The Attic

by Rachel Xu

  Lily searched for a deranged glint in his eye when he made eye contact again, but found none. “Ian,” she said, “Serena, wasn't she my grandmother? She . . . died in childbirth.”

  His eyes widened and he blinked. “How did you know that?”

  She averted eye contact, earlobes growing hot. “I . . . hope you won't be too mad, but . . . I read the journal that was in the trunk.” She grimaced. “Auguste's diary.”

  He looked flabbergasted at this.

  A handful of seconds passed.

  “Well, let's not waste any more time then. Auguste must have gone back to Alvernia shortly before he died and let—someone—in behind him. That would explain a lot.” A look of angst filled his face and he leaned back in the chair, frowning. “Lily, you've got to believe me. There's a killer on the loose and he's looking for you. He knows who you are!”

  She gasped and raised a hand to her heart. “Why would someone want to kill me?”

  “Because you're Serena's only surviving heir to the throne.”

  She remembered something then and stiffened, heart skipping a beat. “My—my dream. In the forest. I was attacked by someone asking about my mother—”

  It hadn't been real, had it? Her hands went cold and clammy. No, it couldn't be. Her face would still be torn up from the tree bark if it was. She touched her cheek. “It was only a dream though. A . . . a coincidence, I guess.” She tried to laugh but Ian was taking her quite seriously.

  “That wasn't a dream, Lily, and thanks to your grandfather's greed, millions of innocent creatures have lost their lives. He never intended it to be that way, but what's done is done. I've spent the past fifteen years dealing with the filth he let in through the rift.”

  Lily gripped the arms of her chair. He was really starting to scare her with these fantastical stories. It was one thing for him to have delusions about another dimension—but all this talk about a killer out to get her was too much.

  Was he the killer?

  “Ian, you still haven't answered. How is it possible for your arm to be healed within days of nearly losing it to a shark?”

  “I come from Alvernia,” he said, a pained look in his eyes. “I was born with the ability to regenerate instantly, except for scars. But my abilities are greatly weakened on earth and healing takes up to a day or two here, depending on the injury.” He pointed to his nose which was no longer bruised. “This afternoon my nose was broken and bent sideways.”

  Lily swallowed the lump in her throat and resisted the urge to look toward the doors. “Who is this, uh, killer, out to get me?”

  “The same person who killed Auguste is now seeking you.” He crossed his arms. “There's something else. The shark attack wasn't an accident. The assassin infected them with a virus that makes its host homicidal. He was hoping for a 'natural' death—that I'd be torn to shreds. And I . . . almost was.”

  Her chest tightened. This was all so irrational, making a tall tale out of the shark attack too? Was he paranoid or schizophrenic? Or worse—psychopathic?

  “If what you're saying is true”—and she didn't believe for a second that it was—“why didn't the sharks just kill each other?”

  He frowned slightly. “The virus is a dark magic, like a spell. Whoever infects another puts an image in their mind of who they must kill. They become robots, essentially. This is why they had to be put down.”

  “But why would someone go to all that trouble? There are much easier ways to kill someone.”

  “To get to you—don't you see? I'm not that easy to kill.” Impatience flashed in his eyes. “With me out of the picture, the assassin tried to attack you in the pool room during the night,” he went on, “he was obviously lying in wait. I didn't know it was him at the time but it makes sense now. Someone, probably one of Serena's handmaidens, saved you. Did you seriously believe that hackneyed story the fake policeman told you?”

  Her stomach turned. “Are you infected with the virus?” What was he going to do to her? Should she try to escape?

  A pregnant pause.

  If only she could read his thoughts.

  “I'm immune to dark magic,” he said finally. “But you aren't.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  She struggled to process which bits of information were credible and which should be discarded as nonsense; but everything congealed together.

  He rose and came around the desk as she stood to her feet. He reached for her hand and she recoiled, ready to bolt.

  “Lily . . . are you—afraid of me?”

  She swallowed. Was it safer to play along?

  “No-no,” she said, taking a step backward, “it's just so much to take in all at once, is all.”

  “It's nearly midnight,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the cuckoo clock mounted between the windows behind the desk. His eyes darkened. “The killer will be less likely to stay in hiding once the staff are all in bed sleeping.”

  Her back stiffened painfully. What was he saying—that his alter-ego takes over at bedtime?

  Ian stared down at her. “You're the only person who can kill Morack and save Alvernia. That's why your life is at stake.”

  Her head was spinning with questions. If Ian was the killer, did that mean he was the one who had murdered Auguste?

  “Is this all a big joke?” she said with a nervous lilt. She tried to chuckle, glancing around. “Are Hannah and Mike hiding behind the drapes waiting to jump out and laugh at me? Because if it is, I don't know how you're able to keep such a straight fa—”

  A tremendous crash stopped her short and the oak doors bulged inward like rubber.

  The color drained from Ian's face like sand seeping from an hourglass—and he grabbed Lily by the wrist, yanking her toward the roll ladder and pushing it down the track.

  “What's happening—” she cried.

  “Hush.” Releasing her wrist, he darted up the rungs of the ladder, and at the halfway point from the floor to the ceiling, ran his index along the books. He grabbed the binding of a hardcover and tugged it outward.

