Hold Me Like a Breath

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “Who is she?” his father demanded.

  “Maeve. A friend.”

  “I’m not.” I tugged against the man’s grip. His touch made my skin crawl, worse now that Char was in the room. I wanted his hand on my arm, in embrace, in support. I turned toward his father. “I’m Penelope Landlow.”

  “How dare you?” Mr. Zhu stepped directly in front of me, blocking my view of his son. His eyes blazed with anger, and his palm twitched like he might slap me. “Penelope Landlow is dead.”

  “No. She’s not … I’m not. It was a mistake. One of our nurses was killed—everyone thought it was me.”

  “Next time you try a con, do a little more research—even if Penelope Landlow had survived the attack, she would never survive life outside her bubble. The girl was an invalid, basically a minute away from dying under normal circumstances.” He gripped my chin and turned my face away from Char so I was looking at him. “Her parents’ and brother’s deaths were a tragedy, but for Penelope, it was probably a mercy.”

  The words were like darts, finding the most sensitive parts of me to pierce. I sucked in a breath, and the ache went even deeper. Is this what other people thought of me? Is this what Char had thought of me? Right now, aching from head to toe, it felt like it might be true.

  Mr. Zhu took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers. He threw it down on a side table and turned to leave the foyer, raising a hand in dismissal and saying, “Take her away.”

  “Wait.” Char finally took that last step down. He reached toward his father, not quite putting his hand on his shoulder. “Father, wait.”

  “What is it, Ming? What possible reason do you have for extending this interruption?”

  “Father, I know this girl.”

  “We’ve established that. You believe her to be a friend from New York. Unsurprisingly, you were deceived by a pretty-faced con woman who was probably pumping you for information the whole time. In the morning you and I will be having a discussion to determine the full of extent of the security breach you’ve created.”

  “No.” We said it in sync—our eyes meeting for an instant then fleeing before we could broadcast or read what the other was feeling.

  “One of these days your ineptitude is going to destroy us, Ming.”

  “If you think she might be a risk, keep her overnight and we’ll figure out what she knows in the morning.” His words might be strategic, but his voice was desperate.

  “Surely you don’t intend to send the girl out now? Even if the rain stopped, it’s got to be a mess out there. Flash floods and downed trees and who knows what else.” It was a new voice, a new presence on the scene. She was beautiful—I could see where Char had inherited his grace and smile and dancing eyes. His height was all his father’s, because this woman was tiny, shorter than me. And wrapped in an exquisitely embroidered red silk robe with coordinating slippers. “No one will be able to get back up to the main roads until the storm passes.”

  “Stay out of this, Mei.”

  “She’s just a child; she looks exhausted. Kun, put her down.” He set me on my feet. I wobbled, and her hands steadied me. “Are you okay? Ming, bring me a chair.”

  “She’s no child.” Her husband’s words were saturated with scorn. “She’s a spy of some sort. Or intended to be.”

  “That may be true tomorrow, but tonight she is our guest.” She helped me sit on the brocade chair Char dragged over. He hesitated for a second, then backed away.

  “My mother, Abigail Landlow, always spoke so fondly of you,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll see about making you up a room. You look like you could use some rest.”

  “No, not sleep. There’s going to be an attack. My Family is—”

  “She’s broken into the estate to deliver threats,” Mr. Zhu said. “And you think she should be treated as a guest?”

  “For goodness’ sake, the girl is nearly dead on her feet. She probably doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  “That’s right!” said Char, looking instantly more alert. “She’s diabetic—I bet this whole thing is a hypoglycemic episode. She’s disoriented, talking nonsense—”

  “Stop. I’m not diabetic. I’ve never been—it was just … an easy lie.”

  He flinched, fell silent.

  “She admits to being a liar; I’ve heard enough,” said Mr. Zhu.

  “Not this! They’re coming!”

  “Hush now,” said Mrs. Zhu. “There’s nothing you have to say that can’t wait a couple hours.”

  “It can’t wait,” I mumbled at the same time Mr. Zhu said, “There’s nothing she has to tell me.”

