The Lost Girl (25 page)

I swallow. “Alisha, I . . .”

Her wide eyes focus on me. Eyes just like mine. I almost said good-bye. I almost hugged her. She stares at me. It’s like she sees right through me. “Is something wrong, Eva?”

“N-no,” I say. “I just—I just came up to tell you lunch is ready.”

This is harder than I’d expected.

I eat slowly at lunch, partly out of anxiety, partly to make this final meal with them last a bit longer. When we’re finished, I go back to Amarra’s room to make sure I’ve packed everything I might need. I check my bag. False passport. Photographs. The bracelet Sean gave me. Indian money. A few British coins.
Frankenstein.
Erik’s envelope and key. I double-check everything and have just finished when Sean comes back upstairs. Lekha trails behind him rather reluctantly.

“Do you
have
to do this?” she asks. “Here?”

“We have to leave the tracker here,” says Sean, “so that anyone checking up on her will think Eva is still in this house.”

“So they won’t know it’s out immediately?”

“Not until it loses power. It’s like a battery being charged. When it’s out, it will start to wind down, and it should set an alarm off at the Loom when it dies. But her body’s been charging this tracker for almost a year now. It could be days before it loses power. Or hours.”

Lekha shudders. “Well, do
not
ask me to help, because removing things from people’s bodies is just not a talent of mine.
I’ll
be shutting my eyes.”

But she opens one eye and watches with a kind of disgusted fascination anyway.

I feel slightly squeamish myself. I pull the chair over to the window so that Sean gets the best light. I look up at him for a moment. He’s soaked in sunlight. “From what I remember, the tracker is in your back,” he says. “Erik told me. It’s about an inch to the right of your spine, three inches above your tailbone, and about a third of a centimeter beneath the surface of your skin.”

“How are you going to get it out?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Swiss knife. He opens out the blade and says, “How do you think?”

“Great,” says Lekha, “absolutely spectacular. I should not have eaten lunch.”

I feel the blood drain out of my face. I’m not afraid of a single
cut
after the blows I’ve taken already. But there’s something awful about knowing it’s coming.

Sean reaches for Amarra’s box of matches. He sets one alight and holds the blade of the knife over the flame for a minute or two. I swallow back a sour taste in my mouth.

“Turn around,” he says gently.

I hike my T-shirt and kneel in the chair, screwing my face and forehead up in anticipation of pain. I wait, and there it is, a flash like fire. I gasp.

“Sorry.” He cuts into my skin. I imagine the knife sliding in as easily as if I’m butter, but this can’t be what really happens. It’s a sharp, raw pain, as though it’s taken a lot of his will and nerve to actually break the surface of the skin. Skin is tougher than I had imagined.

“Is it out?”

“It is now.” He shows me. It’s tiny, little more than a black dot, a miniature capsule covered in blood. I take it from him and lean my head against the back of the chair, tired, aching. He touches my shoulder. His thumb brushes against the bare skin below my ear. My skin prickles pleasantly.

Sean cleans the cut and puts a bandage over it. He throws blood-soaked cotton balls into a tiny plastic bag. My back continues to throb, but it’s bearable. I leave the blood on the tracker and wrap it in an antibacterial wipe, leaving the wipe under Amarra’s bed so no one notices it for a few days. Sean and I wash our hands in the bathroom.

“It’s done,” I say, a little breathlessly.

“The tracker’s gone now.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” says Sean.

Lekha shakes her head at me. “I spent seventeen years without any unnecessary turmoil,” she says happily, “seventeen years! Then
you
turned up and here I am, aiding a fugitive, watching a minor surgical procedure take place in a bedroom, witnessing firsthand the agony and the despair of star-crossed lovers . . .”

“We’re not star—”

“Don’t bother,” I tell Sean. “It’s not worth arguing with her.”

He lets it go. “I think Neil and Alisha were still at the table when we left, finishing their wine. I’ll go talk to them. It should keep them from coming out and seeing you take the bags to the car.”

I toss Sean’s things to Lekha and collect my stuff. Sean leaves the room, and we soon hear his voice in the dining room. We wait a couple of minutes before going down too. We make it out to the car without running into anyone. Lekha sags against the front door in relief and says she’ll wait outside while I get Sean. I go back indoors. The slit in my back is throbbing, and I’m quite sure I will be sick any minute now.

