Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate) (32 page)

She landed safely enough. She felt a splinter of something stab into her heel, but her feet were so numb she barely felt it. She hopped again, this time knowing she’d cut herself a little more deeply, and sure enough, when she looked down, blood was seeping between her toes. If she lost too much blood, she wouldn’t be able to help anyone. She was already dizzy and so cold that her body felt cramped and awkward, almost disconnected from her will. Her breath fogged the air, reminding her of her nightmare. Panic fluttered in her mind, panic and sorrow, and the thought that she was going to fail. They would die here, or, worse, be tortured. For God knew how long. Those young girls, girls whose lives were wide open, would lose the chance to become the people they were meant to be.

She swallowed, trying to judge if she was close enough to the window. It kept reeling out of focus, but she thought she was close enough. She knelt down awkwardly, glad that yoga had trained her to balance with her hands pressed in front of her, and located a piece of glass that looked like it had been the bottom half of one of the small square windowpanes. It was smooth and thickened with age on one side, sharp where it had broken diagonally. She held it, but couldn’t get the angle right to free her wrists; they were tied too tightly.

She looked around for something else to cut the rope that bound her wrists, listening as her breath rasped in and out. The girls were quiet, but the faint echo of water dripping somewhere was an eerie reminder that time was running out—they would be returning soon, the Boyfriend and the woman with him.

All she saw were rusty metal parts that looked like gears or cranks littering the floor in front of her. About three yards to her right, tarnished rollers that had once held the paper as it came off the line were lined up in a tidy row, and, next to them, what looked like a blade—orange-brown with rust, but still wicked-looking. She thought that she could maybe cut the rope around her wrists with it and then use the glass to release the girls. Careful not to fall, or drop the glass, Chris bent her knees and jumped, landing awkwardly, falling to her side with a crash that resonated in the cavernous space.

“Fuck.” Chris ignored the throbbing pain in her hip where she’d collapsed on some kind of bolt, and the cries of the girls, who quickly tried to muffle their response. Grimly, she set down the glass she was carrying and stretched forward, twisting her arms sideways to line up the seam of her wrists with the sharp edge of the blade. It looked like it had been used to cut the paper that came off the giant rollers. It was still sharp, and it took her only a few sawing motions to work through the cord that had been used to tie her.

She gasped with relief when her wrists were released and the rough cord fell to the floor. She didn’t take the time to rub her wrists, although she wanted to. She picked up the glass instead, and sat up to work on the ropes that bound her feet.

“Miss Pascal, someone’s coming,” Ro whispered, just as Chris cut through the last bit of rope. She moved to her knees first, wishing she had more strength, but she felt like she was going to float away. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as she stood and looked back to where she’d first been seated. She couldn’t do it; she just couldn’t make it. She wanted to sit where she was. The girls, their eyes wide, whispered her name again, and Chris took one long, calming breath. She would make it.

She hopped, ignoring the pain as her bleeding feet hit the floor. When she reached her previous position, she eased herself down and arranged her hands behind her, her breath rasping frantically in and out of her lungs now that she could sit. The pain from her feet and hips rolled over her in waves. She couldn’t do anything about the blood on her feet, or the missing ropes. Maybe they’d think she’d cut herself when they had brought her in.

A rusted squeal sounded from up above somewhere, and then the sound of footsteps on a metal staircase.

When the woman came in sight to her right, Chris wasn’t surprised to see that it was Martha Cooper, her plain face pale, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She
was
surprised, however, to see that she was wearing the shirt that all Dog employees wore, the turquoise polo with the crisscrossed bones. She must have been the new groomer. Chris was chagrined to realize that of all the people she’d sent Martha’s picture to, Tavey and Betty had not been on the list; they would surely have recognized the woman immediately.

“You’re awake,” Martha said, but her voice held little interest. Actually, there seemed to be something seriously wrong with Martha in general. She moved jerkily, as if her joints were frozen, and she barely opened her mouth to speak.

“Yeah,” Chris agreed.

The woman had a knife in her hand, a long one with a black handle, but she didn’t seem to realize she was carrying it.

Martha stopped, standing between Chris and the girls, her head tilted as if she were listening to something.

