by Angie Martin
A loud grunt came from the other room, followed by a heavy thud. I prayed Mr. Smith had gotten one of them from behind. Otherwise, they would be in the bedroom within seconds. More groans and grunts filled the air, with what sounded like heavy footwork and several good hits. With the telltale noises of fighting, it meant Mr. Smith was still in the running to win the battle against the intruders.
I don’t know how much time passed with the echoes of the fight surrounding me. I balled up my chilled hands and lifted them to my mouth, trying to focus on warming them with my breath. I rocked back and forth until the fight ceased in the other room. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to know who the footsteps entering the bedroom belonged to.
“Madison,” Mr. Smith said.
I shot up to my feet and allowed myself to take a deep breath. Blood dripped from cuts in his cheek and lip. Even though he wore black, the glistening red smeared across his shirt caught my attention. His wounds didn’t seem capable of producing that much blood.
“More will come soon,” he said. “Let’s go.”
I didn’t argue as he yanked my arm and dragged me outside onto the balcony. The freezing night air bit my skin through my thin pajama bottoms and long-sleeved top. To the left of the balcony, I saw the fire escape stairs. Looking over the edge, they seemed to wind down into a vortex of dark nothingness. With a good three feet between my balcony and the fire escape and nothing to connect the two, my head swirled with the possibilities of all the ways I could fall to my death. A slip on the icy railing, falling through the rusted-out bottom, someone following us outside and pushing me off.
“I’m right behind you,” Mr. Smith said. “I won’t let you fall. Climb up on the balcony and take one step over to the fire escape.”
One step. One little step over to the poorly thought out, rickety-looking fire escape. Twenty stories of dead air between me and the ground – all in that one step.
I grabbed Mr. Smith’s outstretched hand and let him help me to the top of the railing. Before I froze up, I took the step to the fire escape. Mr. Smith climbed up on the railing and held my hand until I safely stepped down to the grated floor.
The strange odor hit me again, and I took several quick whiffs to try to identify it. “What’s that smell?” I asked Mr. Smith as soon as he stepped down to my level.
“More of them coming. Get down the stairs, now. Don’t stop for anything.”
I rushed down the first flight of stairs, the second, the third, but stopped when I realized Mr. Smith wasn’t behind me. A whoosh from above caused me to lean over the edge and look up. I couldn’t see much outside of the two figures battling it out on the narrow fire escape ledge. I ducked back when an object plunged over the side of the top level. Wet drops splattered my face as it passed me on its way down. Though happening quickly, my brain processed it as if it fell in slow motion.
A head.
A severed head.
My breathing and heartbeat halted at the same time. My fingers lifted to my cheek, and I wiped at the dampness. When I pulled my hand away, crimson painted my fingertips.
A hand on my shoulder brought me back to the present. A scream caught in my throat, and I lashed out at the monster behind me. Mr. Smith grabbed my flailing arms and stilled me. My breathing resumed with a gasp. I jumped toward him, leaned into him, and latched onto his hand as if letting go would result in my death.
“A-a head,” I said. “That was a head.”
His jagged breathing entered my ears, but he made little move to comfort me. Instead, he pushed me away. “You have to keep going.” A noise above us made him glance up. “Find Garrett. He’s waiting down there for you.”
“I can’t just—”
“Go!”
His shout rattled me, and then he was gone. Back up the fire escape, holding a machete in an attack stance, leaving me wondering where the weapon came from.
Something inside of me forced my legs to wind down the stairs until I reached the blessed concrete of the alleyway. I glanced around for Garrett, the mysterious cousin, but saw no one.
Headlights flashed in my direction, and I instinctively ran toward them. A tall, blonde woman hopped out of the passenger side of a car when they reached me. “Madison?”
“Where’s Garrett?” I asked, surprised I could even form the words with the severed head still tumbling through my mind.
“Driving.” She yanked open the backdoor. “Get in.”