  A narrow, vertical passageway opened in the shelves to the right of him.

  “Hurry,” he said, jumping down from the ladder and motioning for her to enter ahead of him.

  She froze. Should she go with Ian—who was out of his mind—or stay and find out what was causing the doors to bulge inward?

  Another crash sounded from the corridor and she jumped, letting out a little scream.

  The door buckled further; they would soon burst open.

  “Get in,” Ian whispered fiercely, his entire eyes morphing into pools of black.

  Seeing no alternative, she slipped through the opening in the wall, heart racing—and set off at a blind run.

  Chapter 19

  Mike watched in paralyzed silence as his body tore the covers from Lily's bed. He took a pocketknife from his tool belt and sliced open the mattress, yanking out the stuffing clump by clump. He then shredded the pillows; sending a spray of down-feathers fluttering to the floor like snow.

  What on earth was he doing?

  Apparently not finding whatever he was looking for, his body stormed over to Lily's dresser and pulled the clothes out in a crazed frenzy. He heard a thunk behind him and his body spun around, digging into the pile of scattered shirts to seek the source of the sound.

  There, amidst the articles, was the same leather-bound journal he'd seen before when he took the key.

  Hunkering down, his body snatched it up and rifled through it. All he saw was a blur of words.

  The puppeteer seemed satisfied, however, and tucking the book under his arm, Mike left the bedroom and went downstairs, walking past the dining room toward either the TV room or Auguste's study.

  Using her hands to feel the walls surrounding her, Lily rushed down the narrow passageway without sight, deathly afraid she might fall through a hole in the floor straight down to a lower level, breaking a leg or worse. But she didn'
t dare slow down. If Ian was in the tunnel with her, he might just grab her at any second.

  Without warning, she crashed full-force into a wall, hands folding inward against her chest.

  She grappled the walls about her frantically—scraping her hands over splintered wood.

  There were no walls on either side of her and she realized the tunnel had divided into two different directions. Without hesitation, she took off to the left just as a hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her backward against a firm chest. In the same instant, another hand clamped down over her mouth, stifling her scream.

  She inhaled a familiar cologne.

  Ian.

  Scratching at his face with her hand, she sought his eyes and dug a thumb into one of them. Those ink-black eyes without the whites: she couldn't get the hellish image out of her head. What was wrong with him?

  Stifling another cry, he yanked her hand away from his face and held it down at her side. “Don't fight me, Lily—please.” His whisper was hoarse in her ear. “I'm not trying to hurt you.”

  She would have spat curses at him but his left hand was pressing her mouth.

  “You've got to be quiet,” he said in an undertone, “we're being hunted. The killer is here. That was him trying to burst through the study doors—I'm sure of it. I thought he would wait till midnight, but I was wrong.”

  He was insane, completely out of his mind.

  She tried not to tremble, standing very still within his clutch. What kind of sick game was he playing? Was he the one who had attacked her in the pool room and then slipped back to his room while she was unconscious? And what about in the forest? Had she really tripped after stealing the key or had someone knocked her out?

  “Promise me you won't scream,” he said, lips brushing against her ear, “and I'll take my hand away.”

  She nodded; holding back a whimper.

  He lowered his hand from her mouth, and took her left hand securely in his right. “Follow me.” She obeyed, knowing she was no match for him in a tug of war. She would stay silent for now and wait for a chance to escape.

  They moved through the narrow tunnels between the walls, turning right, then left, then right again. How he knew his way so well in the pitch black was beyond her. Perhaps he had the tunnels memorized from years of use.

  After about five or ten minutes, they stopped and he explained that they were going to take a ladder down to a lower floor. She got down on her knees and felt for the square opening in the floor, lowering herself through it while gripping the wooden ladder rungs like a life line. Ian followed behind her.

  Having traveled downward a distance of about twenty feet, she whispered for him to stop, so he wouldn't collide with her head. “How much farther?” Surely they must be to the lower floor level by now—or were they going down multiple levels?

  “Keep going,” he said.

  Great, he was probably taking her straight to the basement. Maybe he was planning to store her body in one of those creepy vats.

  She thought of the giant coroner's table and almost palsied, but steadied her grip on the ladder. If she let herself panic, she'd never find a way to escape; yet what if Mike's explanation about the table being used for the medical care of marine life wasn't true?

  She continued her descent, moving down yet another ten feet, the air about her growing more cold and stale with every step. The darkness was disorienting and she wondered if her calculations were completely out of sync by this time.

  Her foot struck bottom.

  A dirt floor.

  The vat room had a dirt floor. And she'd let him lead her here like a lamb to the slaughter. Why hadn't she screamed at the top of her lungs ten minutes ago when there was still a chance of someone hearing? No one would hear her screams now.

  But wait—the ladder to the vat room had been metal, not wooden.

  She let go of the ladder and turned around, stretching out her hands and taking a tentative step forward. If there was enough space she could either run away or hide.

  There was a palpable scent of damp earth. And instead of stainless steel, her hands came into contact with bumpy dirt walls on either side; but open space in front.

  A tunnel.

