“Hello?”
No answer.
“You guys went to a hell of a lot of trouble to just lock me up in a room,” I say and try the door again. Still nothing.
“This is stupid,” I announce. “Really stupid.”
Pulling in a deep breath, I try to think of something calming, something that would make me focus. Somehow, listing phobias dose not seem like a good choice. There is this quote they sometimes use in Amnesty stuff: “The secret of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom, courage.”
Thucydides, a Greek philosopher, wrote that a hundred million years ago.
So, I have to find courage.
Walking back to my air mattress again, I survey the room. It isn’t much to look at. It’s about ten feet by ten feet, all concrete. No window. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling but there isn’t any light switch to turn it off. There’s a heating grate in the floor, the kind that old houses have sometimes.
I crawl over to it and peer between the slats. No heat comes through, but a little bit of light does. The sounds of faraway voices hit my ears.
The opening is about three feet wide and maybe two feet deep. Can I fit in it? Maybe? Hope lifts my heart. I can escape and find Nick, maybe save him.
Four screws hold the grate in place. I stick my nail into one and twist it. It turns. It turns a little bit.
This will take forever, but it’s worth it. I pull in a deep breath. I wonder if Amnesty would send an Urgent Action appeal on my behalf if they knew: Maine Teen Unjustly Held Captive By . . .
How would they fill in the blank?
I move the screw a little more, until I can grab the screw head with the tips of my fingers. I turn it and turn it and it pops off. One down, three to go.
Giggling, and possibly a tiny bit hysterical, I start on the second screw, using the same procedure. I have it halfway out when the locks outside the door slide out of place. I pocket the one screw I’ve freed and scurry over to the air mattress just as the door opens.
I take a big breath and get ready. I don’t know what I expect to come through that door. But I sure don’t expect Ian.
“Zara, you look shocked.” Ian smiles.
He’s wearing normal clothes, a navy sweater with a shirt underneath it and jeans. His reddish hair is rumpled, but in a deliberate I’m-in-a-boy-band way.
He shuts the door behind him and stands there for a second, just staring at me. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?” I ask through clenched teeth. I make myself relax my jaw and uncross my arms. Ian doesn’t need to know how angry I am, how scared.
Ian leans his shoulders back against the wall, looking relaxed and happy. “That I’m a pixie?”
My jaw must have dropped or something because Ian starts laughing. “You look shocked.”
I don’t say anything, just try to adjust to this newest twist. He’s a pixie. Ian.
“Where’s the dust? I thought you all left dust?”
“Only the kings.” He sort of snarls it. Then he changes his face into something calmer, less feral. His voice matches and suddenly it’s like he’s back to being the nice guy who showed me to classes on the first day of school. “Are you cold, Zara?”
“I’m okay.”
Was Ian the one who went into my house the night before? Was he the one who pretended to be my dad? Hate spills into me, useless emotion or not.
“You’re lying. I can smell it. You’re cold,” Ian says. “I’ll go get you a blanket.”
He turns and starts toward the door. He knocks on it twice and it swings open.
“Wait!”
He looks back and smiles again at me. “Don’t worry, Zara. I’m not leaving you. Okay?”
I slump down on my mattress, trying to stay in control, to not tackle him.
“You think everybody always leaves, don’t you?” he says, his tone softer. “But pixies aren’t like that. We always come back. I promise. We never let anyone alone. Even the ones who get away we hunt down. Your mother could tell you that.”
“What about my mother?”
“Really, Zara? You haven’t figured it out?”
He steps out the door and it shuts behind him.
Shivering, I stare at the walls and the blank grayness is too much. I close my eyes and put my hands on my head. It throbs.
Ian comes back with a blanket, a glass of water, and some kind of medicine.
“If I drink this am I stuck in pixieland with you forever?” I ask as he drapes the blanket around my shoulders, tucking it in.
He laughs. “I wish it were that easy.”
“I thought I read that somewhere.”
“That’s fairies. This is just regular bottled water and an aspirin. Your head hurts, right?”
I nod slowly.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Was that you? Did you drag me here?”
He keeps tucking the blanket around me. “It had to be done. Sorry about the rock, though.”
I stand up, throwing off the blanket. The movement was too quick and the world sways. Ian catches me by the elbow and steadies me. I yank my arm away, humiliated and furious. God, why can’t I even stand by myself?
I turn my anger on him. “Did you hurt Nick?”
“No, he’s a snug little doggy in a nice little doggy net.”
I raise my fist. Rage curls inside my chest. I can’t control it any more. “If you hurt him—”
“What would you do? Beat me up?” Ian fake shudders. “Oh, I’m scared. No offense, Zara, but you aren’t that intimidating.”
He moves toward me and smiles. “But I’m not going to hurt him. We don’t need to hurt him, Zara. We already have what we want.”
His words sicken me. I swallow the nausea and hold on to the rage.
“And what you want is me?” I deliberately raise my eyebrows, trying to show no fear. “That’s a cliché.”
“Clichés are clichés for a reason,” he says.
“What about Betty?”
He shrugs. “I have no idea where your grandmother is. Look at this place. Do you know what it is? It used to store furniture. It’s a concrete room, perfect for holding prisoners, kind of like that Amnesty International crap you’re always going on about. Trying to save the world, that’s you, Zara. But you never thought about who would save you, did you?”