The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (50 page)

I made my decision.

“Stay here,” I demanded, imploring Charles to oblige. “Whatever happens,
stay
here
.”

Without another thought, I downed the entire glass of champagne in one long swallow.

THE ALCOHOL SEARED
my throat. Tears sprang to my eyes.

I’m dying.

Around me, the world went silent. In my peripheral vision, blurry shapes danced like shadow puppets. A dusky blob reached for me. Though a part of me knew that it was Charles, I instinctively pulled away, rocking unsteadily in my seat. My insides were on fire, as if acid was disintegrating my body from the inside out. My skin was set ablaze as the feeling intensified.

“Come and find me, Stassi,” the killer taunted. His voice sounded a million miles away. “Now. Or he dies.”

My arms and legs were leaden. Through some inhuman display of strength, I managed to get to my feet. Charles tried to pull me back down, but I yanked my hand free of his. Stumbling, I ran up the aisle towards the exit. A startled usher threw the doors open when he saw me coming, and I charged into the lobby.

Bright light assaulted my retinas. I blinked to gain my bearings. The world was spinning so fast. Why was it spinning so fast?

“I’m here!” Though I tried to shout, the words came out as a whisper. “Now what?”

“Hallway to the left. Go. Now,” Baylarian instructed.

Barely able to see more than a foot in front of my face, I stumbled left and used the wall to support myself. Framed posters advertising the theater’s productions crashed to the ground as I tried to grab ahold of anything to keep me upright.

Cyrus, where the hell are you?

Tears poured down my cheeks, brought on by the burning sensation in my throat and lungs.

Water. I need water.

Suddenly, there was no more wall. I fell to my knees, dropping something I’d been clutching in one of my hands.

“Halfway down the hall is a door to the balcony level. Join me, Stassi. But hurry, or your dear Charles won’t live to see the second act.”

Using every ounce of willpower in my being, I scrambled to my feet. My hand landed on something squishy. My purse. High, hysterical laughter escaped my lips. That was what I’d dropped. Somehow, through my forty-yard dash out of the theater and one-woman tornado through the lobby, I had managed to hang on to my purse. Snatching it up, I hugged the bag to my chest.

The hallway was dark, with only one thin line of illumination at the base of each wall. My vision was starting to clear, but the fire inside me was blazing hotter with each passing breath.

If I make it out of this alive, I’m going to kill Cyrus,
I thought with a senseless giggle.

The first door I found was locked. Yanking on the handle with all of my strength yielded no results.

“Keep going!” Baylarian urged. “Hurry!”

I tried the next two doors, but neither opened. Groaning in frustration, I tugged on the fourth, nearly falling backwards when it swung open. I slipped through and began climbing a steep stairway in utter darkness. A silhouette stood at the very top, lit from behind. His hand extended towards me.

I hesitated.

“Don’t be absurd, Stassi. You have come this far. Don’t lose your nerve now.” Baylarian’s voice echoed in my ear as it reverberated off of the walls around me. He was surrounding me, inside and out. He was everywhere.

Panting heavily and in desperate need of something to douse the flames licking my throat, I began to climb the stairs. Whether it was the end of my adrenaline or a second round of effects from the drink, I stumbled. My feet felt preposterously heavy as I crawled up, one step at a time.

Without warning, the silhouette reached out and grabbed my arms, dragging me up the final steps. And suddenly, I was face-to-face with Mitchell T. Baylarian. The Night Gentleman. The mass murderer.

I’d seen his picture. I’d seen him that day in the Ritz with Hadley. But staring into his feverish dark eyes, I realized I’d also seen him numerous other times since arriving in Paris. Dancing at Fitzgerald’s book party. Drinking at Closerie des Lilas. Walking down the sidewalk in front of Stein’s house. Entering the milliner shop. He had always been there, right under our noses.

Baylarian dragged me to the front of the balcony. The entire box was deserted, as were the adjacent ones. There was no one there. No one to stop him from hurling me over the side.

“I went to a lot of trouble to get these seats,” Baylarian said conversationally, as if we were on a date and he wanted me to know the lengths he’d gone to impress me. He had one arm wrapped around my waist, holding me uncomfortably close to his side. Though I wanted nothing more than to shove him away, to shove him over the ledge, my limbs refused to comply with my brain’s screaming commands.

“Quite a few patrons were disappointed when they were told the private boxes were all unavailable. Do you even know how many tickets I had to purchase?” he continued. The killer gestured to the left and then the right. It wasn’t just the surrounding boxes that sat vacant. The entire balcony level was empty. “It was worth it, though.”

“You have me. Now tell me what you want,” I wheezed, infusing as much bravado into my words as a scared-shiteless girl could muster.

Baylarian took a step away and stared down at me. His expression was puzzled, as if the situation should have been obvious.

“I want you to witness my final performance, of course,” he said. “Someone needs to tell the world what happened here tonight.”

Confusion swam through my mushy brain.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” I mumbled.

The Night Gentleman laughed. That same cackling laughter that had been taunting my mind through the Rosetta was even more terrifying in person.

“Of course not,” he replied, nearly gleeful. “You are much too important to kill, Stassi.”

A glint of red light drew my attention to Baylarian’s left hand. The madman was twirling something between his long fingers. With my head tilting unsteadily, it took me a minute to realize what it was. Once I did, the molten lava swirling in my belly turned to stone. Even by the tiniest measure, the revelation returned some degree of my control over the champagne’s effects. It wasn’t enough to stop him, though.

