by McGill, Brie
“I prefer to get inexorably drunk before having an in-depth discussion of ogres.” Sweeping a hand across her lap, his fingers brushed against her leg, and motioned to the second book. “That second book is an additional encyclopedia of the constellations.”
Part of her wanted to collapse onto his shoulder, feel his chest, and pull the mask away. “You forgot to bring our wine.”
“I have not forgotten.” He pointed a stern finger. “You’ll get your wine when I come for dinner. Unfortunately, I have to help Aleister with his dirty work today, so I can't come for dinner tonight. But I haven’t forgotten.”
She tried not to look crushed. She was bored, isolated, alone, and desperate for the company of anyone. . . even for the company of her bizarre captor in a terrifying ogre mask.
“Which is why I’ve brought you something to read in the meantime.” He opened the third book, and placed it on her lap.
“You won’t let me get drunk alone?” She sighed wistfully.
He waved a finger. “You require supervision.”
She turned away. “How would you know?”
He puffed his cigarette. “I can tell.”
“How could you tell?” She waved an arm.
He tilted his head. “I can tell all kinds of things.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I can’t tell you.”
“What is this?” Ninkasi touched the edges of the book.
“This is my favorite book.” Orion placed a silken hand on top of her hand, turning the page together with her.
Her heart fluttered.
It was like a knife in her brain. She couldn’t see his face, she couldn’t feel his skin. His shirt hung wide open, showing that delicious slice of chest—
He pointed at the glossy photographs with his free hand, clutching the cigarette. “It’s a collection of ancient, mysterious ruins from around the world.”
“The forest pyramids in Ruta. . .” Ninkasi studied the page. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“There exists no technology in our possession to cut rock with such precision on a grand scale.” Orion guided her hand, leafing through pages until he found the next chapter, with images of stone cathedrals, buried in the snow. “The cathedrals near the pole at Daitya.”
“They’re beautiful.” She blinked. “I don’t know much about this one.”
“They were constructed in alignment with a previous pole star, two processions of the equinox in the past.” He tapped his fingers against the page. “All kinds of stone markers are incorporated to cast the most elaborate display of light and shadow, in accordance with various astronomical events. Computer reconstructions of the solar system indicate these ruins were built fifty thousand years before the written word, and these ancient markers of cosmology are accurate to the second.”
Ninkasi knit her brow.
“Here’s another one.” Orion inhaled with the cigarette deeply, moving his hand to Ninkasi’s shoulder. “The hieroglyphics found in the caves at the base of the mountains in Jambu.”
She felt a flutter in her stomach, the heat rise to her face. “I’ve seen these before.” She leaned forward, fighting to ignore the sensations in her body, eyeing the curious print on the page. “It looks like spaceships.” She glanced at him, unsure of what to do about the hand: he was her captor. And anything else misguided she felt was a result of the situation’s insanity. “It’s near the same place with those six-fingered statues, right? They mention the statues, but not the weird hieroglyphics in university.”
His fingers fell away from her shoulder, glissading across her back, teasing the skin exposed by the dress with a gentle touch. The hand lowered, settling at her waist.
Her head burned, ready to explode in a molten delirium. The starving space between her legs ached. Her stomach knotted, her chest tightened. What did he expect her do to?
She didn’t know what to do, short of riding her bluff into the grave.
“The pictures are gorgeous and the history is mysterious.” Orion tilted his head toward her, so the ogre’s horn knocked against her head. “But what I find most provocative is what this book doesn’t say.”
Ninkasi felt feverish. She wanted to close her eyes and fall into him. If she couldn’t escape him, she wondered if she should give up, give in.
It seemed infinitely better than being alone. He maintained the guise of a few redeeming qualities.
And then she felt angry, so angry at herself for entertaining the thought. She was going crazy!
She wanted to appear calm. Her voice was a murmur. “What do you mean, what it doesn’t say?”
Orion paged through the book, marveling at a myriad of historical wonders. “It’s easy to talk about what these things are, where they are, when we found them. We can talk about how amazing they are, or how we have no idea how they were built, no insight to their true purpose. But if that’s true. . .”
Ninkasi nodded, taking a deep breath through her nose. His face was right beside her face, with only the mask between them. She wondered if he could feel the heat radiating from her body. She wondered what his eyes looked like when he became excited with his books, or with his sneaking hand around her back.
“I can’t help but wonder how they got here in the first place.” He closed the book. “Or who built them.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Ninkasi angled her head away from his face.
“What’s obvious?” He scooped the book out of her lap, lightly grazing her thighs, and set it with the other books beside her. He didn’t move the hand around her waist.
Her heart beat faster. “You know. . .” She didn’t want to panic. “Someone thought it was important enough to draw pictures of spaceships.” She opened her mouth to laugh, and sighed.
She wanted either to climb on top of him or break away from him, but she was too terrified to move. “Hey, Orion?”
He remained suspiciously tranquil.
“Do you feel. . .” She stared at the floor, in search of words. “Obligated, to come and check up on me?”
He found a second cigarette in his pocket. “I have an obligation to myself.”
“An obligation for what?” She didn’t expect an answer.
