Chapter #70The Running Girl by: Seuzz   You are woozy with fear and the lingering aftereffects of the spell Frank put on you; and gulping down draughts of cold night air isn't making you feel any better. You stagger back toward Wyndham in something between a brisk walk and a trot.
Professor Hyde-White wants to pull you out: no surprise. How angry is he going to be with you, given the total clusterfuck you've made of everything? You quail as a vision of the professor—his lean face livid with anger, his lips quivering—rears up before you.
But you've nowhere else to go. You're here because Fane promised you safety from the Stellae; if you ran, you'd just have both the Stellae and Fane chasing you. You glance at your phone as the gates of Wyndham finally come into view. You've ten minutes to make that rendezvous.
You stop just inside the gates, staring as a wraith-like figure floats across the courtyard toward you. You shrink back as Grace Simpson runs lightly at the gate, her crimson hair streaming behind her. It would be bad enough to run into her in daylight, in normal circumstances, after the way you mugged her this afternoon. But something in her carriage arouses terror in you. Her arms are stiffly at her side and her chin is lifted high as she runs, and she moves smoothly, as though her feet aren't even touching the ground. She flashes past you in an instant, her head and chest thrust out. A pale light seems to shine about her. You watch as she dwindles, and vanishes around a corner.
With a stifled cry, you hurry to Mary's rooms.
* * * * *
Your teeth chatter and your hands flutter as you go through Mary's things. What do you need to take with you? Grace's mask, certainly. Anything else? Oh yes, that jar of sealant. What did you do with it? Shit, it's not here!
Oh, right, you left it in the bathroom. Don't go to pieces, Duns— Prescott!
You wipe a nervous hand across your mouth as you catch sight of your reflection in the mirror: Your face is blotched and puffy. Frank cursed you, he must have laid some kind of wasting curse on you! But you're wearing a mask, maybe it will only affect Mary's form? But what if it seeps through, onto you? Grace's mask! Maybe if you got out of Mary's mask and into Grace's! That would certainly be a safer disguise to meet the professor under. After all, if Frank is with Dawes and the rest of the rowing crew, maybe Joe is on his way to capture Mary Dunsdale!
At any rate, it seems smarter to make a change, and you grab your face with both hands.
* * * * *
As soon as you rouse yourself in Grace's mask, you see the big drawback to your idea. Your terror plays on Grace Simpson's nerves like an elephant plays on a piano. You fall into a shattered heap, and it takes a full minute of whimpering on the floor before you can rouse yourself.
Your clothes are all wrong, they don't even begin to fit you. But never mind! You've got to get out of here. Mary's mask slips from your sweat-slicked fingers to the floor with a clatter, and your knees knock as you stoop to grab it up again. The jar! Where did you put the jar? You're blind, and peer about uselessly, and finally start tearing things off the bed and desk in a desperate bid to lay hands on it. You're sobbing by the time you remember that you left it where you found it: in the bathroom.
Then with damp cheeks slowly freezing in the night air, you're scurrying back across the quad toward the gates of Wyndham with a small bundle clutched to your chest. Where did the professor say to go? Victoria and Maidens? That's right, the traffic circle there. A police van will be waiting. That'll be safe.
Won't it? Grace Simpson reminds you that Professor Jameson Hyde-White is an evil-minded schemer working for a soulless multinational.
You'd flee the other way, but Grace has even less courage than you do, and her personality simply collapses under the strain. It's a wonder you don't collapse onto the sidewalk as well. But with a heart rising in your throat you hurry on into the night.
You struggle though evening crowds, dodging traffic, keeping your head and face hidden. Once you're on the streets it becomes much lighter, and under the lamps you see little flakes of snow or light mist swirling. Hoarse shouts mix with the crunch of tires on asphalt. Whatever Frank did to you, the effects were not restricted to Mary's mask, for you still feel dizzy. The precipitation must be heavier than it looks, for your feet slide and skitter beneath you. You turn corner after corner, twisting about through small streets and narrow alleyways. You soon find yourself completely lost, and with mounting terror and frustration you have to retrace your steps a few blocks before you find a street that you know runs in the right direction. If the van isn't waiting for you, if it's left without you, if it's been attacked by the Stellae—
Maybe you should just curl up next to this wall here and wait for someone to find you. It won't matter who. You'll be grateful to see an end to it, no matter what that end is.
