Marking Time (The Immortal Descendants) Read online

  At least that’s what I thought until I saw Millicent’s face.

  My grandmother was wearing a long dress that was practically a ball gown with a diamond choker around her neck. On anyone else it would be a costume but on Millicent it was armor. I realized then that late would have been way better than jeans, but there was nothing I could do now. Her jaw was already set.

  “If you weren’t Claire’s daughter you would be eating in the kitchen with the staff.”

  I had just taken a seat at the only other place set at the long table, but I immediately stood back up. “Show me the way and I’ll go.” My cheeks flushed and I was being snotty to cover it up. Apparently Millicent was on to me though because she coldly waved me to my seat.

  “You won’t get off so easily with me, Saira. Please sit down.” She took a sip of her wine and my eyes were drawn to the glittering jewels on her fingers. The woman sparkled everywhere but her eyes.

  I sat. Every instinct in me wanted to run away from the gilded stranger across the table, but that’s exactly why I wrapped my ankles around the chair legs. My mom always said fight and flight were at war in me, and considering how I ended up here, she wasn’t too far wrong.

  A mousy maid put a steaming bowls of soup in front of us. Millicent studied me as she ate. “Why, exactly, are you here, Saira?”

  “You’re better than foster care.”

  Millicent raised an eyebrow with a look that said my thin ice was cracking. “The last time your mother left, were you alone then too?”

  “Since I was about thirteen.”

  “Don’t you have friends? People you could stay with?”

  “You say that like it’s normal for a mom to leave for a week every couple of years.”

  “Yours has to.” The matter-of-fact way my grandmother spoke about something that was basically child abandonment told me volumes about her.

  “Whatever. All I know is that if she had been home like a normal mom, our place wouldn’t have been trashed, her clock necklace stolen, and I’d be sleeping in my own bed right now.”

  Millicent stared at me like I’d just sprouted wings. “Clock necklace?”

  “The one my dad gave her before I was born. She never wears it, but it was locked in the paint cabinet with our passports and money they didn’t take. What’s that about?”

  She finally schooled her expression and then spoke in a voice that was trying too hard to be casual. “Show me the design you were drawing on the window in the car. Here, on the tablecloth, with your finger.”

  Okay, weird. I got up and moved to the other end of the table. She smelled of some fancy old perfume, powdery and really expensive. I used my finger like a pen and started drawing the spirals on the white tablecloth. Before I was even halfway done she stopped my hand. “That’s enough.” I’d just gotten in a groove and my fingers itched to finish. “Do not draw that design again…ever.”

  I stared at her. “You don’t tell me what I can draw. Nobody does.”

  “Saira,” Millicent’s voice finally got some emotion in it, but I didn’t like the tone. “Do as I say. It’s for your own good.” I snorted and her voice turned steely. “I am your elder and you will respect me.”

  “Respect gets earned.” I pulled my hand out of Millicent’s grasp and stalked to the door. “I understand why my mother left here.” I was angry, but for some reason my eyes welled up with tears, which made me even madder. “You act like you have the right to fling rules at me because we’re ‘family,’ but family cares, and you never did. Don’t pretend to now.”

  I wiped the tears away fiercely and gave myself credit for not slamming the door; no matter how badly I wanted to make brick dust fall. The Hobbit was watching me from a darkened doorway, shaking her head. And with her disappointment I felt the protective armor I’d spent seventeen years wrapping around myself begin to fracture.

  The fancy bed with all the luxurious sheets was hard as a rock. I was fairly sure the mattress wasn’t actually from the 16th century, but no amount of tossing and turning could make me comfortable enough to sleep. After trying for an hour or two I gave it up as a lost cause and got up to explore.

  But the doorknob wouldn’t budge. I tried again with more force and then flipped on a light on to grab the key from the dresser. Not there. I did a full search of the area. No key.

  Millicent had officially hit monster status. I glanced around the room looking for something I could use to get myself out of my new prison. There was a botanical print hanging on the wall, backed by a piece of cardboard that could work. I detached the cardboard from the frame, then untwisted the wire, and with that I had my tools.

  Everything was quiet in the hall. I slid the cardboard under the door, angling the piece so only a small corner was left on my side of the room, then stuck the wire into the old lock and hoped my warden was too lazy to take the key. The wire hit something that moved, so I jiggled it carefully and finally pushed. The key fell to the hall floor with a soft thud, hopefully landing on the cardboard underneath.

  Bit by bit I pulled the cardboard in like reeling a fish on a line. The glint of metal showed under the door. Another inch and I had it in hand. I tried the key in the lock and the doorknob turned. I was free.

  Now what? I knew my stay at Elian manor had just expired, but I wasn’t quite sure of my options. I quickly reassembled the print, threw on my clothes, then stuffed extra clothes, my passport, money, and toothbrush into my backpack. A last-minute addition was a heavy black marker and a can of red spray paint.

  With my Maglite in my back pocket, I slipped out of the bedroom and secured the door behind me, leaving the key in the lock. Make them wonder how I got out if nothing else. I navigated my way through the east wing and down to the kitchen where I thought there’d be a servants’ entrance. The door was latched from the inside with a heavy wooden bar – very middle-ages of them, but effective. I closed it quietly behind me and stepped out into darkness.

  It wasn’t the first time I was glad for great night vision as I picked my way along the unfamiliar perimeter of the house. The manor seemed like a fortress, built of solid stone with high windows and few doors. Everything about this place screamed ‘prison’.

  A cat suddenly yowled in front of me and I stumbled and went down on all fours. Hard. Something sharp cut my hand and I hissed in pain and waited for a light to flick on inside the house. None did. The cat was long gone and even though my mother swears I’m part feline, I silently re-confirmed my preference for dogs.

