walked farther than this coming in, and she couldn't remember this totally incongruous storefront filled with shiny kitchen appliances. Surely she would have noticed.
Croyd had said left. She turned. The alley jogged toward freedom, a block away, there were lights beyond the corner, people, some safety.
Nightmarish, impossible, a man's face and torso appeared beside her. He was a hunchback, pathetic, armless. She flinched away from him, away from his pleading gaze, the silent words his mouth formed. The apparition vanished.
Had the monkey-tailed waiter drugged her tea?
A joker in black swirled into motion dead ahead of her, his cloak darker than the shadows. Not this way. Zoe spun around the corner and ran, trying to dodge the other shadow, the huge hands that reached for her. She fought him, and the next one, but they were big, and things moved too fast, and she didn't know how to streetfight.
Croyd was right about the numbers, she thought as a six-fingered joker tied a black gag around her nose and mouth. There are three of them.
"You'll follow us." Six-fingers held her hand, and someone dropped a black veil over her eyes. The gag cutting into her lip smelled of stale sweat.
They led her. She could see the black shoulders of the joker in front of her, the steps when they told her to go up, go down. The night was too dark to see anything else. They entered a building, or a cave, some space of corridors and hallways, all square and closed in.
She felt drugged, dazed. It seemed inevitable, it seemed right, that she would be pushed through a door, locked inside, still gagged. This was what she had expected, even hoped for, since that day in Manhattan when the mannequin had killed for her.
Their footsteps echoed down the hall outside. She could hear nothing at all.
Her hands were free. She pulled off the veil and the gag.
Yell? If she did, the men in black might come back in, and hit her, hurt her. That thought was too scary to deal with. She tried the lock. Animate it? But they hadn't hurt her yet, and this must be the Fists' stronghold. If the plan was to kill her, they could have done it by now.
"You're safe here," a voice whispered.
The vague outline of a hunchbacked man seemed to hover near the ceiling. Zoe screamed and clung to the door, pounding her fists against it. No one came.
"Don't be afraid. Stay here. Don't run away."
What was it she had heard about hearing voices? Don't talk back to them, that was it. As long as you don't talk back to them, you aren't really crazy.
"You're - important ." The voice was so kind, so wistful. And it wasn't there, anyway, there was nothing in the room at all.
The minutes crawled by.
What had the waiter given her? Acid? PCP? She hadn't tasted anything in the tea but mint and sugar, and her sense of taste was superb, a part of the ace she'd been dealt. But still, she felt dissociated, distant.
This was the Fists' stronghold. She was in the center of it, as close to the Black Dog as she was ever going to get. Wait, take the opportunity, talk to him or hurt him, make him stop messing with the kids.
They might let her starve, or die of thirst.
As soon as she felt less spaced out, she would animate the lock. If they didn't come for her. Soon.
There was a single wall outlet, no switches anywhere. The room was lighted by a nursery night-light, a plastic model of Turtle's Great and Powerful Shell. It must be a promo toy, a tie-in. Maybe the movie was in production. Zoe hoped so.
She sat down on the floor beside the little light and waited.
And waited.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Hannah went above ground daily to pick up newspapers and buy food. She and Gregg scanned the articles for news, but after a lone mention of a "disturbance" at the Dime Museum (buried on the third page of Metro), there was no follow-up. The Jokertown Cry carried an editorial questioning the fact that no one had seen Dutton, Father Squid, or Dr. Finn since the night of the "'suspicious raids on several
Croyd had said left. She turned. The alley jogged toward freedom, a block away, there were lights beyond the corner, people, some safety.
Nightmarish, impossible, a man's face and torso appeared beside her. He was a hunchback, pathetic, armless. She flinched away from him, away from his pleading gaze, the silent words his mouth formed. The apparition vanished.
Had the monkey-tailed waiter drugged her tea?
A joker in black swirled into motion dead ahead of her, his cloak darker than the shadows. Not this way. Zoe spun around the corner and ran, trying to dodge the other shadow, the huge hands that reached for her. She fought him, and the next one, but they were big, and things moved too fast, and she didn't know how to streetfight.
Croyd was right about the numbers, she thought as a six-fingered joker tied a black gag around her nose and mouth. There are three of them.
"You'll follow us." Six-fingers held her hand, and someone dropped a black veil over her eyes. The gag cutting into her lip smelled of stale sweat.
They led her. She could see the black shoulders of the joker in front of her, the steps when they told her to go up, go down. The night was too dark to see anything else. They entered a building, or a cave, some space of corridors and hallways, all square and closed in.
She felt drugged, dazed. It seemed inevitable, it seemed right, that she would be pushed through a door, locked inside, still gagged. This was what she had expected, even hoped for, since that day in Manhattan when the mannequin had killed for her.
Their footsteps echoed down the hall outside. She could hear nothing at all.
Her hands were free. She pulled off the veil and the gag.
Yell? If she did, the men in black might come back in, and hit her, hurt her. That thought was too scary to deal with. She tried the lock. Animate it? But they hadn't hurt her yet, and this must be the Fists' stronghold. If the plan was to kill her, they could have done it by now.
"You're safe here," a voice whispered.
The vague outline of a hunchbacked man seemed to hover near the ceiling. Zoe screamed and clung to the door, pounding her fists against it. No one came.
"Don't be afraid. Stay here. Don't run away."
What was it she had heard about hearing voices? Don't talk back to them, that was it. As long as you don't talk back to them, you aren't really crazy.
"You're - important ." The voice was so kind, so wistful. And it wasn't there, anyway, there was nothing in the room at all.
The minutes crawled by.
What had the waiter given her? Acid? PCP? She hadn't tasted anything in the tea but mint and sugar, and her sense of taste was superb, a part of the ace she'd been dealt. But still, she felt dissociated, distant.
This was the Fists' stronghold. She was in the center of it, as close to the Black Dog as she was ever going to get. Wait, take the opportunity, talk to him or hurt him, make him stop messing with the kids.
They might let her starve, or die of thirst.
As soon as she felt less spaced out, she would animate the lock. If they didn't come for her. Soon.
There was a single wall outlet, no switches anywhere. The room was lighted by a nursery night-light, a plastic model of Turtle's Great and Powerful Shell. It must be a promo toy, a tie-in. Maybe the movie was in production. Zoe hoped so.
She sat down on the floor beside the little light and waited.
And waited.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Hannah went above ground daily to pick up newspapers and buy food. She and Gregg scanned the articles for news, but after a lone mention of a "disturbance" at the Dime Museum (buried on the third page of Metro), there was no follow-up. The Jokertown Cry carried an editorial questioning the fact that no one had seen Dutton, Father Squid, or Dr. Finn since the night of the "'suspicious raids on several
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