The Night Gentleman was holding a small black box dominated by a round red button. A remote detonator of some type. He was going to blow us all up.

I let out a long, shuddering breath.

“Why?” I asked despondently. “What did these people do to you?”

“Nothing,” Baylarian said simply. “They are merely necessary casualties. Pawns in the game, if you will. But important pawns. Do you know who is here tonight? This show brought out more notable people than I’d even hoped for. The Duke of Westminster and his mistress. Two princesses of Greece. A Russian Countess. Playwrights. Fashion designers. And of course, your friends. Ernest Hemingway, himself. Hadley Richardson. Your amour, Charles DuPree. Can you imagine? People who
matter
, Stassi.”

He peered down at me in the darkness, imploring me to understand.

“Killing them ensures me eternal infamy. Each of these lives secures my place within history. Isn’t that what we all want? To never be forgotten?”

Baylarian gently stroked the switch with his thumb. He bore down with just enough pressure to make my heart stop. But not enough to detonate his weapon. My horror shoved aside the densest of the fog in my brain. I needed to get control of myself. I needed to stop him.

I stilled the rocking of my body with sheer will alone. I clutched and unclutched the purse in my hand, demanding that my body follow the commands of my brain.

Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release.
Miraculously, my fingers complied.

The killer closed his eyes. His hands raised. He began waving them in time to the music, like a conductor leading his orchestra down the final stretch of a piece. With utter horror, I realized that was exactly what was happening.

The building crescendo would climax with the final notes of so many lives.

I had to act.
Now
.

Eyes still closed, lost in his own world, Baylarian hummed quietly as he swung his arms to the beat. He thought I was too weak to put up a fight. He thought me too complacent to take action. Or maybe he truly believed that I was grateful to be the sole surviving witness to his act.

Whatever it was, the killer was wrong.

The music poured from him right up until the moment I smacked him across the face with my purse.

Sure, it wasn’t the most elegant defense. But the clutch was the only weapon at my disposal. And I was resourceful.

Baylarian stumbled. The detonator slipped from between his fingers. We both dove for it, our heads colliding. Stars shot across my vision, flashing a blinding sheer white. Somehow, only explicable by pure luck, the switch and my outstretched fingers connected as I tumbled down. I fell to the ground at the front of the balcony, the detonator gripped tightly in my hand.

Don’t squeeze. Don’t squeeze.

Baylarian landed on top of me, his weight crushing my ribs. The little remaining air in my lungs rushed out through my parted lips in a strangled scream. Nails raked at the hand holding the switch, tearing desperately at my skin. I held on as though every life in that theater depended on it.

And it did.

I kicked and thrashed erratically, willing the killer away from me. But Baylarian was bigger than me. And stronger. And not suffering the effects of whatever poison he’d put in my champagne.

He had me pinned on my back in no time. His knees dug into my thighs, rendering my legs useless. A blur of movement flew towards my face. I turned my head, just in time to avoid taking the blow full-on. Baylarian’s fist clipped my cheek, the brunt of the force landing on my ear. Then his forearm was on my throat, cutting off my air supply.

Guess he doesn’t need a witness all that badly.

My vision was going dark. The hand holding the detonator was slick with sweat. I wasn’t going to be able to hold on much longer. With my last ounce of fight, I arched my free hand into a claw. My nails dug mercilessly into the arm at my throat. But it had no effect on the madman.

Desperate to breathe, I thrashed my head from side to side. My cheek hit something smooth and soft. My purse, I realized through the ever-darkening shadows of death. That damned evening bag was still with me. A sharp prick of pain parted the dusk, bringing dim hope.

Baylarian’s attention was focused on the switch in my right hand. The arm at my throat lifted a fraction, allowing one shallow breath before it resumed its torturous pressure. Millimeter by millimeter, he was pulling the device from my fingers. I gave up on the arm at my throat and went for the purse. In the fall, the clasp had come undone. Another stroke of luck.

My fingers inched into the bag, fumbling to find my salvation. My last dredges of hope ignited when I felt the sharp bite of jagged glass in my palm.

With a sound more animal than human, I plunged the broken glass into Baylarian’s arm. The pressure on my windpipe ceased as he yanked back instinctively. I sucked in the precious air that burned my lungs with reprieve. My hand was sticky and slick with a mixture of my blood and his, but I maintained my excruciating grip on the glass. Even as it dug into my own palm, I pulled the shard from Baylarian’s arm.

I swung with every ounce of energy in my being. I aimed the makeshift weapon at the killer’s hand, which was milliseconds from freeing the detonator from my own weakening grasp.

Howling like a wounded wolf, Baylarian gave up the fight for the switch. He reared back, holding his injured hand. As he hurled obscenities at me, I braced for another fist flying at my face. Sure enough, Baylarian’s came barreling at me. I flung the hand holding the glass towards his, praying his momentum would make the two connect.

I’d guessed wrong. It wasn’t his hand that struck the blow. It was his head.

For a long, dazed moment, I thought he’d head-butted me on purpose. But Baylarian wasn’t moving. His body was deadweight on top of mine. Dizziness overwhelmed me, and bile rose up in my throat. I was an instant from blacking out.

Did he really knock himself out?
I thought wondrously, hanging on to consciousness for dear life. My eyes closed, the weight of the lids too heavy to fight.

Just as I was drifting away, the weight lifted off of me all at once.