  Char just stared at me—still too far away. Much too far, and it was a distance of more than just the marble between our feet, it was a distance defined by our mutual deceptions and agendas.

  Finally his father chided him. “Why are you acting like you’ve never seen a female before? Either make yourself useful or go to bed.”

  “He can help me make up a guest room,” said his mother. “Why don’t you rest a moment while I get you some dry clothing? Rain during the summer is unusual; it’s unfortunate you got caught in it. I’ll send someone with tea. Unless you want a shower?”

  I shook my head. Showering would require standing. I could barely sit upright. Char and his mother left and it was only me, Mr. Zhu, and that silent hulk of a man, Kun.

  “I’m not lying.” I paused to gulp the pungent tea that had been delivered. Even with the warm cup in my hand and hot liquid coursing down my throat, I couldn’t stop shaking.

  “There has never been an attack by one Family on another. Never. Whatever remains of the Landlow Family is in no position to attack anyone.” He turned his back and left.

  I put my head down on the arm of the chair, caring very little about the water that was streaming off me onto the ornate wood. “You’ve … got to …,” I insisted.

  And then I blacked out.

  It was Kun who woke me. Carrying me not so gently up to a bedroom and setting me on unsteady feet inside the door where Mrs. Zhu stood with a smile and Char waited with eyes of questions.

  “A fairy tale. She is why you wanted a fairy tale,” his mother said, and Char just ducked his head in agreement. She seemed amused as she turned to me, “Can we get you anything else? Did you drink the tea?”

  “He won lissin.” My words were slurring, my hands felt heavy when I rubbed my eyes.

  “Perhaps in the morning. Things always seem clearer in the morning.”

  “It’snot safe.”

  “My father’s security is the best there is. No one’s getting in.” It was the first time Char had spoken directly to me. His voice sounded different here. More formal. Sharp enough to cut through my mental fog.

  At least, just long enough for me to meet his eyes and say, “I did.”

  “Yes, but I watched on security monitors. You fell the whole way—you were no threat, no reason to go out in that weather,” said Kun. His voice reminded me of the snick of a knife or the edge of a razor.

  “No one else will get in,” said Char with a frown.

  “Promise?” I whispered.

  “You’re safe,” he answered. Which wasn’t my concern at all.

  “I’ll be at your door,” said Kun.

  It wasn’t a comforting statement; it made Char flinch. “Get changed and I’ll come sit with you … if that’s okay.”

  I nodded.

  “Sleep well,” said his mother.

  They left. And sleep was my only option. Not really optional at this point. My vision blurred. My mouth tasted thick with herbal tea and blood, either because I’d bitten my tongue or my gums were bleeding.

  There was dry clothing on a chair. I stumbled as I shucked off wet jeans and my painted-on shirt only to wince at the bruised horror that was my skin. I fumbled with sleeves and pants and had to pause and rest my eyes but finally managed to get into the cotton pajamas.

  I could see wh
y Mrs. Zhu had needed help preparing the guest room. The bed started with a standard box spring and mattress, but then a foam topper. A feather bed? It was hard to tell through the thick weave of the fleece sheets. And two blankets. A down comforter, a quilt, and a fluffy throw on top of that, then a crocheted afghan. The bed frame was tall to begin with, but with the towering confection of layers, it would have been impossible to get into it without the step stool waiting beside it.

  Just crossing the room was hard—staying upright, keeping my eyes open, figuring out the coordination required to lift my feet and climb from the stool onto the bed.

  I skipped all the covers. I was alternating between teeth chattering and sweltering. The idea of climbing under them was too much effort. I lay on top, sinking into the softness, drowning in a froth of bedding. Drowning in exhaustion.

  There was a light knock and the lock disengaged with a click, the knob began to turn. The door slid open, the hall lights illuminating the silhouette of a male as he slunk into the room.

  “Maeve?”

  Relief came in a wash of fatigue and dizziness. It made my eyes fill and my fingers unclench.

  “Do you swear you’re …” I thought he might say “Penny.“ It looked like his mouth started to form my name, but he swallowed the word down and after a pause, finished with, “… not diabetic?”

