“Be sure you understand what you are saying,” she said. “These bodies are not idle decorations; they are a warning.”
“So now you’re one of the medieval tyrants,” I said, “putting your victims’ heads on spikes and setting them on castle walls to warn others what will happen if they defy you.”
I had reached the end of my speech—and my bravery. Keeping your enemy talking while you figure out what to do will only go so far. I was at the end of my rope and I knew it. Unfortunately for me, she did as well.
She moved her hand toward her long flowing sleeve and withdrew a knife. The blade edge gleamed in the dark chamber.
The bodies in the niches showed no obvious signs of stabbings, but the blood most likely had been cleaned off by magic or other means.
I tensed as she took a step closer. Part of me wanted to stare at her, to show her I did not care what she did, but most of me wanted to get the hell out of there.
I struggled and tried to twist myself free from Mrs. Kaufman who still had my arms pinned to my sides.
Before either of us said another word, the sound of grinding metal echoed through the chamber as cogs and winches began to move.
The noise grew louder. The ceiling opened narrowly. I looked up and saw a slice of black sky and a sprinkling of small bright stars. How enticing it was—and how beyond reach.
The same grinding noise echoed again. The opening in the ceiling widened. A silver glow moved slowly down from the center, its brightness illuminating everything around it. It was the book—the one that had caused Abigail, Pamela, and all of us so much grief.
The sight of it enchanted me. I could not look away. As it descended its pages ruffled. Small flames appeared around the edges. I held my breath, thinking it would ignite.
Flames and lightning flashed alternately from within; dark clouds seeped from under worn leather covers, but it did not catch fire.
“It seems the book has a mind of its own,” Charlotte Glasspool said, discomfited by the book’s appearance.
She turned to Abigail who had been silent as a sphinx and was now pale as a ghost. “You told me it had been destroyed.”
Abigail’s mouth worked as she struggled to speak. “Why are you accusing me?” she said. “You were there. You saw what happened at Finder’s Hill.”
“Yes. And so were you. But your friend here interrupted us, and you never answered my question. Later, I asked you again if you knew what became of the book, and you said it no longer existed.”
“I saw it blow up,” Abigail insisted. “I’m sure of it. There was nothing left.” She looked at me desperately. “Isn’t that right, Olivia?”
“I’m sorry, Abigail,” I said. “I was shielding myself from her.” I looked accusingly at Charlotte Glasspool. “She tried to kill me, remember? I couldn’t see anything else.”
“Release her,” Glasspool said quietly.
Mrs. Kaufman hesitated, then let go of my arms.
She had been digging her nails into them so hard she must have left bruises. I tried to rub away the soreness. As I did, I felt a hot, stinging sensation. Where the firebolt had hit me there was now a dark circle around my forearm.
“How did that get there?” I rubbed my arm, but the mark would not come off.
It had an elongated serpent’s head and curved horns, identical to the ouroboros I had seen Logan tattooing on the fae investigator.
“What does it mean?” I said.
“For me, it means a major inconvenience.” Charlotte Glasspool’s eyes glimmered as she stared at the mark. “But for you it is an unintended stroke of good luck.” She returned the knife to her sleeve. “I was certain you had outlived your usefulness, but apparently not.”
“This girl can do nothing,” Mrs. Kaufman hissed. “Get rid of her.”
“If she were useless, I would,” Charlotte Glasspool said. “There are those among us who have demonstrated what they can and cannot do. Yet I allow them to live out of a sense of . . . sentiment.”
She paused long enough for me to stop glaring, and instead wonder what she meant.
“I do apologize, Lena,” Charlotte Glasspool said to Mrs. Kaufman. “You have served me well, as much as your limited skills allow. Extraneous people are burdensome and dangerous. They tend to do more than they are able, and it is difficult to keep them content and . . . occupied appropriately.”
“You—you’re choosing her . . . over me?” Mrs. Kaufman said breathily.
