I shoved my finger at the legal pad he had in a death grip. I’d written right there where—at that stupid project house.
Rollins stared at me. “The Archer was there?” He looked down but wasn’t really looking at anything. “He was there with us—and never made a move. He could have extracted me then, but didn’t.” Rollins focused his gaze back on me. “He took your voice? He attacked you—and took your voice? Tell me.” The good Reverend grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer to him. “Were you out of body?”
I nodded and felt creeping tendrils of fear—this man’s terror became contagious. He released my shirt and stood, tossing the legal pad back at me. I pulled myself up straighter and into a sitting position.
“He knows. He knows I’m here—which means he knows I don’t have it anymore. Otherwise, he’d never have sent the Archer here—to the physical world.”
What—the hell—is he on about?
Was this man losing it? From the speed of his pacing, I’d say yes. I grabbed up the pad and turned to a new page. I scribbled some more but had to slam the pad on the coffee table to get the asshole’s attention.
WHAT THE HELL’S WRONG WITH YOU? YOU HIRED HIM, DIDN’T YOU?
Rollins looked down at me after reading the pad. He actually sneered. “I never hired the Archer—no one but the highest of the Phantasms can call upon a Symbiont like it do their bidding. I had Mitsuri conjure a simple Symbiont to attack Tanaka and frighten him so he’d get my property back for me.” He put his hands to his face. “All this time I thought that Symbiont had killed Tanaka. But no…it was the Archer. It could have had me at any time—but now it’s focused its attention on you. Tell me”—he fixed his crazy eyes on me—“is that when you first saw him? With Tanaka? Did he touch you then?”
I nodded, then tried to press myself back into the couch when he came at me and yanked up the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “This? This is his touch? You were still connected to a body?”
I nodded dumbly. Why did he look so excited?
And that smile! I felt like the cornered little rabbit in front of a very hungry mountain lion. “It’s perfect, then,” Rollins said. “You’ve taken his and the Phantasm’s attention away from me. A Wraith! A real Wraith! Neither of them can let you live. They’re not looking for me!”
Now I was shaking. Phantasm? What. The. Fuck?
But Rollins wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was pacing again and thinking out loud. Lucky for me.
“Mitsuri warned me there was something more powerful at work here. She sensed you.” He looked at me. “I’d brought you here to help me get back what’s rightfully mine—maybe threaten the life of your little cop lover so you could steal it for me.” He stopped and pinned me to the couch with his gaze. “As a Wraith, you can become corporeal, correct? Yes?”
I nodded. Shouldna done that. Dizzy. Ouch.
He looked happy. Just as long as he didn’t look crazy, I figured I was fine. “Good. Good. But this is better…”
Oh hell. I tried to pull the hard, plastic closure open. But it only cut into my bare wrists and bare ankles. If I could go Wraith, then go solid enough, I could find some scissors? Or a knife? But it was hard to concentrate on much for very long. I just wanted to go back to sleep.
“I can use her against Hirokumi to get my things back, and you—” He stopped then and focused on me. I sat up and smiled. “You—I can use you as leverage! I can trade you to him!”
I did not like the sound of this. Especially the part about me being traded to him. Who’s him?
Oh I think I’m in deep doody.
Rollins was on me—so to speak—in seconds. He sat on the couch beside me, his hands taking up my wrists and holding them tightly. I tried twisting away from him, but he was strong.
Strength of the insane.
And he was close—way too close. And his breath smelled foul. Like something had died in there. Ew.
And that oogy feeling? Well, it was washing over me like ocean waves. There was something really not right about this man. I felt nauseous.
“It’s a perfect plan. I can keep this life, and they’ll never know what I’ve done. They’ll never suspect. The Archer will know—but with you as a trade—I can lure him into the game with me.” He smiled, and I saw it again.
The same image I’d seen on Daniel’s face.
The skull. Death.