He took a huge puff from the fresh cigarette. “For the ethical treatment of human beings.”
Ninkasi wasn’t sure what to say.
“I know you didn’t do anything wrong and it’s fucked up to keep you locked in here like this.” He pulled his hand away from her, dug his elbows into his knees and rested his face in his palms. “I’ve been incarcerated. I know what it’s like.”
She craned her neck forward. “You went to prison?”
“I’ve gone to hell.” He smoked furiously. “I spent enough time in solitary confinement to know exactly how it works. I never went to jail.” He turned his back to her.
His hair was so smooth, so shiny—she wanted to touch it.
“Jail would have been a mercy. An insane asylum would have been a mercy.” He shook his head.
A wave of dread swept through her: who was this man? What could possibly worse than a lifetime in jail or an insane asylum?
“I wish I had more to give you than a pile of books because it’s a sorry exchange for your freedom.” He stood up.
His words were sobering.
“Yes, I have an obligation.” He walked to the door, hand on the crystal knob, and stopped to look at her. “That, and. . . You. . . You remind me so much of. . .”
Turning abruptly, he exited. The gate in the hallway clicked, locking.
Escape
VI.
Orion smoked furiously. He couldn't get over how Ninkasi looked in those dresses. She looked exactly fucking like her. It was unbelievable.
He wiped his forehead.
Nero’s face hovered inches above the keyboard. Engrossed in typing, he squinted at the screen with dark rings beneath his eyes. His slouching body pushed the chair far enough from th
e desk that if his fingers slipped, he would fold in half.
A full pot of coffee steamed on the desk, and someone had been kind enough to clear away his dirty dishes.
Orion wandered through the library to Nero’s desk. Stopping behind him, he silently observed images flicker over the screens.
Nero didn’t notice him. He doubted Nero would notice if a meteor struck the property, or if the entire chateau collapsed in an earthquake.
Smirking, he lit another cigarette.
The spark of the lighter drew his attention and Nero whirled around.
“How many hours have you been at this?” Orion narrowed his eyes, blowing a puff of smoke in Nero’s face.
Orion felt the twinge of disgust in Nero’s chest. Nero never liked him; he kept their conversations cordial, out of respect to Aleister.
“Not hours.” Nero maintained a poker face. “Days.”
Orion knew Aleister loved Nero because he was brilliant. Aleister put him up to mental challenges that groups of men couldn’t crack, and Nero completed them in a snap.
“I’m a hypocrite for saying this.” Orion took another puff. “But you know the mind organizes information while you sleep. How about a break?”
“What does any of this matter to you?” Scowling, Nero reached for his mug of coffee. He took a big sip, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk.
“I’m sick of listening to Aleister bitch and moan.” He moved beside him. “Maybe I can offer a fresh pair of eyes.”
Nero recoiled with aggravation.
Orion could convince anyone of anything—anyone, except for Nero.
“I work better alone.” He slammed his mug on the desk. “But thanks.”
Orion sat on the floor, spreading a stack of printed papers around him. “These are all shots of the facility?”
Nero tilted his head back, and gurgled with frustration.
“You need to construct random camera shots into a usable floor plan?” Orion studied the pictures, stroking his chin.
“There’s not enough information.” Nero smacked his face with a palm. “I’ve been over them a million times.”
“That’s why you should go to sleep.” He sucked from the cigarette, brow knit with intrigued determination.
“I can’t sleep until this is done.” Nero rested his chin against the keyboard.
The machine chirped in protest.
“You’re in luck.” Orion blew out a cloud of smoke. “I’m feeling insightful.”
“Really.” Nero reclined in his chair.
His cigarette failed to mask the kid's palpable impatience, his disgust. “And I’m feeling generous.”
Nero ran his hands through his hair. “Aren’t you the fucking messiah.”
Orion switched the position of two photographs on the floor. “I wouldn’t dare challenge Aleister for the title of messiah.” Pushing others out of the way, he scrutinized his work.
A wry smile twisted Nero’s lips.
“It requires too much effort, anyway.” Orion spoke with a cigarette between his lips, rearranging the pictures. “Too much pompous grandeur, showboating and shouting. Not something I have a taste for.”
Nero planted an elbow on the desk and slouched, propping up his head with one hand, languidly pushing the keyboard aside. “You wouldn't socialize of your own good will if hell froze over. Tell me what you want.”
“I feel terrible for you.” He swapped photos, puffing. “I think it’s fucked up the entire weight of this project sits on your shoulders and you’re pulling all-nighters to get it done, while everyone else gets drunk in the den.”
Nero sighed.
“And you know who Aleister will ask to clean the carpets when the party is over.” Orion pointed his cigarette at him.
Nero narrowed his eyes. “It’s an unfair advantage, don’t you think?” He stared at the ceiling. “Being able to tell when anyone else is lying, but being immune to that scrutiny yourself.”
“It’s not a lie.” He switched another pair of pictures. “I saw you scrubbing the carpets the other day.”
Nero frowned. “Your rhetoric is poor.”
“You want the truth?” Orion pulled on his cigarette, set down the pictures, and turned to face him.
