behind in a former life slams back into my chest.
We sprint across the rooftops, flying as we close the gap between our starting point and Jenkins’ bookstore. His cameras are too plentiful, especially on the ground floor, and our faces too recognizable. Our only hope of entry lies comes from above, and even then, Jenkins is inside the building.
Good thing Finn and I are both quiet when it counts.
“JD, three minutes,” Wendy intones right as I roll a landing on yet another building.
He’s exasperated. “On it!” Numbers and words flash across the shield. “His Wi-Fi is shite, WD1. The virus upload is crawling.”
A map flashes across my shield. “Triangulating new signal,” Wendy says. “Get it finished, JD.”
We’re two buildings away now, and there’s a one-story drop. Finn warned me of this when we were in Van Brunt’s meeting room. “It’s gonna hurt if you hit the ground wrong, even snap your knee or ankle. You need to hit the right trajectory when you jump.”
I briefly considered letting him know about some of my more lurid past exploits in the spirited sense of sharing more about myself, but figured this one might be fun to let him find out first hand. “I’ll be okay,” I assured the team.
Kip was present, and surprisingly offered up, “She’s got good balance.”
It was the highest praised I’ve received from him so far.
“Two minutes, JD,” Wendy calls out.
He’s unruffled. “At seventy-two percent.”
The drop is a hundred feet away. Finn picks up traction, and I’m impressed by how he doesn’t appear winded in the least. His moves are smooth and strong. He’s talented, I realize as I watch him kick off into the groundless darkness. I mean, I knew he was. I’d watched him in training often enough. But seeing him in action right now?
I’m inappropriately aroused.
I’m also right behind him, my body flinging through the void. I hit the roof below hard, but counter it with a much more sophisticated roll than before. I match him move for more.
“One minute,” Wendy says.
“Eight-eight percent,” the A.D. returns.
The possibility that the building will explode in alarms only pushes me faster.
“You take unnecessary risks.” The Caterpillar blew out an Alice in armor, her arm raised as a bodiless arm with a battle axe swings viciously above.
Whispered later, when the Caterpillar turned back to his hookah with closed eyes, “Without risks, we never really know if something’s worth the trouble.”
I’d smiled. We were taking a risk then and there.
“Thirty seconds.”
Finn holds up a hand as he flies across the final rooftop, two fingers closing down into a swiped fist.
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
“Twenty seconds.”
My heart rate accelerates. Endorphins flood my bloodstream.
“Ten seconds.”
My feet push me faster until I’m parallel with Finn. And then, as if our bodies were puppets being controlled by the same master, we both leap across the divide in perfect unison before latching onto twin bars at the top of the fire escape. The entire metal structure shudders, but thankfully doesn’t groan.
A split second before my body slams into the brick wall, I swing my legs up into an arc, flipping across the bar. And then Finn and I wait for the wail of alarms.
None come.
He tugs out a circular glass cutter and suctions it onto the window. As he gets to work, I peer into the pane, searching for signs of life.
“T-minus two minutes before system reactivated,” the A.D. says. “I have a loop going, but it won’t hold.”
Finn swings what I first believe to be a blade in the cutter but then determine is a miniature laser in an arc. The glass silently melts until he can pop the piece out. I’m standing above him, spraying a can of lubricant along the top and sides of the wooden frame. The circle removed, I pass Finn the can so he can spray the
latch before twisting it.
“Thirty seconds, AF.”
Finn slides the window up and holds out an arm. Ladies first.
I’m in, and he’s right on my heels, sliding the window shut and latching it with a full second to spare.
“Security system back in place,” the A.D. tells us. “AF, you have sixty minutes before exit reboot. Cameras on fourth floor are currently on a new loop.”
We’ve entered a cluttered, dark attic, but it’s apparent within the first few glances that it’s not a forgotten one. There are several beds in various states of use, alongside a dresser and armoire. Clothes litter the floor around one of the beds, and a quick peek shows both feminine and masculine stylings. Of note, there is a familiar skull-covered tunic.
I nudge the pile and give Finn a thumb’s up.
