two–way occurrence, I focused on preventing him from gaining anything from my mind. I dwelt upon one single image: the WANTED poster of me with the sticky note reading Do Not Harm . I repeated this single image again and again in hopes the message might influence my captor.
Overlaying this image of mine, I saw visions from Ivanovich’s mind: Helga in a raging passion, a wall made of stacked skulls, a row of red–filled vials, a birds–eye view while skimming over the surface of an immense lake or perhaps ocean; on and on the images came in relentless waves—more images than I figured I probably had in my head over the course of several weeks. This guy’s brain was way too busy.
And then all at once we stopped. I felt my flesh returning as my captor threw me from himself. I hit the ground hard and tumbled over, hurtling into a desk.
My weight and speed pushed the desk into something more solid. A wall? I heard the sound of things falling to the floor, dislodged by the collision. From where I lay, I saw what looked like a dog bone rolling towards me and coming to rest.
I tried to rise, but the room spun wrong–ways–up, and I shut my eyes tight. As I fell back to the rough flooring, I hit my head. Stupefied, I lay still. I thought maybe my head hurt, but then I wasn’t so sure. Maybe it just felt heavy.
“Deuxième’s got her, that’s right, she’s ours now,” said the man. His voice sounded wrong. I struggled to work out why.
“Such a deal of blood. So very, very red. But dirty. Not good clean blood,” he continued.
I realized he was muttering in French. And he wasn’t directing his speech at me. I lifted my head a centimeter to see who else was in this place. My brain tried to make sense of what I could see in the dimly–lit space. Rows of sticks decorating a wall. I squinted, examining the patterns, far more complex than any brick–laying I’d ever seen. And then it dawned on me that I was looking at a wall made not of sticks, but of bones.
He’d brought me into Paris’ underground bone–charnel. And there was no one else here.
As he continued speaking, I realized something else was wrong with his voice: it didn’t sound like Ivanovich at all, in fact. He spoke in a high pitch with a frantic, breathy quality. He sounded nothing like the man I’d fled in Helga’s laboratory, but he looked identical, right down to a dark mole below his left eye.
“It’s necessary to be sure; It’s necessary to be correct. We can’t call die Mutter unless we’re sure. Check her blood. Check her blood.”
He was talking to himself, I realized. As he continued muttering, I kept my eyes pinched almost closed. It felt like it gave me an advantage, although I had no plan at the moment, except to calm my pulse and try rippling.
‘Cause that’s always worked so well for you when you’re scared. I had to face the possibility that I wouldn’t be able to find my rippling “zone” here any more than I had in Helga’s lab. I wasn’t Will; this didn’t come to me second–nature.
Deep breath in, slow breath out, I told myself.
“She might wake up. She might not. Let’s tie her hands together,” continued the voice. “That’s a good plan Deuxième, a good plan.”
And with that, he seized both my hands and duct–taped them together.
Crap! My heart started pounding again, and my head with it.
“Lots of blood, lots of blood, but it is not clean. Deuxième can’t use dirty blood.”
I felt a tickle beside my ear as I identified the smell of my own blood. I’d cut something by my ear.
“Can’t get a clear look at her now she’s got her eyes closed. She needs to wake up. Deuxième has things to make her wake up.”
Through squinted eyes, I saw him open a cupboard that appeared to be full of medical or scientific supplies. He located a small vial and then rummaged until he found a needle.
Oh, God! What’s he going to pump inside of me?
“She must wake up. This will wake her up.” Here, he
Overlaying this image of mine, I saw visions from Ivanovich’s mind: Helga in a raging passion, a wall made of stacked skulls, a row of red–filled vials, a birds–eye view while skimming over the surface of an immense lake or perhaps ocean; on and on the images came in relentless waves—more images than I figured I probably had in my head over the course of several weeks. This guy’s brain was way too busy.
And then all at once we stopped. I felt my flesh returning as my captor threw me from himself. I hit the ground hard and tumbled over, hurtling into a desk.
My weight and speed pushed the desk into something more solid. A wall? I heard the sound of things falling to the floor, dislodged by the collision. From where I lay, I saw what looked like a dog bone rolling towards me and coming to rest.
I tried to rise, but the room spun wrong–ways–up, and I shut my eyes tight. As I fell back to the rough flooring, I hit my head. Stupefied, I lay still. I thought maybe my head hurt, but then I wasn’t so sure. Maybe it just felt heavy.
“Deuxième’s got her, that’s right, she’s ours now,” said the man. His voice sounded wrong. I struggled to work out why.
“Such a deal of blood. So very, very red. But dirty. Not good clean blood,” he continued.
I realized he was muttering in French. And he wasn’t directing his speech at me. I lifted my head a centimeter to see who else was in this place. My brain tried to make sense of what I could see in the dimly–lit space. Rows of sticks decorating a wall. I squinted, examining the patterns, far more complex than any brick–laying I’d ever seen. And then it dawned on me that I was looking at a wall made not of sticks, but of bones.
He’d brought me into Paris’ underground bone–charnel. And there was no one else here.
As he continued speaking, I realized something else was wrong with his voice: it didn’t sound like Ivanovich at all, in fact. He spoke in a high pitch with a frantic, breathy quality. He sounded nothing like the man I’d fled in Helga’s laboratory, but he looked identical, right down to a dark mole below his left eye.
“It’s necessary to be sure; It’s necessary to be correct. We can’t call die Mutter unless we’re sure. Check her blood. Check her blood.”
He was talking to himself, I realized. As he continued muttering, I kept my eyes pinched almost closed. It felt like it gave me an advantage, although I had no plan at the moment, except to calm my pulse and try rippling.
‘Cause that’s always worked so well for you when you’re scared. I had to face the possibility that I wouldn’t be able to find my rippling “zone” here any more than I had in Helga’s lab. I wasn’t Will; this didn’t come to me second–nature.
Deep breath in, slow breath out, I told myself.
“She might wake up. She might not. Let’s tie her hands together,” continued the voice. “That’s a good plan Deuxième, a good plan.”
And with that, he seized both my hands and duct–taped them together.
Crap! My heart started pounding again, and my head with it.
“Lots of blood, lots of blood, but it is not clean. Deuxième can’t use dirty blood.”
I felt a tickle beside my ear as I identified the smell of my own blood. I’d cut something by my ear.
“Can’t get a clear look at her now she’s got her eyes closed. She needs to wake up. Deuxième has things to make her wake up.”
Through squinted eyes, I saw him open a cupboard that appeared to be full of medical or scientific supplies. He located a small vial and then rummaged until he found a needle.
Oh, God! What’s he going to pump inside of me?
“She must wake up. This will wake her up.” Here, he
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