“When Mitsuri swore she’d sensed a real Wraith I’d been afraid then. Do you know how many Wraiths there are in my world? None, Miss Martinique. And do you know why? Because once a soul transmutates into one, the Symbionts hunt it down and eat it. And do you know why?”
I shook my head. I was still getting over the “eat it” part.
“Because Phantasms fear them. Wraiths are the harbingers, Miss Martinique. The bringers of life and of death. I had to find you, and it was so easy. And then I learned you were the same woman my men had seen with the cop.”
You know, instead of concentrating on my own abilities at the spy game, I’ve really got to be more careful about other people spying on me!
I struggled against him again. Geez…me as helpless female was getting old. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to scream. I wanted to go Wraith on him and club him from behind.
I tried harder this time, focusing my concentration. Oh, I felt the usual slip, and the physical and astral worlds did a weird slipstream on me, but I couldn’t move any farther. I was half-in and half-out.
It was as if my feet were cemented to my body.
“Please, don’t wear yourself out, Miss Martinique. The plastic ties are spelled with binding mist. You can’t become a Wraith as long as you wear them. You are mine, for now.” He smiled and squeezed my wrists tighter. “Mitsuri saw you here—that night. It was you, watching me. Listening in. She went after you, and disappeared. Did you kill her, Wraith? Is that why she never returned, and you still live?”
I’d let her go. I knew that now. I’d released her from a life of servitude. Now how did I know that?
“You really can’t make a sound, can you? If it’s really the Archer you’ve seen”—Rollins narrowed his eyes at me again and leaned in closer—“then it’s not so strange he would take your voice. His master removed his long ago when he dared to speak against him.”
Now by this time the asshole was less than two inches from my face.
And being that close, it was hard for me to relax. I couldn’t slip out of my body. I couldn’t kick him because my feet were bound. He had one hell of a grip on my wrists.
So I did the next best thing.
I bit his nose.
And I bit down hard and wasn’t about to let go.
He cried out and let go of my hands. Okay—so biting was a form of girl fighting—but it got the asshole off of me.
He also pulled me up by sheer force, trying to tear his nose away from me. But I have good jaws (ah! I know what you were thinking! Don’t go there!). But when I clamp down I really clamp down.
I had a boyfriend once, made the mistake of calling me the wrong name during a very heated and intense session in his car. And let’s just say, I doubt he ever again asked a girl to—
You get the picture.
But this time I tasted blood. I felt something tearing. Rollins howled and grabbed me around my neck.
That did it—I was choking again. I let go of his nose. I thought he’d let go of my neck, you know a courtesy thing—but he didn’t.
Shit, shit, shit—not again! I’d just got past the last bruising. Was Daniel ever going to see me non-beat-up? Rollins had me on my feet, with me unable to kick. I tried to pull his hands away, but my own bound wrists were useless.
Abruptly, his hold disappeared, and we both fell to the floor. Rollins flopped to my right, hitting the coffee table and crashing through it. He lay still, his nose a bloody mess. I hadn’t ripped the end off, but he was going to have my dental impression in it for a while.
I’d fallen backward, unable to balance with my ankles locked together. B
ut I didn’t hit the ground. Someone caught me and lowered me to the couch.
I turned and looked up at Tim’s face. He was smiling, his eyes wide, and his physical skin bone white.
“I did it.” His voice was breathless. And I think that was a turning point in the ghost’s life, helping me like that. “I’m sorry it took me so long, but I had to gather enough strength to pick up that paperweight and hit him with it.”
I looked on the floor and saw the lead cross Tim had used to kayo the good Reverend. I remember seeing it on my first visit. A paperweight.
I pointed to the binder on my ankles and wrists. He nodded and went back to the desk. He found a pocketknife and tossed it to me before abruptly disappearing. I was able to cut the plastic, coughing the whole time, and sputtering.
My throat hurt again. And I figured—if Trench-Coat hadn’t of absconded with my voice, then I’d probably have lost it anyway from being choked all the time.
And what’s with that? I’m a nice person. Why are people trying to kill me?