I go upstairs to find Sasha, busy writing her journal pages for her echo. “Hi, Sash,” I say. “I’m going out with Lekha and Sean, so I won’t be here for a while, okay?”

“Can I come?” she asks eagerly.

“Not this time. You have to finish your pages, don’t you? Come here,” I say, heart snapping in two. “Give me a hug before I go.”

I scoop her up and she puts her face in my neck, nuzzling like a cat. I laugh and squeeze her tight. I hold on too long and she wriggles, looking at me worriedly. I let her go. She drops back onto her bed. I smile to wipe away her concern.

“You be a good girl.”

“I’m always a good girl!” she says indignantly.

I blow her a kiss and force myself to leave her. I find Sean in the dining room and tell him Lekha’s waiting for us.

“Have fun,” says Alisha. “See if you can find a jade elephant at one of the shops. They make lovely souvenirs.”

“Bye,” I say. Sean, master of the carefully blank face, says a light good-bye and grips me by the hand. He pulls me out of the house before my expression gives us away.

I don’t look back. I can’t. The sky and road are singing to me and I have to run. I have to fly. Or stay and wither, die by a Weaver’s needles and loom.

Sean gets in the back of Lekha’s car. I get in the passenger seat. We don’t leave at once. We sit there silently, absorbing the fact that once we start moving, there will be no going back. Then Lekha blows out a huge exaggerated breath, turns the key in the ignition, and jolts forward before stalling. I laugh in spite of myself. She addresses the car with a number of rude words. She starts again and we glide down the street. We’ve left. We’re gone.

We’ve each chosen. All of us. To take control or to stand back. To stop a friend from risking her life or to help her do it. To follow or not to follow. We will have to live with our choices, whatever the outcome.

“Isn’t anyone going to talk?” Lekha demands, after exactly three minutes of silence.

“Radio?”

She huffs and turns it on. The song playing is “Stop Crying Your Heart Out.” By Oasis. It seems like a sign. It makes me feel more hopeful.

“Why is the traffic so bad?” Lekha wails at intervals. “It’s driving me bananas!”

“I can drive if you like,” I offer. I’ve been watching her do it. I’ve watched Ray. I think I can figure it out.

Sean makes a noise in his throat. “As bloody if.”

“You drive then. You’re the only one of us with an actual driver’s license.”

“No one’s touching my mother’s car,” says Lekha. “I can live with the traffic. I have bathed an elephant in a river. I can handle
traffic
.”

In spite of a few starts and stops and a great deal of unladylike swearing from Lekha when a motorcycle zooms by and nearly takes her mirror with it, we sail out of the traffic in good time. From there it’s one long straight road, and Lekha cheers up no end.

At the airport, she can only park by the departure doors for a few minutes before security will come shoo her away. We hop out of the car and collect our things.

“Be careful,” says Lekha. “And call me. Whenever. So I know you’re still alive.”

“I will. Will you get back okay?”

She nods tearfully.

Then she wraps her arms around me and hugs me tightly. I hug her back, even harder if that’s possible, and whisper, “Thank you for this. Thank you so much.”

“Good luck,” she whispers back. “Never eat sushi at an airport.”

Then she kisses Sean on the cheek and jumps back in the car. We watch her drive off. I sniffle. I think I might miss her the most.

“Come on,” I say, “let’s go be star-crossed lovers and court disaster.”

Sean laughs. I realize how much I’ve missed hearing the sound of it. I’ve always been able to make him laugh.

We pass through the airport scans and checks without incident, but I can’t relax, I am as tightly wound as wire around a spool. But when we’re finally on the plane and we haven’t caught a whiff of the police or a Weaver, I realize that we’ve done it. We’ve gotten away.

By the time we take off, I am fast asleep.

4
Risky

S
ean puts a coin in the pay phone and dials a number. We don’t dare use our phones. For all we know, my tracker has died and the seekers have been after us for hours. I stand rigidly a few feet from him, arms crossed tightly over my chest, and watch the crowds. Manchester Airport is busy and chaotic and I don’t like it. A seeker could be anywhere. I am terrified I wouldn’t spot one in these crowds until it was too late.

I open my mouth to tell Sean to hurry, but he glares me into silence. I turn back to the crowds. I’ve been gripping my shoulder bag so hard my fingers are numb and the strap is slick with sweat. I feel sticky and edgy and bone tired. We’ve been traveling for the better part of a day, with only a few broken hours’ sleep on the flight. But I will have to get used to feeling this way. I ran away. I can’t now expect my life to be restful.