  I nodded. Just enough of a head tilt up / head tilt down to count as a nod. I could feel the adrenaline fading from my system. My heartbeat slowing, my fingertips going cold. It left me feeling off-kilter, disoriented, intoxicated. My vision was warping, my mouth tasted like blood. Sleep pulled at me like a riptide, and I ached. Everywhere. Like I’d been run over, like I was being buried alive under the pressure created by the bruises.

  “I’m not lying,” I whispered. “Not anymore.”

  “I know we have so much we need to talk about—”

  “You’ve gotto make your father …” The slurring was back, the aggressive pull of sleep.

  “I will. I promise. Can you rest? You’re so exhausted it’s painful to look at you, my Maeve.”

  I tried to smile at his “my,” but was too tired to make it convincing. “I—you—” My words were interrupted by yawns, by long blinks where I shut my eyes and forgot to open them again.

  At some point I reached out and he’d sat on the edge of the bed beside me. I opened my eyes to see my head on a pillow in his lap and a crocheted afghan wrapped around me. He stroked my hair. It was still wet. I closed my eyes.

  “Maeve?” Char was saying things. Asking things. But I couldn’t remember them. Couldn’t remember how to open my eyes.

  “Maeve! Wake up. Please.”

  It felt a journey of miles to raise my eyelids, to look up at his bowed head, his gentle eyes. He whispered, “Your nose is bleeding, you’re shaking. I need to get you to the clinic.”

  “I need to warn them.” I tasted blood on my lips.

  “But … are you okay?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer. We didn’t need another lie between us.

  Chapter 42

  “What did you do?”

  The door opened so suddenly that I heard the words before I registered the three people crowding into the bedroom. Char’s parents and Kun.

  Mr. Zhu whirled on his wife, “How long until your sedative tea wears off? We need answers.”

  “Oh, now you want them?” I’d been aiming for attitude, but only managed yawning and pathetic. Char offered me his hand, but I ignored it and struggled into a wobbly sitting position on my own. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the comfort and support of his touch, it was that I needed to be taken seriously. If I looked like a lovesick girl, I endangered us all. “You drugged me?” The slurring suddenly made sense. The weight and demand of that sleep.

  “It wasn’t a drug,” said Mrs. Zhu. “Just a soporific herbal mixture to help you get some rest. You looked like you needed it.”

  Mr. Zhu cleared his throat. “Explain why I’m getting calls from my men, telling me US Marshals are gearing up and heading here. Why are we being raided?”

  “You’re not,” I said, swallowing down the coppery taste of blood and blinking back dizziness. “You’re being protected—because you’re going to be attacked by my Family. The Landlow Family … or what’s left of it.”

  “If you truly are Penelope Landlow, prove it.”

  This was easy enough. The proof was painted on my skin. I pushed up the sleeves of my borrowed shirt and held out my arms for inspection. I didn’t look. I didn’t want to see how bad it was. I was running on borrowed time, already starting to crash, and crash hard. Seeing the proof of my decline could crack the last of my strength and send me unconscious to the floor.

  But when I heard the gasps, the “My dear girl” from Char’s mom, and his own “Maeve—” in an exhale of panic, I let my eyes fall on my arms.

  Pea-sized hail had left Ping-Pong-sized bruises. Handprints, nearly black, wrapped around my wrist like manacles. And over all this, like lace stenciled on my skin, was the pattern of the crocheted blanket—every stitch visible.

  Mr. Zhu smiled at me. A sincere smile, and in it I saw I’d been appraised and passed some sort of test. His laugh reminded me of a crow’s caw and gave me the shivers. “It seems I’ve underestimated you, Penelope. Kun—go alert the clinic; we’ll be right there.”

  “But the …” Whole sentences were too much effort. My head felt as weak as my body.

  “Can you walk? Should we get a gurney?”

  I shook my head. To one, both.

  “I can carry her,” said Char.

