he—”
“This is you,” she says, cutting him off. She raps sharply on a door with a silver number seven on it and then hands us each a key. “We have duplicates,” she warns, and I wonder just where the hell she thinks we might go. What we might do in this classy, but nonetheless clearly fortified, underground fortress. One of us powerless, the other with abilities that last for five minutes. Maybe we could rip those sconces from the wall and stage an incredible escape. Right.
I mumble a quiet
thank you
, not wanting to get even more on this woman’s bad side. Logan says nothing, just pockets his key and squeezes my hand.
“Daniel left you a gift on the table,” she says as she pushes the door open, which swings silently on well-oiled hinges. “He says you’ll know what to do with it.”
Curiouser and curiouser
, I think wryly. But I’m anxious to get out of this woman’s sight and be able to talk to Logan without overly attentive eavesdroppers. “We’ll be fine,” I say aloud.
“Food,” Logan blurts, then looks at me apologetically. “I’m starving.”
The truth is I am too, so I can hardly blame him. The dried fruit only went so far in making up for three days with only one meal.
“I’ll have something sent up.” She looks Logan up and down and adds, “Something substantial,” in a tone that makes me want to smack her.
Whatever.
As soon as she’s through the doorway I close it behind her, just inches shy of knocking her over. “Finally,” I say, my back to the door.
We’re in a very large room that seems to be part kitchenette, part bedroom. Like a studio apartment, really, with a sitting room around the corner on one side and what looks like a doorway to the bathroom on the left.
Logan is standing a few feet from an elegantly made king-size bed, and he runs his fingers through his hair awkwardly. Trusting me, even holding my hand, is one thing; being shoved into a bedroom with only one bed after being told to “get some rest” is another.
I look away, giving him a few seconds to get his bearings, scoping out the room instead. The hallway was elegant and nice, but this room is a completely different
kind
of elegance. It’s sparse and a bit artsy, with silver and black trim on pretty much everything. In place of paintings, black and white photos of buildings and cityscapes dot the walls. Here and there a touch of maroon breaks up the color palette: a throw on the back of a plushy chair, a vase that stands empty on a high shelf, one pillow in a pile of several on the bed.
I remember the woman’s cryptic comment about a gift from Daniel and look around for the table—seems like it would be easy to find, but it turns out that it’s a semicircular, bar-height table that’s mounted below a mirror, and so I miss it at first glance, thinking that it’s just part of the decor.
Still trying to avoid awkwardness with Logan, I walk over and pick up the cardboard tube sitting atop it. “No note,” I muse. But whatever. I pop the top off the tube and start to shake it out, but as soon as I realize what’s inside I yank my fingers back like they’ve been burned.
It’s from the dugout back in Camden that Quinn took me to. The painting that messed me up so badly. My breathing is sharp and noisy and Logan is walking toward me, but I hold up a hand to stop him and force myself to calm down.
A little.
This canvas was in Benson’s backpack the night I found out what he was. Why does the Curatoria have it?
“What is it?” Logan asks tentatively.
“It’s just a painting,” I respond absentmindedly. I’m too caught up in the sight before me to attempt to act like less of a total weirdo.
“If it’s just a painting, then why did it make you jump out of your skin?”
He’s right. It did make me jump out of my skin. But that was nothing compared to what happened the last time I touched it.
I’ll never forget the sensation. It was like I was a radio set to the wrong
“This is you,” she says, cutting him off. She raps sharply on a door with a silver number seven on it and then hands us each a key. “We have duplicates,” she warns, and I wonder just where the hell she thinks we might go. What we might do in this classy, but nonetheless clearly fortified, underground fortress. One of us powerless, the other with abilities that last for five minutes. Maybe we could rip those sconces from the wall and stage an incredible escape. Right.
I mumble a quiet
thank you
, not wanting to get even more on this woman’s bad side. Logan says nothing, just pockets his key and squeezes my hand.
“Daniel left you a gift on the table,” she says as she pushes the door open, which swings silently on well-oiled hinges. “He says you’ll know what to do with it.”
Curiouser and curiouser
, I think wryly. But I’m anxious to get out of this woman’s sight and be able to talk to Logan without overly attentive eavesdroppers. “We’ll be fine,” I say aloud.
“Food,” Logan blurts, then looks at me apologetically. “I’m starving.”
The truth is I am too, so I can hardly blame him. The dried fruit only went so far in making up for three days with only one meal.
“I’ll have something sent up.” She looks Logan up and down and adds, “Something substantial,” in a tone that makes me want to smack her.
Whatever.
As soon as she’s through the doorway I close it behind her, just inches shy of knocking her over. “Finally,” I say, my back to the door.
We’re in a very large room that seems to be part kitchenette, part bedroom. Like a studio apartment, really, with a sitting room around the corner on one side and what looks like a doorway to the bathroom on the left.
Logan is standing a few feet from an elegantly made king-size bed, and he runs his fingers through his hair awkwardly. Trusting me, even holding my hand, is one thing; being shoved into a bedroom with only one bed after being told to “get some rest” is another.
I look away, giving him a few seconds to get his bearings, scoping out the room instead. The hallway was elegant and nice, but this room is a completely different
kind
of elegance. It’s sparse and a bit artsy, with silver and black trim on pretty much everything. In place of paintings, black and white photos of buildings and cityscapes dot the walls. Here and there a touch of maroon breaks up the color palette: a throw on the back of a plushy chair, a vase that stands empty on a high shelf, one pillow in a pile of several on the bed.
I remember the woman’s cryptic comment about a gift from Daniel and look around for the table—seems like it would be easy to find, but it turns out that it’s a semicircular, bar-height table that’s mounted below a mirror, and so I miss it at first glance, thinking that it’s just part of the decor.
Still trying to avoid awkwardness with Logan, I walk over and pick up the cardboard tube sitting atop it. “No note,” I muse. But whatever. I pop the top off the tube and start to shake it out, but as soon as I realize what’s inside I yank my fingers back like they’ve been burned.
It’s from the dugout back in Camden that Quinn took me to. The painting that messed me up so badly. My breathing is sharp and noisy and Logan is walking toward me, but I hold up a hand to stop him and force myself to calm down.
A little.
This canvas was in Benson’s backpack the night I found out what he was. Why does the Curatoria have it?
“What is it?” Logan asks tentatively.
“It’s just a painting,” I respond absentmindedly. I’m too caught up in the sight before me to attempt to act like less of a total weirdo.
“If it’s just a painting, then why did it make you jump out of your skin?”
He’s right. It did make me jump out of my skin. But that was nothing compared to what happened the last time I touched it.
I’ll never forget the sensation. It was like I was a radio set to the wrong
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