  If only she had a flashlight, she would make a run for it; but for all she knew, she might be standing on the edge of a chasm.

  Ian's shoes scuffed against the ground as he dismounted the ladder behind her. She couldn't see him but sensed his body heat in the dank atmosphere. If only he were a friend and not a foe.

  Without a word, he took her hand again, despite her flinch, and moved around in front of her, gently pulling her along behind him. His hand was burning hot over her icy fingers. The tunnel seemed to be no more than three feet wide and she followed after him without protest, tripping occasionally on small roots and stones. The tunnel move upward at a steady slope and soon her shins grew tired. They stopped after what seemed about thirty meters and Ian whispered to her that there was a ladder. He put her hand on it and told her to wait while he climbed up first. She listened to him ascend but could see nothing. Should she turn and run back the way they had come?

  Something heavy shifted out of place overhead.

  Stone grated against stone and a round opening appeared ten feet above them revealing a twilight sky and half moon. They were outside. She drew in a deep breath of fresh air.

  Ian looked down at her and silently motioned for her to follow. He climbed out of the hole and she mounted the first ladder rung, briefly considering again whether to follow or backtrack. She decided it would be easier to escape outside than in.

  When she stuck her head out of the opening, it was to discover the maiden fountain statue in the backyard. It had shifted to one side and Ian was standing on a wide stone pedestal that encircled the hole. She took his outstretched hand and he helped her to her feet. He then pivoted and pressed one of the marble eyes of the maiden. With a slight shudder, it began moving back in place. Ian jumped over the small koi pond to the ground and Lily followed suit. The statue finished resuming its center position; completely covering the hole in the ground.

  He took both her hands in his, casting a distraught glance at the mansion which was entirely dark. “We need to get something from my tree, Lily. Can you run with me?”

  She stared up at him, lips parting, speechless. His eyes were back to normal; lots of white around the irises. Had she only imagined the black demon eyes at the height of her fear?

  “I, I guess so,” she said.

  “Listen to me carefully, Lily. If the killer finds us, run as fast as you can and don't look back—understand?”

  “Why can't I just leave now? Why do I have to go with you to your tree?”

  He shot another glance at the mansion, sweat glistening in the spikes of his hair. “There's no time to explain—Let's go!” Without releasing her hand, he took off running across the dewy grass toward the tree line as she struggled to keep up.

  They reached the forest edge and hurried down the dirt path, gargoyle orbs blinking on one at a time as they passed. By the time they reached the tree, Lily was panting for air.

  Ian yanked open the front door and scooted her inside ahead of him. He stepped in and closed the door, bolting it from the inside, switched on one lantern, and scrambled up the ladder to the floor above without waiting for her to follow.

  She was beginning to think she might be relatively safe with Ian after all. If he'd truly intended to kill her, the underground tunnel would have been the perfect place to do it. No one ever would find her there.

  He must be mentally ill; perhaps more of a threat to himself than to her. He really seemed to believe they were being pursued by some maniac killer.

  But the bulging oak doors in the study—how could he have staged that? It denied the law of physics.

  Her fear returned full-force with the memory and she rubbed her clammy palms on her thighs, wondering what to do.

  Up above, Ian was stomping about, moving things around and makin
g noise.

  Forcing thoughts of butterflies and puppies and ice cream and all sorts of happy things—anything to hold back the panic—Lily stared at the bolted door in front of her and imagined it bursting open. She shifted from foot to foot and sat down on the edge of the wingback chair. Why was she sitting down? Shouldn't she be halfway back to the mansion by now?

  She got up and went to the door.

  “I'm back,” Ian said from behind her.

  Lily jumped and turned to face him. She hadn't heard him descending the ladder, her heartbeat was so deafening. He cracked a sheepish grin. The turquoise bird with the fiery tail feathers from the diamond room was perched on his left shoulder. All that was missing was an eye patch and wooden leg.

  Despite her fear, relief washed over her. So the bird hadn't escaped into the forest after all.

  “Ian. What-on-earth.” She motioned at the bird.

  “Never mind,” he said, “we still have lots to do before we go.”

  “Go where?”

  He turned his head to look at the bird. “I need you to sing again.”

  “Again?” she asked.

  “Not you dummy—me,” said the bird.

  Her throat tightened. “You can talk? I thought I'd dreamed that part.”

  The bird cocked its head to one side and narrowed an eye at her.

  She lifted her hand, touched her smooth cheek.

  Ian exhaled, obvious impatience snapping in his eyes. “We don't have time to discuss this. Sing, Bogart, or I'll roast you for dinner.”

  Bogart glared at Ian with a look of abject hatred. “When you stole me from Morack,” he hissed, “you promised me freedom—but you're a worse slave driver than he. So, if you want your pretty little wench to be eaten, that's fine by me. It might even be amusing to watch.” The bird lifted his beak and puffed out his chest feathers. “I'll do what you ask for that reason only.”

  Ian's eyes were smoldering. “Don't ever insult her again.”

  “Or what? You'll ring my neck?” A snort. “We both know you need me.”

  Ian rubbed his temple; closing his eyes for a half second. “Just sing already.”