The girls were staring at her, their gaze rapt, as if all of them saw something that Chris was missing. She hated that, when everyone got the joke but her. She didn’t think she was going to like this joke, though. She had the feeling that none of them would live to hear the punch line.

“He’s coming,” Martha whispered, and stepped back away from the girls, moving so that she stood a few yards from them, next to a broken window with a kudzu vine trailing through it; it had grown its intrepid way into the building, reclaiming this disturbed world for its own.

A world that seemed built specifically for the man who now came down the stairs slowly, one heavy, robotic step at a time. He wasn’t jerky or vacant like Martha; something about him seemed almost too aware. He stared at Chris like a zealot seeing the face of heaven. His eyes were wide and blazing, his mouth agape, as he moved toward Chris with arms extended.

“So beautiful,” he crooned, caressing the air around Chris’s head. It took everything in her to sit still, fighting every urge to lash out, to flee, to vomit. He was medium height and skinny, but he looked strong and wiry, creaturelike, almost like a golem—except with the type of unfocused yet penetrating gaze that made him look like he wanted to suck out her soul.

He touched her neck next, his fingers cold and dirty against her throat.

“Such pretty, pretty strings, so many.”

He looked down at her feet, but didn’t seem to notice the blood; he petted her ankles as he had the rest of her.

Chris shuddered, his touch sending a sickening shiver through her body.

His head jerked up when she moved. “You see them, don’t you? You know who makes the strings.”

And here it was—the moment she realized Ryan had been right. It had been a mistake to tell this man she knew where the strings were made, a mistake that she was now wholeheartedly regretting, because she had a feeling they were about to troop barefoot through the woods, which was not the death she had in mind.

“Actually—” she began, but he ignored her, his gaze fixated once again above her head, his eyes taking in something that she couldn’t see.

“Is that one of the strings you stole? It is, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Ro chimed in. “It’s not hers, not to keep.”

He swung around abruptly, a knife appearing in his hand as if from nowhere, fast enough to prompt a sick feeling in the pit of Chris’s stomach just thinking about how quickly he had moved. Suddenly the prospect of escaping from this psychopath on her massacred feet seemed utterly impossible.

He seemed to have trouble focusing on the girls—his eyes jumped from one to another, but never focused clearly, as if the girls were wearing camouflage and he could only make out pieces of them.

“We don’t need them now. You can give them back,” the man snarled.

“I can take them now.” Martha seemed in a rush to give him an answer he would like, as if terrified at what would happen if she didn’t.

He nodded. “They’re strange. Hard to see.”

He moved forward, approaching the girls the way people did snakes or rabid animals, until he was just inches from Ro’s face. “Why can’t I see your strings?” he whispered to her, as if it were a secret.

Ro swallowed and glanced at Chris, before doing something that made Chris’s mouth drop wide open—she spat in his face.

He reared back, wiping at his face as if it stung. “Whore,” he shouted, wiping at his eyes before charging at her and slapping her viciously with his left hand. All three sisters reacted, as if he had slapped each one. Chris leapt to her feet before she could think about what she was doing, the shard of glass in her hand, blood dripping in emphatic taps from where she’d unknowingly sliced herself. He reached down and yanked Ro up by her collar, turning to face Chris, holding the knife to Ro’s throat.

“Why can’t I see her strings?” he demanded of Chris.

When all else fails, lie your ass off. “I put a spell on her,” Chris blurted. He didn’t seem to notice or care that she was also holding a weapon or that her hands were no longer tied.

“A spell.” He seemed doubtful.

“Yeah, the strings I stole, they have special powers, you know. They can make you live forever.”

“Give it to me or I’ll kill her.”

“Give what to—?”

“Don’t play with me!”

Tira, her voice so small Chris expected to look over and see that her body had shrunk to half its size, spoke up.

“I have to do it,” she told him, chalk-pale and clearly terrified. “Miss Pascal can’t remove her string herself—only her servants can do it.”

He looked suspicious, his gaze shifting from Chris to Tira. “Can’t remove her strings—yes. Not my own strings.” He seemed to believe suddenly, directing Martha, “Cut them loose.”