“I am afraid so. It is not all your fault, you see, but your use of elfbane”—
“It wasn’t me!” Mrs. Kaufman said.
“It was and you know it. You just could not wait. Your husband wanted to clear the area of trees so he could continue with his land development. The tree, the portal Arion used, might have died on its own, but you were too impatient. Your use of elfbane insured that it would be cut down. You have brought this on yourself.”
“But it was Zenda who”—
“Zenda would not have been capable. I know her limitations, as well as yours.
“As for this foolish girl, she may yet be useful, if she listens to reason.”
Me? No!
“That’s not fair,” I interrupted. “She’s right. I couldn’t possibly”—Mrs. Kaufman gripped my throat, choking the words, squeezing the life out of me. I tried to breathe; a few garbled sounds escaped.
“You see what happens when people do not do what they are told and try to perform beyond their abilities,” Charlotte Glasspool said to Abigail. “They become desperate.”
Mrs. Kaufman squeezed harder.
As my eyes bulged and dark spots clouded my vision, I caught the barest glimmer of life in Jade’s eyes. They had been as dull as winter leaves, but now they flashed bright green.
The vise-like grip around my throat stopped. I fell forward and gasped. I heard a choking sound behind me followed by a thump. Mrs. Kaufman lay sprawled on the floor, her eyes open, her face distorted.
“You have forced me to take actions now that I would have done later, Abigail, or maybe not at all,” Charlotte Glasspool said. She lowered her hand which had been pointed at Mrs. Kaufman. Then she turned and faced Abigail, which meant Jade and I were now behind her. I took short, quiet breaths so I would not attract her attention.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Abigail said defiantly. “I only did what you told me to. It had nothing to do with her.” She pointed at Mrs. Kaufman. “You didn’t have to kill her.” Abigail moved toward the door, but it closed silently.
“That is the problem with you, Abigail, your unacceptable actions have caused more difficulty.”
“I tried—”
“You could not even keep the book under your control. What is more, you used it without permission and cast your stupid, vengeful spell. If you had only accepted the girl’s contempt as your just due, none of this would have happened.” She stepped nearer to Abigail.
“If you had done it correctly,” she went on, “it might have ended there, but you did not. Then you tried to hide your incompetence by lying. You see what happens to those who outlive their usefulness?”
Abigail’s eyes darted toward the limp form of Mrs. Kaufman.
“And when I say usefulness it is out of generosity.” Glasspool’s temper rose. “It assumes you had some value to me, but now I know you had none.” She grimaced, looked away from Abigail, and snapped her fingers.
“Get her out of my sight.”
A man lurched away from a niche and moved steadily towards Abigail. He clamped his hands on her shoulders. She screamed and tried to twist free. She kicked at him and missed. She swung her foot again and this time got his shin. He did not wince—he had no feeling—but pulled his arm back and hit her. She slumped and would have crumpled to the floor if he had not been holding her arm.
A silver light gleamed. A narrow beam flashed across the room. At the same time another beam flashed from the opposite side. With wrenching movements, Jade and James broke free. They stumbled forward, righ
ted themselves, and shook their arms as if to bring circulation back.
Charlotte Glasspool raised both arms and pointed at each of them. The hooded figures started toward James and Jade.
“Not them! The book. Get the book.” The light shining from James’s and Jade’s eyes streamed towards the book encircling it. Lightning crackled; windows shattered. The book exploded in blinding fire.
Charlotte Glasspool screamed. She swiped her arm through the air. Two of her followers fell to the floor.
Outside sirens blared. Charlotte Glasspool pushed both hands to the side and shoved away the air. The sound of doors and windows closing echoed through the building. She stared hard at Mrs. Kaufman—and I almost screamed.
Mrs. Kaufman, who had been dead seconds ago, stirred but did not rise. Her fingers twitched and wrapped themselves around a torch that had not been there an instant before. Charred and smoking, it looked like it had just gone out, yet it continued to smolder.