“Done,” says Sean, coming up behind me. “Let’s get to the train station.”

I feel smug for a moment. “Not leaving me behind, then?”

We argued about this through most of the flight. My key unlocks a safe-deposit box in London. Sean wanted to take the key and go fetch its contents himself, leaving me in Manchester and far away from the Loom, but I refused to be left behind.

“Compromise,” says Sean. “We both go to London, but I go alone to empty the box.”

I consider this. “Okay. That’s fair.”

He looks relieved. I’m an exhausting person to argue with.

“Who did you call?”

“A friend in London. I was trying to find a safe place we could stay while we’re there. Just for a night or two. It’d be dangerous to linger in London much longer than that.”

“Hotel?”

Sean shakes his head. We start walking through the milling crowds in the direction of a sign for the train station. “We’d be better off saving our money while we can. I thought we could hide out at a theater. There are rehearsals going on, but the place will be deserted at night, and we’ll just do our best not to be seen during the day.”

This sounds very risky, but I have no better ideas. I rub my arms to fend off the cold and look back over my shoulder. I keep expecting to be pounced on at any moment.

The sun is dazzlingly sharp outside. At the train station Sean goes to buy tickets while I stop at a shop to find us some lunch. It’s hard letting him out of my sight. We’re more vulnerable on our own. There’s always a blind spot. Somewhere we won’t see them coming from. I choose the first sandwiches I see and throw in some chocolate bars and bottled drinks. My hands aren’t steady. I have to fumble in my bag for money.

I spot Sean making his way toward me. I stare at him for a moment or two. It’s funny, feeling so pleased and yet so frightened at the same time. It’s been months since I have felt like my fate is firmly in my hands and not vanishing out of reach like a floating lantern. I am in danger out here, but I am alive, and if I can keep outrunning them I will
stay
alive. Having to look over my shoulder, being constantly afraid, it’s not perfect. But it’s worth it. It has given me my life back.

And it has taken Sean’s old life away. Suddenly my throat feels scratchy. I swallow. One day I will make him go back. I have to.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he says.

I rearrange my face. “When’s our train?”

“In about ten minutes.”

I hand him a sandwich and we eat as we walk, taking a flight of stairs down to our platform to wait. My bags and shoulders feel heavier with each passing minute. Sean looks as tired as I feel.

By the time the train pulls in and we find our seats, I feel half in a trance and no less edgy. It’s getting harder to stay awake. I sit next to the window and rub my eyes and look out at people passing by.

That’s when I see him. His blue eyes are like knives.

At first it’s only a dream. Not quite real. The fear is a cold trickle sliding slowly, lazily, up my spine. Then it freezes into panic and my eyes snap wide open.

The train begins to move, but my gaze is glued to the platform. Where is he? He was there a moment ago!

I leap up and climb over Sean into the aisle.

“Eva, what—?”

I ignore him and race down the aisle as the train moves away, pressing myself to the windows to try and spot him again. A hand closes over my elbow and I jump and turn, ready to fight him off, but it’s only Sean and he looks worried.

“What the hell is going on?”

“I saw—I thought—I thought I saw—”

He steers me back to our seats. People glance our way, but I don’t care. I sit down, certain I am about to be captured. Or that I am going mad. Imagining things that aren’t there.

“Saw what?”

I lick my dry lips and look at Sean. “Matthew.”

“Where?” He sounds calm but he looks around, eyes wary, alert, searching for any threat. “On the platform? Watching us?”

“It was only for a second. I saw him.” Doubt punches a hole in my voice. “At least I could have sworn I did. But then I looked again and I couldn’t spot him. Maybe—maybe I imagined it.”

“You haven’t slept much. And you’re scared. It’s probably normal to start seeing bad things all over the place. If it
was
him, we’d be in the seekers’ hands by now.”

That should make me feel better, but I can’t help thinking of Matthew, who likes to play games, and the way he looked at me as he watched me run off my
last
train to see Sean, and how it would be so like him to turn up and vanish again, leaving me behind to question what I did or didn’t see.

“Try to sleep,” says Sean.

But I don’t. He doesn’t either. The Loom feels an awful lot closer.