I absently shoved the plastic as well as the knife into the pocket of my sweats (better to have Rhonda take a look at the mechanics of something that could prevent me from going OOB) and stood—and sat back down. Oh man…I was woozy. Drugs. I hate drugs. How can people function on drugs? And I didn’t even know what it was those assholes had shot me up with.
Speaking of Tiny and Beckett, where were they? Evidently Rollins had deemed me meek enough to be in a room with him alone, but that didn’t mean they weren’t just outside the door.
Or worse, watching on some monitor screen somewhere.
I quickly dismissed that second thought—if there had been someone watching and seen Tim bludgeon ole Teddy here—they’d have already been through that door. I was guessing he’d ordered our little meeting to be a closed one.
But why?
And come to think of it, what the hell had the man been talking about?
“Zoë—you okay?”
It was Tim’s voice, near my cheek, but I couldn’t see him. I figured he’d pretty much used all the tangible energy he had to become solid for that brief instant and was now little more than a wisp.
I nodded and stood again—a little slower this time. I continued to cough, now and then. Soundless. Very creepy.
I looked at the door, then I looked back at the desk.
You know, since I was here…
Shuffling to the desk in my ugly-duck slippers was arduous—especially since the room kept moving sideways. Long, lingering whatever-it-was drug. But then again, in the past week, I’d had a concussion, been pronounced dead, had some ethereal, undead thing shove his snake’s tongue down my throat and rip out my voice, been kidnapped by the bad guy (I left out voluntarily—cause if I get down to it—nobody made me drive Mom’s car to that damned park, Stupid) and summarily drugged.
Wow, with a week like this, is it a wonder I’m still single? Luckily, Mr. Crazy-Reverend had unlocked his desk, and I was able to open all the drawers.
Unluckily—I didn’t find Jack Shit (ever wondered who Jack was—and why on earth his mother married a guy named Shit?). Not even a document. I did find a few books on the occult—one of them even looked like a pocket-pal kinda thing—like one of those five-inch-by-eight-inch books to use when visiting a foreign country.
And when I thumbed through it—it read like one. Only this wasn’t to visit France or Germany or even England (hey, they may speak English, but they drive on the wrong side of the road over there)—it was a how-to on visiting…
… uh, the physical plane.
I opened up the front to see the publisher. And—there wasn’t one. I ignored the Twilight Zone theme in my head and shoved the thing into the pocket of my sweats and kept looking.
I’d hoped I’d find something telling me where the little girl was, and if she was okay. The way old Teddy was talking, it sounded like she was still alive. And maybe if I’d just played it cool, he’d have taken me to her.
Yeah, bound and drugged. And exactly what good could I have done like that?
Well you sure as hell weren’t doing any good in your body wearing ugly-duck slippers.
“Zoë, I know you’ve got the curiosity of a cat,” Tim said on the wind beside me. “But there’s someone coming.”
Shit. I closed the desk doors. I didn’t immediately see a place to hide. Great—now what?
I saw the phone and picked it up, my fingers poised just above the numbers, ready to dial.
Yeah, and say what? Damn. The reality hit me at that moment—I couldn’t even use the phone to call someone much less answer.
Moving more like a Weeble—wobbling but not entirely falling down—I made it to where Teddy was. I grabbed up the paperweight—heavy!—and shuffled to the door. I didn’t have much of a plan, figured once they came through the opening, I could hit one of them with the weight and hope there was only one.
Someone tried the handle. It was locked.
Knock, knock. “Boss? You okay? Silent alarm’s picked up an intruder on the grounds.”
An intruder? Were they detecting Tim’s presence?
“Boss?”
I turned to look at Teddy—who wasn’t sprawled on the floor anymore.
“Zoë!”
I didn’t duck as much as fall out of the way of Rollins’s grip. He’d moved behind me and fallen into the doorframe as I turned too fast and lost my balance.
The goons outside, Tiny and Beckett, pounded a little harder on the doors. It wouldn’t be long before they broke through, and I was no match for the two of them. Even if I wasn’t in bad shape, my defense training would protect me from maybe one, but not all of them.