Martha moved to obey, bending down to Tira and first cutting the cords that had held the girl’s feet. When she cut the cord tying Tira’s hands, Schisandra, leaned over and grabbed the woman’s wrists with her bound hands, seeming to ignore the knife. Her birthmark, Chris noted inanely, looked like a dagger.

“Badger loves you,” Schisandra told the woman tenderly, and her eyes seemed to glow, her voice sweet and soft. Martha screamed like a woman who just walked to the crib and saw that her baby was missing, skittering away from Sandra. She dropped the knife and it clattered off to the side. Tira was rubbing her hands and feet, trying to get feeling back to them.

Chris remembered Badger, remembered his poor body. She had no idea what Sandra meant by her remark, but it seemed to have cut Martha’s link to her torturer, because the woman was shaking her head now as the killer yelled instructions.

“What have you done?” the man roared, staring at Martha, who was sobbing horribly and uncontrollably, her body jerking with the kind of sobs that made you feel like you were choking to death.

Tira stood. “We just helped her remember,” she whispered, tilting her head in a way that reminded Chris of a bird, or a snake. Sandra, her wrists and ankles still tied, slowly straightened.

The man backed away from Tira, still clutching Ro against his body as he moved toward where Martha was slowly quieting. “I’ll kill her,” he threatened, drawing a thin line of blood on Ro’s throat. “Cut off the Creator’s strings or I will kill her.”

That was it; Chris was not going to watch him slit this girl’s throat.

“Martha,” Chris shouted. “Badger was a darling dog. I like the picture of him at Christmas, in the Santa hat and bells. And at Easter, sitting in the basket with his stuffed rabbit.”

The psychopath was shouting now. “I will kill her!”

“He was adorable! The way one ear would go up, one go down,” Chris shouted loudly, not even sure if Martha was listening. He’d broken Martha somehow, but if she could be reminded, if she could find her way back to herself, maybe she would help them.

Tira moved next to Chris, reaching up and taking something from above Chris’s head. Chris thought she saw something sparkle, like sunlight on dew, and felt a drawing, an almost-pain, like when a nurse takes blood. But when she looked at Tira directly, her hands were empty, yet held open, as if she were carrying something draped over them.

Sandra hopped over, but stayed slightly behind her sister, putting her bound hands on Tira’s shoulder.

“I have it, I have the string she wears,” Tira cried, yelling to be heard over the unsub’s shouts that echoed in the cavernous building.

She has my string?
Chris felt rather betrayed, even if she didn’t believe in the damn things.

The killer stopped, his eyes fixed on Tira’s open hands. He licked his lips, a junkie seeing a stash. “Bring it here,” he demanded.

Tira walked closer, but stopped just out of reach.

“Let her go and I’ll give it to you.”

He shoved Ro aside. She sprawled heavily on the concrete and Sandra went to her to help her up.

Tira walked closer to the killer, seemingly unafraid.

“Tira, get away!” Chris shouted, slowly lifting her arm to brandish her shard of glass. Could she reach him in time?

“These strings are your favorite, aren’t they?” Tira whispered to him. “The ones so bright with love they hurt your eyes.”

“How did she take it? How does it stay so bright?” he whispered back, holding his fingers out to touch it.

“She didn’t take it,” Ro murmured from the side, “it was a gift of love; a gift of Summer’s.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t work.
She
loves me.” He pointed to Martha.

“No,” Sandra argued, “she doesn’t.”

Chris dashed toward them, pushing Tira aside just as she reached him.

“No!” he shouted, slashing out with the knife. Chris leaned frantically back, throwing up her arms to protect herself, but the tip of the knife sliced the thick part on the underside of her forearm, making her gasp. Her feet, too numb to feel anything now, tripped over themselves, and she fell, landing sprawled on her back, the glass shard falling from her hand.

He leapt on her, holding the knife high, and Chris knew that her life was over. She hoped Ryan knew that she was sorry for putting herself and the girls in danger . . . maybe even further jeopardizing the case . . .

But suddenly, before Chris’s disbelieving eyes, Martha stood, eyes wild, the knife clutched in her fist. She screamed and ran, lifting the knife high overhead. Before he could turn, Martha plunged the blade right where his spine met his neck, killing him instantly.