I didn’t question as I climbed into the car. It was either that or going back to the land of falling heads. I scooted over to behind the driver’s side as the woman followed me in. She barely shut the door before the car tore down the alley. It swerved right at a dead-end and continued straight for at least a minute.
The driver slammed on the brakes, throwing me against the back of his seat. He turned around and looked at me. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Where’s Spencer?”
I blinked. “Who?”
“Spencer. My cousin.” At my silence, he added, “The man who just came up to get you.”
“You mean Mr. Smith?” I asked, still trying to comprehend who Spencer was.
“Yes,” the man said. “I’m Garrett. This is my wife, Keira.”
I looked at the woman again, not knowing what to say.
“Hey, Madison,” she said, a sympathetic smile crossing her lips. “Sorry for all this mess. Did Spence tell you about us?”
“Who?” I asked again, nothing really sinking in. “There was a head… this head just… fell down. And, the blood. The blood on the head was there, and it flew down next to me and…” I knew my words were not making sense, but I couldn’t seem to put my thoughts together.
Keira glanced at Garrett. “I think she’s in shock.”
He handed her something from the front seat, and she turned to me. “You have some blood on your face,” she said, holding up a wet wipe.
I couldn’t move to take it from her, so she pressed it to my cheek and cleaned me up. Despite my freezing skin, the wipe was surprisingly cool.
“We can’t wait much longer,” Keira said to Garrett.
“He said five minutes.” Peeking at his watch, he said, “And, it’s been ten. Damn it! I don’t want to leave him.”
“We have to go,” Keira said. “Her mark is burning. There’s only so much time before they find us.”
My hand wandered to the back of my head, hoping to stem the pain in my skull. How did this woman know about the burning?
“He’ll catch up,” Keira said. She accepted something from Garrett and faced me again.
My gaze wandered down to her hands to find her holding a small cup containing clear liquid.
“I know you’re scared,” she said. “You’ve seen some terrible things, and you’re in shock right now. I’ve been in the exact same place as you, so I get it. But, I need you to drink this. It will knock you out, but it’s the only way to stop your mark from sending out signals and attracting more blood seekers.”
I tried to speak, but nothing came out. Given the choice between drinking an unknown substance from a stranger whose friend had just saved my life and those who broke into my suite and apparently wanted to kill me, the decision was easy. Besides, if Alice could survive drinking strange concoctions in Wonderland, so could I.
I hoped.
She pressed the cup into my hands, helped me lift it to my lips, and tilted it so I could drink. I didn’t question, didn’t protest, just swallowed the strange-tasting liquid. She took the cup from me and said, “Garrett, we have to go. Spence will get back somehow. He always does.”
Serenaded by Garrett’s cursing, the car pulled into the street. Watching the passing street signs taking me further away from my hotel – from my comfort zone – my vision clouded over. “Who the hell is Spencer?” I asked again, before giving into the darkness.
Chapter Six
M y cozy, extra-plush throw blanket wrapped around my contorted body brought an instant smile to my lips. Safe in my bed at home, the
bad dream was nothing more than that. I always slept best at home, in my comfortable bed with a thick pillowtop. My head cushioned by my fluffy pillow, I turned over for a few more minutes of sleep, thankful my long book tour was finally over.
My eyelids cracked open as the events in my hotel suite resurfaced. I never finished my tour. I had no memory of the other stops, of spending time with Liz, laughing and joking. No memory of flying home with her, of crawling into my bed… the bed in which I now laid…
I sat straight up and took in the unfamiliar room around me. My blanket, my pillow, yes… but not my room.
“Where the hell am I?” I asked myself under my breath.
I hopped out of the bed and noticed I was wearing the same pajamas I had on when Mr. Smith broke into my hotel room. My last recollection of the night was the balcony and Mr. Smith holding my hand, helping me over to the fire escape.
I decided to explore my surroundings to try and resurrect other memories. The room was well-decorated, as if someone had put some thought into it. A matching, dark-oak bedroom set filled the room, the walls covered with abstract paintings similar to the ones in my home. Around the same size as my own bedroom, I wandered across the room and found a massive attached bathroom, one large enough to be part of a master suite.