Hey, Jackie Chan I am not. But the more I thought about the past few days, maybe I should look into it.
I stumbled and regained my balance. The drug’s effects lingered still, though not as bad—just enough to make me clumsier than normal. Rollins was also moving a bit like a sailor with no sea legs. But I was thinking Tim hit him a little too hard with that cross.
The pounding got louder, and I heard wood crack. Rollins moved toward the door—if he let them in I was doomed. Especially with their guns.
I have a more-than-healthy fear of guns.
What I needed was a back door. Surely a guy as crooked as Rollins had a secondary way out of his office—just in case of a police raid or—or if a stampede of loyal Jesus freaks broke down the door.
Of course my first instinct was to call out to Tim and say “Look for a secret door!”
It really bites not having a voice.
I heard the door give.
“Boss—you’re bleeding!”
Awwww…how sweet. Not.
Rollins growled, “Get her,” loud and clear. Going down on hands and knees, I shuffle-crawled to the other side of the couch as Tiny and Beckett moved in the opposite direction.
See—I’d watched them long enough to know the two wouldn’t think of dividing and conquering.
Now at the end of the couch closest to the door, I peeked around the side to see Rollins stalk back to his desk. Drug or no drug—I had to get out of there.
With a silent scream (so it was a good thing this time) I stood and bolted for the door. Once through, I ran-stumbled as fast as I could down the hall of Theodore (all those pictures, remember?). It wasn’t as fast as I’d liked—the ugly-duck slippers didn’t have the kung fu grip I wanted.
“There she is!”
Yipes!
“Just wound her—boss wants her alive.”
Wound? Gosh…didn’t these guys have like a tranquilizer gun or something? Some means of subduing a prisoner without resorting to slugs?
What the hell am I thinking? I didn’t want to be tranqued any more than I wanted to be—
Gunshots! Pow! Pow!
Something zinged past my ear and exploded onto the doorframe leading into the main foyer. I burst forward, stumbling and sprawling into the main room behind the staircase.
My sweat
s also caused me to slide a good bit too—my momentum pushing me forward so that I was totally missed by the two WWE suits running by the staircase and into the hallway of Rollins’s office.
I scrambled back up and ducked behind the back of the stairs. Three guards stood outside the door, each with assault rifles.
Uh-uh.
Now what? The bad guys are going to come out of that hallway any second.
So I went up the stairs. On hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best move I could have made, but I was running on pure adrenaline now. The thing split into two paths—right or left.
I took left—it was less lit. And I had a faint memory of heading down this way before.
The corridor dumped out into another one of those long hallways. I stopped at the entrance and listened for the goons. What I heard was…Fosters Home for Imaginary Friends. Hey, I watch Cartoon Network too, you know.
Susan!
Using a bit more caution, I moved to each door until I heard the television the loudest. The door was locked. Oh duh. And shouldn’t there be guards?
Now that thought didn’t register as strongly as it should have. Susan? I hissed with absolutely no voice and rapped a knuckle loudly on the door.
I heard something inside and the television stopped.
I knocked again even softer.
“Hello?” It was a child’s voice. Frightened. Scared. But alive. “Who’s there?”
Oh, it’s me. That lady you saw get French-kissed by the bald guy in the trench coat. Man, come to think of it, I was sure that whole scene was probably going to scar her for life—thinking if she kissed a guy he’d hurt her.
Hrm. Maybe at her age that wasn’t a bad thing. Might keep the bogeymen away.
Damn, damn, damn. How was I going to get in there and reassure this kid I was a friend when I couldn’t speak? I was contemplating this when a hand came from behind me and clamped over my mouth.
Another one encircled my arms, pinning them to my sides. Instinct went into action (not to mention all that adrenaline). I leaned into him, stomped his right foot (not very successful with ugly-duck slippers on). But he hissed and released his hold on my arms. I spun right, pushed with my left, and power-drove my right elbow backward into his fleshy middle.
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