You collide with someone, and shriek. He turns to glare at you. For an instant you're sure it's Frank. But it's just a man in a heavy overcoat with a cap pulled low over his face. Even in the shadow under that brim, you can tell it's no one you know.
So your nerves are in a fine state when you finally glimpse the traffic circle up ahead. You break into a sprint. "Excuse me please!" you bleat and whimper as you rush past other pedestrians. "Excuse me!" The circle grows nearer. Cars wheel around it.
There, on the other side! The blunt, boxy shape of a police van. A cry of relief breaks through your tight throat muscles. You just have to cross both limbs of the doughnut-like thorough-fare—
And as you anxiously scan for an opening in traffic you can dart through, you see him: Frank Durras, advancing down Victoria. He's distant and muffled in the darkness, but you're sure it's him. Confirmation comes when he steps under a street lamp and looks right back at you. Your eyes lock.
Really, you shouldn't be staring at him as though you know him. Too late, you remember that. He steps to the side, and vanishes in a blur.
Fuck the traffic! You jump into the street, and a car blasts its horn and swerves, just avoiding clipping you. Is it nerves and imagination, or was that a real hand you feel grasping at your shoulder, trying to pull you back? You run across the street, following its curve to the other side. "Here! Here! You're waiting for me!" you yell at the two policeman who are standing by the van. They turn to frown at you as you run up, and they stiffen as you throw your arms out. "They're after me, we have to get away!"
You're certainly making no sense, and down in your core you have the mordant impression you're performing an extraordinarily melodramatic rendition of the "damsel in distress" stereotype. No matter: Perhaps Hyde-White briefed the cops, but they seize your briskly by both arms and thrust you roughly into the back of the van. Two of them hop in with you, pulling the doors shut behind them. One slaps hard at the front of the cabin and shouts hoarsely to the driver. The motor turns over with a growl, and the lurch as it pulls into traffic drops you to your hands and knees. As you right yourself, you look up at the windows in the van's rear doors.
Frank Durras smiles back at you.
And the entire scene vanishes in a brilliant white flash.
Briefly, you're aware of shouts and squealing tires before the world turns violently upside down. Something very hard hits you in the side of the head. It would have hurt a great deal if it hadn't knocked you instantly unconscious.
* * * * *
"Mr. Prescott? Mr. Prescott?" The voice comes from far away, on the other side of thick blocks of cotton. A hand gently wraps around yours. "Can you hear me?"
You blink, and blink again. The world remains white, a seamless blank without stain or crack. You blink more rapidly, trying to clear it.
"Mr. Prescott, I know you're awake. Don't stir or strain yourself." The voice is much clearer and stronger now. It's Professor Hyde-White. You're resting on your back, on something soft. The hand that holds your own tightens. "How do you feel?"
"Okay, I guess," you croak. You're barely aware of your body. "I can't see anything, though."
"Well, you've no broken bones, and only a few bruises, which have been patched up. Considering the crash, you came through quite well. Better than the girl did."
"The girl?"
"The girl you were masquerading as. Our own EMS teams were quickly on the scene, and we got you to a private, secret hospital where we took the mask off. It was a great relief to see that you were alright, mostly."
You sit up sharply as the memory floods back. "Frank! Frank Durras! I saw him—!"
"Yes, I know. Have no fears there. He attacked the van, to get at you, I suppose, but he melted away once we were on the scene in force. And he can't get to you. We're not even in England any more."
"Where are we? And why can't I see anything?"
"I'm afraid that's the one effect of the Stellae's attack we couldn't fix," Hyde-White says. "He blinded everyone in the van. Permanently, as far as we can tell."  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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