A thump sounds, but it’s not in the room. Somebody bellows—and by somebody, I mean Jenkins—followed shortly by hysterical laughter and a slew of cuss words telling him what he can go do with himself.
We immediately get to work. Finn and I split up, with him searching one end of the attic, me the other. Books are everywhere—dusty ones, open ones, forgotten and well-loved ones. Piles of newspapers litter corners and chairs, many as recent as this past week.
All have been opened to the Entertainment sections; more specifically, to book reviews.
I snap pictures of all with the special shield attached to my headset and send them back to the Institute. Van Brunt and Wendy are ready to go over all data we send back.
A quick, quiet snap of fingers lifts my eyes to Finn. He’s standing over a disintegrating cardboard box tilted to its side. Switchblades spills out.
I leave the newspapers alone and head over to where he’s standing. And then the muscle in my chest stills, because each and every single blade—and there are dozens and dozens of them—are scratched with a familiar name. S. Todd.
My God.
Another few minutes of searching brings about new blades scattered throughout the room. Some are rusty, some gleaming, some covered in blood, some pristine. Some are open, many are closed. All are of the barbershop variety.
A faded photograph sticks out from beneath one of the graying, poorly covered mattresses. It’s of a pair of adolescents with heads leaning against one another, their fresh faces smiling. It’s Todd and his mysterious lady.
I think back to the man I’d encountered at Mansfield Park. He was a far cry from his teens . . . Mid-forties, I estimate, although to be fair, I’m terrible at guessing ages. Wonderlanders age differently than those I knew in England, so somebody there who looked forty could be two hundred, and somebody who looked two hundred could be twenty.
In any case, the years in between this photo and now have hardened these two.
I scan the photo and send it to Wendy before shoving it back under the mattress. Finn motions me over to a dilapidated desk with a large, yellowing curtain hung behind it. He pushes it aside to reveal, taped from floor to ceiling, hundreds of newspaper clippings, photographs, and torn pages from books. As I stare at the sight before us, my heart sinks, ices over, and then melts in fury.
Circled in red, with a slash straight through is, is an illustration of a man on a horse in front of a windmill. A date is scrawled in the same crimson ink, a date that I know well.
It’s the date I joined the Collectors’ Society.
I’m frantic as I search through the photographs. Some have question marks, some have red circles and slashes, some are untouched. Some have dates, some curse words, some are yellowed with age. There’s no rhyme or reason to their postings, except for one thing. They’re all about books. There’s a slash through The Three Musketeers. Through Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Through Jane Eyre.
There are circles around books I now know are about people whose lives mean something to me.
Finn drops a hand on my shoulder. Forces me to look at him. He mouths: Focus. Take pictures.
I let my furor force me into compliance. Together, we capture the entire wall, but as soon as I give him a thumb’s up, something crashes again. Something much closer than before.
We both freeze.
Footsteps clomp up an unseen set of stairs. A woman shrieks, “You’re both fucking idiots! You can both go to hell!”
A quick glance at the small running countdown in the corner of my eye shield shows we have twenty minutes before the A.D. resets the security system. Finn sweeps the curtain closed and quickly leads me toward the armoire. We have nowhere else to go, nowhere else that would allow us cover. The doors protest loudly when I wrench it open; they’re not completely attached. The space is tiny, packed tight with clothes and items upon the floor I’d rather not think about. Finn’s tugged my bottle of lubricant out of the belt around my waist and is spritzing it on the hinges a split second before I yank them shut and back into place, enveloping us in darkness.
A different door creaks and then slams. “ASSHOLES!”
Make that muted, cramped darkness cut by slivers of light from the broken doors. The armoire we’re in is minute, with barely enough room for the two of us outside of the (surprisingly clean smelling) garments squished onto a bar. I feel a hand on top of my head gently pushing downward, and then another hand on my back urging forward. We duck under the shirts and dresses and squeeze up against the back wall, our bodies smooshed together like sardines in a can. My hands have nowhere to go except settle on his hard chest; his fall on my hips.
“Hello?”
Neither of us move. Breathe. My heart decides to run another caucus race; his does, too, just not for the same reason.