He kept a straight face; his body exuded palpable terror. Orion had to applaud the boy for trying.
“You don’t like that I can sense everything you feel? You don’t think I can’t tell you’re about to piss your pants?” Orion reached toward the desk to ash his cigarette. “Well, smart kid, figure out how to help me turn it off, and I’ll be in your debt forever.”
Nero pursed his lips, wearing a grim expression, and returned to the computer.
They equally detested direct confrontation.
Focused on his goal, Orion replaced pictures, rearranging them, shuffling them. The grid he constructed grew rapidly, Orion kneeling to reach the far corners of the puzzle.
“Goodnight, Nero.” Standing up, he turned and leisurely made his way toward the door.
He heard the creak of Nero’s chair, Nero standing to gawk. He felt the shock, perplexity, and horror exploding through his veins, his thumping heart, the sweat on his face, the rush of blood to his head.
Yes, Orion had solved the puzzle of the floor plan for Nero; he solved it like he didn’t need a map because he already knew the answer.
Maybe it was cruel of him to fuck with Nero’s head like this. If Nero didn’t openly trumpet his distrust of Orion, Orion would have felt no impetus to give Nero any reasons to distrust him further.
“You can take the credit if you like." Orion dismissed him with a wave of the hand. "I won’t tell a soul.”
Ninkasi thundered through the hall barefoot, stripped down to a coral corset and matching satin underwear. She shucked away the shimmering taffeta gown, the ruby-encrusted chemise, the garters, the stockings, all the frilly nonsense.
What she would have given for some track pants and a tank top!
A folding iron gate caged her in a corner of the chateau. Her quarters expanded: she was allowed to freely exit her room, through the hall, to the grand bathroom; all the other doors along the way were sealed.
But it was a long hall, long enough for her to exercise.
Ninkasi sprinted to the end of the hall for the umpteenth time, wiping the sweat from her brow. Skidding into the wall, she caught herself with her hands and spun around, darting to the other end of the hall again. Her chest bounced, restrained by the scanty scraps of lace and pearl-studded silk.
What she would have given for a sports bra. Seriously.
Pausing, she leaned against the door to her room, catching her breath: she heard voices in the stairwell. Jiggling the handle to her suite, she slammed the door behind her, leaping into bed and yanking a sheet over her body.
The servants. They never entered. Thank god. She didn’t want to see them, didn’t want to see their vacant eyes, their suspiciously calm faces.
She didn’t want to think about their hands all over her body. . .
She wanted to remain as separate from this bizarre world as possible.
Ninkasi heard the clank of a ceramic bowl against the floor outside her door, muffled murmurs and laughter. The grate squealed; footsteps echoed down the stair.
Sitting up, Ninkasi waved her arms in circles, sweating. She could kill another hour with pushups, sit-ups, burpees if she felt an urge for extreme self-punishment. She didn’t want to rot here.
Ninkasi scrambled to open the door, discovering a white ceramic bowl overflowing with pomegranates outside the door.
She bit her lip. Of course. Master Orion probably picked these for her, too.
Her eyes shifted to the iron accordion gate obstructing her exit; the glint of something slender and metallic on the floor caught her eye. Crouching at the edge of the gate, she narrowed her eyes: one servant unwittingly dropped a bobby pin!
Ninkasi stood up, glossing her fingers over the lock on the gate: the pin should fit.
Squatting, she poked her arm through the crossbars, reaching for the pin, taking care not to pinch herself in the gate—the pin was too far out of reach.
Ninkasi flopped onto her stomach, inching as close to the gate as possible, sticking her arm through, fingers stretching, grasping for the pin.
Still out of reach.
She zoomed into the bedroom, eyes scanning frantically for something long, something she could stick through the gate and help her to grab the pin. Her eyes flitted over vases, drawers, the tables, chairs, and fireplace—
The fireplace! Swiping a brass fire iron, she admired its use as a potential weapon if she managed her escape.
Zipping to the gate, she fell to her knees, and poked the iron through the crossbars. With some careful angling, she knocked the pin closer and closer.
Lurching forward, she shoved her bare arm through the bars. She felt the pin beneath her fingers, and grabbed it.
Climbing to her feet, she threaded her arm through the gate and felt for the lock, jamming the pin inside and wiggling it.
The gate clicked.
Quietly, she tugged the gate away from the wall.
Success.
Her heart thudded. She pushed the gate against the wall and inserted the pin, locking herself inside.
Tonight she would escape, after everyone went to sleep. Armed with her fire iron, she would, one way or another, fight her way from this damned chateau and escape.
She’d go home. See her brother. Escape.
Ninkasi alternately paced around her room and sat at the antique table peeling pomegranates, watching the sun’s slow parade across the sky.
There were no clocks.
She had to guess when dark was dark enough, when late was late enough. Sequestered in her estranged bastille, she was too far removed from the society of dropouts to hear when the collective stirred, when it ate, when it slept.
She was breaking out blind. Clutching the fire iron, she grabbed the shovel beside the fireplace. Now she possessed one tool for whacking, one tool for stabbing.