I ventured into the walk-in closet off to the left of the bathroom and rifled through clothing like the ones in my closet. The ones I’d left behind in my home in San Diego. I pulled a plaid, button-up shirt off the rack and saw the small soy sauce stain at the bottom from when Liz and I last ate sushi. I hadn’t worn the shirt since that night. These weren’t just similar clothes; they were my clothes.
As I exited the closet, the bedroom door opened, and a woman walked in. Taller than me with sharp facial features and her blonde hair in a high ponytail, she somehow looked familiar…
“Hi, Madison,” she said, offering a genuine, warm smile. “I’m Keira. We met last night.”
Keira, I thought as memories flooded my head. A car, a man in the car – Garrett! Keira’s husband, I remembered. The mysterious cousin that Mr. Smith had me sign the book for.
My head bobbed up and down slowly as I worked through the events of last night. “I remember you. You gave me something to drink to knock me out.”
She grimaced. “Not exactly the best way to start off a friendship, huh?” She took a few steps forward. “At least, from what I know of you, I think we’ll get along great after you’re settled in.”
Friends? Settled in? What was she talking about?
“I know this all seems strange to you,” she continued, “but I promise, it will all start making sense soon.” She sat on the edge of my bed, facing me, and sighed. “I’ve been right where you are, and I remember being terrified.”
Despite my circumstances – not knowing where I was, how I got there, and talking to the woman who drugged me – my gut said to believe her. I didn’t know if it was her authenticity, her radiating kindness, or her sympathetic tone of voice, but I trusted her.
Maybe, it was because I was also terrified. It didn’t hit me until she said the word, but my nerves reacted accordingly, as if they were stretched-out rubber bands ready to snap. Every muscle in my body quivered, and my mind raced with the possibilities of how this could end.
I sat on the bed next to Keira. “I think I’m ready to go home now,” I said. I didn’t care much about a book tour, or Liz’s scheduled events, or the hundreds of readers I would miss out on meeting. The safety of my house beckoned, walls I could trust, a bed I knew.
Yet, most of my clothing from my home in San Diego filled the closet. Someone had broken into my house to retrieve them and brought them to wherever I was. I wasn’t going home.
Before I could ask another question, Garrett came through the door. “Glad you’re awake!” he said, his cheerful voice bounding around the room. His dirty-blond, neatly-trimmed hair was in stark contrast to the dark, unkempt, scruff-laden style of his cousin, Mr. Smith. “Has Keira explained everything yet?”
“I was getting there,” she said.
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said to me, ignoring his wife. “Did she tell you how much I love your work?”
“You… you read romance novels?” I asked, curiosity overriding my other thoughts.
“He loves them,” Keira said. “I’m sure I’d love them, too, but I never was much of a reader.”
“I thought Withered Flowers was amazing,” he continued. “Must have read it twenty times by now. Not that I don’t like your other books, but there’s something about Withered Flowers.”
Mr. Smith’s words from our conversation at the fake interview hit me. “But, you think I ‘sold out’ after Withered Flowers.”
“Sold out?” he asked. “Why would I think that? You went in a different direction with your work, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like the rest of your books.”
My head spun between reality and what Mr. Smith had told me. Between first thinking his name was Garrett, getting the name Stone Smith from him as a fake journalist, then him breaking into my suite… and then a falling head and blood. Nothing about any of it made any kind of sense.
Mr. Smith came into the room, wearing different clothes than he had on the night before, yet appearing even more disheveled. He was the last person I wanted to see, despite him having saved my life, possibly more than once. Of course, if he had never shown up to my book signing, maybe none of it would have ever happened. He was the one who pushed me through the door and into this surreal world, and there he stood. What calamity would he create for me next?