Small piles of ashes with glowing embers appeared throughout the room. The wall wavered and misted. The mirror hung invitingly in the same place but showed only swirling clouds.
“I need them, Lena,” Charlotte Glasspool said, “but I no longer need you.”
She snapped her fingers again.
The mirror showed blue sky and open hills. I gasped but could not breathe. Had she activated a security system like the one in the school library and cut off the air.
Invisible hands tightened around my throat as breathing became impossible.
Jade rushed forward, placed herself between me and Charlotte Glasspool, and whispered words in another language. A shimmering dome appeared around us. James pulled Abigail inside. Air flooded into my lungs.
One by one the hooded followers dropped to the ground. The sirens died. Footsteps and voices came from outside the building. The shouting stopped. Sharp cracking reverberated as they broke the locks.
Charlotte Glasspool paused and stared at us once more. She raised her arms overhead and touched her fingertips together the same way she had done in the gym and vanished in a tower of flame and smoke. The hooded figures lying on the floor turned into piles of ashes and disappeared. I stared at the place Charlotte Glasspool had been, half expecting her to come back but she was gone.
Jade’s shimmering wall disappeared.
A whisper of air brushed against my face and I could breathe again.
James ran down the line of niches. He stopped in front of one and pulled Pamela from it, then carried her back to where we were.
“We cannot be found here,” he said.
“There is enough air now,” Jade reassured me. She put her face closer to mine and whispered urgently. “Olivia, listen. You cannot let her find the book!”
“Jade!” James called.
“But it’s gone,” I said.
“It’s out of reach, it’s not here, but it isn’t—”
“Jade.” James again.
“I’m coming,” she said to him. And to me, “We’ll talk about this later.”
“What about the ashes, the torch, Mrs.—”
“No,” Jade said. “Charlotte Glasspool just made it a lot easier for you. Trust me. She wants something.”
She turned and ran after James.
Abigail lay unconscious. The smoldering ashes did not ignite but turned gray as the embers died.
I sat alone on the floor and forced myself to stay upright.
Mrs. Kaufman opened her eyes.
I gasped and drew back. But she did not see me. She looked at the torch in her hand. Instead of letting it drop, she gripped it harder and stared at it without comprehension.
Mrs. Kaufman was still staring at it when a dozen police rushed into the room. One of them pointed a gun at her. She gazed at him, then looked at the torch curiously as if she did not know where it came from. She set it down carefully.
She appeared to be every bit the guilty person who had been caught in the act of setting fire to the room and decided it was better to give up.
One by one, the police focused all their attention on Mrs. Kaufman their prime suspect.
Slowly I understood the meaning of Jade’s words. Charlotte Glasspool had shifted the blame for everything onto Mrs. Kaufman. That was what she meant by needing us and not her.
Unable to speak, or even try to explain anything, I looked up and into the eyes of the one officer who was not holding a gun on Mrs. Kaufman.
He looked familiar and he stared at me if he knew me. I drew in a sharp breath. It was Sari Renjen’s brother; the resemblance was unmistakable. I looked away from him, too shaken to care if he had recognized me or not, but I saw his face harden. The understanding or tolerance he might have shown under different circumstances toward someone like me who he had met before, did not exist here. Even though Mrs. Kaufman had been caught with the proverbial smoking gun, Officer Renjen seemed more puzzled than convinced. I was sure of one thing though: if he had seen Ms. Renjen in a niche, he would have acted totally different.
It was a good thing I was too stunned to say anything.
I offered no protest when they pulled me to my feet, nor did I say a word when they clamped the handcuffs around my wrists. I listened numbly as they recited my rights.
I knew I could remain silent; that anything I said could be used against me in a court of law; that I had the right to speak with an attorney. I did not care about any of it.