  I wanted to protest. Wanted to stand on my own feet and demand Mr. Zhu listen to me, but I could barely manage to stay conscious when Char’s arms came around me. His mother leaned over to wipe my face with a tissue that came away saturated with red. My foggy mind remembered all of Mother’s dire warnings about internal bleeding and intracerebral hemorrhage—all of Dr. Castillo’s gentle lectures. A gurney would’ve been safer, but Char’s arms were warm and strong and I felt so cold and weak.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispered.

  We were moving, going down stairs, Mrs. Zhu hurrying ahead to turn on lights as we entered a long hallway beside a dining room. The walls on both sides were nearly all glass—displaying security lights focused on a manicured rock garden, fading out on the slope down to a small bit of lawn, and beyond that, darkness where scrub brush bled into mountains. The view from the dining room was similar, but with a pool glowing blue against the dark sky. Parallel to those windows was a long sleek table of thick wood with edges that looked angular. Dangerous.

  Mr. Zhu walked beside Char, studying me with curiosity and confusion. “Why did you come here? Why risk yourself? Why would you care what happens to my Family? Why side with mine over yours?”

  “I know what it’s … like to … lose loved ones. Because … I care for …” I let my head fall against Char’s shoulder, let my gaze finish that sentence.

  Mr. Zhu nodded thoughtfully, like I’d passed another test. “We retrieved your handbag, from beside the gate. Your cell phone was destroyed, but your … diary should be salvageable. I’ve had it set on a heater to dry.”

  “Thank you.” I wanted to explain just how much I meant that, but the two words had already cost so much effort.

  Then there wasn’t time for any more discussion, because Kun was running down the hallway. “Sir! There’s been a breach.”

  A single terra-cotta tile slid off the roof to shatter on the rocks outside the hall.

  And then there were flashes. The windows burst inward, glass slivers reflecting in the lights as they exploded into the room like lethal tears. Making my cheeks and hands sting, then bleed.

  Boots followed glass through the window frames. Landed with hard thuds and crunches on the wood floor. Immediate gunshots—and a row of holes in the ceiling. Yells, commands, people running.

  The arms holding me tightened, pulled me back against a firm chest, pulled me into the din
ing room and below the table. I didn’t have the strength to do anything but keep my eyes open and breathe.

  It was Char’s scent in my lungs and his voice in my ear, “I’ve got you.”

  But it was Garrett’s voice across the room yelling, “Dad, stop! Wait! I thought we agreed we don’t have to kill them—just get the tech.”

  It shouldn’t be him. I’d left him with Whitaker. They let him escape, and now he was here. Not arrested. Not safe. Here.

  Al’s curses told his youngest to “shut up and obey.”

  “But this wasn’t the plan.”

  Laughter. Goose-bump-raising laughter. “When have I ever told you my plans? Jake, Hugh, spread out. Find them.”

  There were footsteps, more shots. Screams. Somewhere away from here others were returning fire. In some other room of the mansion, the battle was escalating. I hoped not wherever Kun and Char’s parents had escaped to.

  There were still two pairs of boots in the room. And our two pairs of bare feet. It wasn’t odds I liked.

  My vision began to flicker. Distorted like light through a prism. Like light through the shattered crystal of the chandelier that lay beside my feet.

  Which were bleeding from either ten or a hundred small cuts.

  My head was heavy. So heavy. I’d tipped it back against Char’s chest, but gravity didn’t like that. It wanted to fall forward, loll on my neck like a yo-yo.

  “Stay with me, Maeve. Please.”

  There were boots approaching my feet. Boots crouching. A gun. In my face.

  And then panic. Scrambling. Char pushing me away. Behind him. Punching.

  And Garrett. Garrett who shouldn’t be here. His nose was bleeding and his eyes were shell-shocked, horrified. “Penny! Are you okay? Dad, hold your fire. They’ve got Penelope.”

  There was an instant of quiet. Unnatural quiet where gunshots still echoed in my ears and dust and plaster and debris seemed suspended in the air.

  “She’s here? This is where she’s been hiding?” the narrator of my nightmares asked. “How convenient. Shoot her.”