“Oh, good,” he said, his eyes focused on me, sarcasm lacing his voice. “You made it. Are you all settled in now? Have a nice sleep? ’Cause I was out there fighting most of the night just so I could get back here and make sure you were okay.”
“What…” I shook my head. “What are you talking about?” Looking at Keira, I asked, “What did I do wrong?”
Though standing a few feet away, Mr. Smith’s figure seemed to hover over me. “Everything. When I tell you to do something, you do it. You don’t hesitate. You don’t wait. You just do it.”
“When did I—”
“On the fire escape.” He stared at me for a moment, as if waiting for me to remember. “I told you to keep going. Instead, you stood there, waiting for someone to escort you down each step. Because of you, I got stuck there, and—”
“There was a head!” I yelled, jumping to my feet. “A head. A frickin’ severed head fell down right by me!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, crossing his arms to match his condescending tone. “Did you get a little blood on you? I was covered in it by the end of the night in a nonstop fight for my life while you were playing Sleeping Beauty.”
“Maybe if you did a better job of explaining what the hell was going on, I wouldn’t have stopped at the first sign of a severed head, Mr. Smith!”
He whirled around and made his way to Garrett. “Yeah, that’s another thing. ‘Stone Smith?’ Are you kidding me?”
“What?” Garrett asked, shrugging. “She’s a romance novelist. I wanted to give you a romance-type name so she’d do the interview.”
“Names have nothing to do with what interviews I accept,” I said, my anger at all the deception rising. “I don’t need a sexy name to talk to a reporter, which the name isn’t, and he wasn’t. And, by the way, Garrett”—I stuck my thumb out in Mr. Smith’s direction—“he’s the one who said you thought I sold out as a writer.”
Garrett turned on Mr. Smith, much to my satisfaction. “Why would you do that? You know I love her books!”
Mr. Smith focused his narrow eyes on me. “A romance writer. Seriously!” He tornadoed out of the room with Garrett in tow, who pummeled Mr. Smith with questions about what else he had told me.
I looked at Keira for help. Her lips remained sealed, though they formed a large smile.
“What is it with Mr. Smith?” I asked her. “Why is he so irritated with me every
time I talk to him?”
“It’s not you,” she said. “Spencer’s been irritated since birth.”
I reclaimed my seat on the edge of the bed next to her again, closed my eyes, and pinched the bridge of my nose. That was right. His name wasn’t Garrett or Mr. Smith. It was Spencer.
“He’ll come around,” she said. “He’s not big on change, and right now, you’re a huge change here.”
“I don’t even know where ‘here’ is, or who you people are, or what I’m doing here.”
“Then, it’s probably time for a tour and a history lesson. Why don’t you take a shower and get in some clean clothes, Madison?”
“Call me Mads,” I said, without thinking. Only my closest friends called me that, but again, there was something about Keira that made me not only trust her, but attracted me to her as a friend.
“Sure thing, Mads.” She rose to her feet. “Just come outside when you’re ready.”
“By the way,” I said, “is Spencer really ‘Mr. Smith’ or does he have another last name?”
“It’s Frye. Spencer Frye.”
“Hmm,” I said, mulling over the revelation of his God-given name. “I think I like ‘Mr. Smith’ better.”
Keira laughed. “I think I do, too.”
Chapter Seven
T hey would never let me go.
The realization dawned on me while I dressed. There had been no hint at captivity or kidnapping; outside of Mr. Smith, I had been met with nothing but kindness and comfort. Between the niceties, the bed, the shower, the provisions in the bathroom, I sensed no threat. Yet, my clothes from my home in San Diego were in the closet and my blanket and pillow were on the bed. That didn’t inspire much confidence about allowing me to leave.
Then again, the doorknob to the world beyond the bedroom rotated easily under my grip. They hadn’t locked me in the room. When I stepped outside into what could only be described as a lobby, there were no armed guards. Nothing prevented me from roaming free and finding a door to the outside. I also noticed that my fear from earlier had faded. I should have been terrified of my circumstances, but I remained quite calm.