What mattered most was what I saw in the outer chamber when they pulled me from the room. Books were strewn, cinders floated, and scorch marks marred the walls. It was as if someone had taken a blow torch and tried to burn it down, but there were no niches, and the bodies were gone.
Without any missing or dead persons to explain away, there was no homicide.
Charlotte Glasspool had done a thorough job of setting up Mrs. Kaufman as an arsonist.
Would people believe it, and for how long?
I knew the bodies had been there, and Abigail knew as well. But what would she say when she regained consciousness?
What would I say? Would I tell the truth, or once again be forced to lie, because I knew I would never be believed? There had been—or would be—a massacre somewhere at some time. Would it be in the Labyrinthian Library—which had disappeared back into the layers of time where it had endured for ages—or would it be here in what was once again the school library?
With Abigail unconscious and injured on the floor, and me the only one standing and led out in handcuffs, it was hard to believe what happened next.
Chapter 34. Unpredicted
“You’re being released, for now,” the booking officer said grudgingly.
His resentful expression told me he did not know how that could be possible; that I must be a spoiled, irresponsible kid whose parents always covered for her and had friends in high places. None of it was true.
I felt like telling him to eff off, but even though I had not recovered from what happened—and never would—I remembered that antagonizing police is never a smart thing to do.
They had taken me from the library and drove me, still handcuffed, in a black and white to the police station. For the second time in my life, I was locked in a room with a guard outside.
Being detained for a crime you did not commit, does strange things to you. If released, you may feel contrite, or you may feel bitter; some kids would want to run away. None of those reactions pertained to me. I wanted to stay in town, to find the persons responsible, and get back at them.
Only one night passed—again they called it protective custody—but it was still lock-up, and it seemed like forever.
I wondered what they had done with Mrs. Kaufman, or what happened after we were taken away.
Did she go to Central Jail? Did she remember how she got ahold of the torch?
The police do not lock up multiple suspects together. Sure, I was a juvenile, but even if I had been an adult, they would have kept us separate so we could not get our stories straight.
I h
ad no way of knowing what Abigail might have said. The possibilities kept me awake for that night and the next.
All I wanted was revenge, clear and simple, until days later I heard what had happened.
Dad, Mom, and I were having dinner at Akira’s, a Japanese restaurant. Mom had insisted on family activities to help us bond after all the turmoil we had gone through. Francine was not there because she spent the night at a friend’s house, and Justin said he had a date. So, it was just the three of us.
“Well, the big news is that Mrs. Kaufman confessed,” Mom said, as she removed her chopsticks from the paper wrapper and rubbed them together to remove any splinters.
“She did?” I said shocked. “When?”
“We haven’t seen her,” Dad said. He took a sip of Asahi Beer and set it on the table. “We heard she doesn’t want a lawyer; she wants to plead guilty.”
“But not everyone is convinced,” Mom added carefully.
They told me that some of the teachers thought Mrs. Kaufman was under duress—although they could not say why she would admit to doing something unless she’d had a psychotic break.
“She had burn reside on her hands and clothes,” Mom said. “They found a trace of your blood in her car—and Pamela’s as well. Unless evidence is found to the contrary—or she agrees to have a lawyer represent her—there is not too much they can do. If she decides on legal representation, they’ll probably enter an insanity plea.”
Mom gave me a little reassuring smile that said everything will work out.
I was speechless. I had been expecting the spell or whatever it was that Mrs. Kaufman was under to wear off—and then I would have lots of questions to answer. And while I could tell them what happened, no one would have believed me.
Later, of course I had to give statements to the police and tell them how I drove to Palos Verdes and found Pamela; how we were forcibly taken to where we ended up.
Abigail did not admit or deny anything. Word filtered back that she barely spoke. Given the way she had always been at school, it was believable.
A few days later Justin added his perspective. He hadn’t had much to say but he had defended me from a couple of kids at school who called me a jail bird. He told them to eff off and a few other things, and they got into a shoving match. I told him it didn’t matter if someone called me names.
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 24