I am a foolish, foolish girl. I should not even think of such things right now. Or, hell, care—we could be caught. We’ve just broken into a heavily alarmed residence after circumventing the existing system and we could get caught and I’m thinking about how bloody attracted I am to this man.
For God’s sake. Priorities, Alice.
“Today’s been a bitch of a day.”
Finn’s breath, all minty and tantalizing, whispers against my ear. “She’s on the phone.”
That silly muscle in my chest now decides it must win the race. I need to get out of this closet, out of such close proximity to this man.
“Get the fuck out!”
When an involuntary jerk spasms through me, my nose crashes into Finn’s. Both of us hiss in pain, but miraculously manage to keep it to just that. She’s not talking to us, though, because the next shout has her saying, “I say, let’s burn them all. Fuck, I need some E or something. Got any? I’m desperate for a hit. I’ll take coke, too.”
It’s my turn to put my mouth up against his ear. “Sorry.”
I feel, rather than see, his slight intake of breath.
I don’t know how long this still nameless woman talks on the phone. It feels like forever, with each second warmer in the small closet than the last. I’m pressed up against the wall, so is Finn. The only thing that separates us is the width of my hands on his chest.
It’s torture, plain and simple.
She’s not talking about anything we’d care to know. Her words tell us nothing but her love of drugs. I lose interest in her lengthy complaints and find myself focusing instead on the man I’m pressed up against. His heart is thumping just as hard as mine. I focus on my breathing, but every time I pull a drag in, all I smell is Finn: clean soap and man and a hint of mint and spice. Sweat trickles down the back on my neck, and my knees ache from the weird angle we’re forced into. And yet, the woman keeps talking.
I lean my head back and stare into the gray darkness above. Finn shifts, his head ducking awkwardly beneath the low ceiling, but the brush of his body against mine scorches already overheated skin.
It’s my turn to shift when the ache in my shoulder turns unbearable. Another tiny intake of breath on his behalf sends my pulse skittering once more. Underneath my fingers, the beat in his chest drums harder.
I remind myself: He’s my partner.
; I put on repeat in my head: Love—lust—has only ever brought you heartache.
Another crash sounds beyond the armoire doors. I tell myself: Nothing but trouble can come from feeling this way.
When Finn shifts again, his fingers tightening around my waist, I’m resolute: Get your head on straight, Alice.
The longer the woman bemoans her ails (lack of drugs and a stupid paramour, from the little I can tell), the stronger the heartbeat underneath my hands resonates within my ears. And I’m left wondering if this Timeline is addictive, too, because everything is turning upside down in this warm dungeon we’ve found ourselves in.
My head drops back down until our noses are mere inches apart. He’d been staring at the door, but the moment he notices I’ve moved, his eyes find mine in the graying darkness. I can’t match their color, but it doesn’t matter. In my mind, I see them: clear blue-gray and oh-so-beautifully expressive.
The nerves that run between my brain and hands cease functioning, because my fingers curl into the softness of his dark shirt. Another sharp intake of breath fills the space between us, and I’m no longer overheating.
I’ve burst straight into flames.
It would be so easy in this moment to close my eyes. Just pretend that nothing is happening, that his touch does nothing to me. I’ve closed my heart off before. It was difficult, but I did it. I walked away from the only person who consumed my everything for years and still does in many ways, and I did it with one foot in front of the other. What I said was true. Love isn’t always enough. Sometimes, a person must let go and mean it.
Any second, we could be discovered. And yet . . . when his head lowers toward mine, I keep my eyes wide open.
We share the same air for many seconds as the woman outside the door lowers her voice to where her words are barely distinguishable. Those I do catch continue to be meaningless, just snatches of irreverent talk that tells us nothing about the wall of book pages. Our lips are precariously close; all it would take would be the most minute of shifts for skin to touch skin. And then my name falls out between us, a barely voiced set of syllables that hold so much more than simple identification.
My fingers tighten in his shirt. Tug ever so gently, when there really isn’t space to lead him into. He reaches up and gently slides the screen from my headset back and then does the same to his. I know nobody can see us; an active transmission has to be triggered by the user. Even still, a thrill shoots through me at his purposeful action.
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