  I picked myself up off the ground and bolted for the garages, but stopped short when I saw a lit window. Jeeves was inside the garage apartment, looking as startled to see me as I was to see him. I nodded respectfully to him and Jeeves cocked an eyebrow and slowly nodded back, then he waved his hand at me to scoot. I blew him a kiss and saw him smile as I ran for the woods.

  When I got too tall for gymnastics, free-running was the next logical step in my stealth-tagging habit. It’s using acrobatics to move around urban environments at high speeds, and for me it made running around a nighttime city like playing on a giant jungle gym. And when a bad landing or a missed vault could break an arm, the consequences were too dire to spend much time worrying about a little thing like moving, so it was my escape too. I’d just never used it to actually escape before. From a castle. In the woods. At night.

  The forest along the long driveway was seriously creepy. Ancient trees were like sentries standing guard while the underbrush probably teemed with hidden – and hopefully sleeping – wildlife. I would have preferred no moon to the almost full one that cast huge pools of darkness around me. My thing about shadows was kicking in hard. I fought down a rising panic as I headed toward the main road.

  As much as I wanted to believe every sound I heard was a normal nighttime noise, and every movement was just my eyeballs playing tricks, I knew in my soul that I wasn’t alone in those woods. My most primal instinct screamed out that something or someone was tracking me. So the question was, anim
al or human? Predator or just curious?

  A car engine sounded in the distance and I froze. It came from the main road ahead, not the Manor behind me. I hoped that meant I might be able to hitch a ride toward London, maybe from an early commuter? I could see the glimmer of headlights through the trees, so I broke into a run and whatever was tracking me started running too. I could hear two feet hit the ground behind me instead of four. A biped then. And a much scarier prospect than an animal.

  I dodged around low branches and over fallen logs that tripped my pursuer, then broke from the trees and spotted a dark-colored luxury car, maybe an Audi or a BMW, pulled over by the side of the road. It looked like the driver was reading a map and I made an instant decision to call out. “Help! Help me!”

  The driver was a middle-aged guy in a suit, with blond hair and refined features. He looked shocked to see some girl sprinting down the road in the middle of the night. I dropped into the passenger seat and looked up to find him smiling at me. “Hello Clocker. I wondered when we might finally meet.”

  That reptilian voice liquefied my guts and a shot of pure adrenaline went coursing through my veins. Slick. From the Venice tunnels. The almost-handsome face looked suddenly menacing through its smile. Slick looked past me to a tall guy who had just run up outside my window. My biped pursuer. Instinctively I grabbed the keys that were dangling from the steering column and hurled them out the window past Slick. Then I threw open the passenger door and nailed the Biped right in the nuts. He went down, swearing loudly, and I took off running.

  “Grab her!” Slick yelled.

  I heard the rev of a car engine, then saw the shadow of headlights coming up behind me. A silver sports car appeared and a guy called through the open window, “Get in!” He sped ahead and slammed on his brakes just as I reached his car. Primal instinct was back in spades as I flew into the passenger seat. I looked over at my rescuer, driving with one eye on the rear-view mirror. In the light from the dashboard he looked young, maybe early twenties, with dark hair and a strong profile. His jaw was tense as he watched to see if they were following us and I could see muscles working as if he was grinding his teeth. Then my rescuer turned to look at me and I felt his eyes reach right down into my guts and tangle them up in knots.

  With that look I knew I’d just jumped straight from the kettle into the fire.

  Whitechapel

  He sniffed, and then looked down at my hand. “You’re bleeding.”

  The scrape on my palm was deep and a trail of blood had smeared down my fingers. I was about to wipe my hands on my jeans when he caught my wrist. “Don’t.”

  I stared at him. The force of his response was more than a simple scrape warranted. But then he nodded toward the glove compartment. “There’s tissue in there.”

  I grabbed a tissue and clenched it in my fist. He looked at me again for a long moment, then his eyes were caught by something in the rear-view mirror.

  “They’re following us.”

  I spun in my seat to see, and sure enough, headlights were zooming up the road behind us. My rescuer stepped on the gas and my head flew back against the seat. “Sorry.” He smiled and the light glinted off his teeth, making him look like a wolf. I buckled my seatbelt and held on while Wolf drove the Aston Martin sports car like he was playing an arcade game.

  We zoomed past a “London City Limits” sign and I started looking for my chance to bolt. I knew there’d be a stop light somewhere; I just had to be smart about the part of town I jumped out in. I’d been doing enough kettle-to-fire jumping recently that I actually slowed down and made a conscious choice instead acting on pure instinct.

  I needed to land in a working-class area. Not too poor where crime’s an issue, but not so upscale that I couldn’t blend in with my current wardrobe options. A tall order considering I was plotting all this from a speeding car driven by a big, bad Wolf while being chased by the much creepier Slick. It all just made my head hurt so I concentrated on watching the neighborhoods for my opportunity. And then Wolf spoke, and the edge in his voice almost freaked me out more than his words did. “Wait for my signal before you try to run.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to run?” I sounded scared, even to me.

  “I know you better than you think, Saira.”

  I stared at him, open-mouthed. I suddenly wanted out of that car very badly. My hand clutched the door handle with white knuckles as Wolf steered hard to the left. If I tried to jump now I’d probably be killed. I had no choice but to wait.

  “The Upminster station is just around the corner. Go directly to the train. They might follow you eventually, but if they don’t see you go down, they’ll assume you’re hiding at street level.” Wolf screeched around another turn, completely ignoring traffic signals.

  “How do I know it isn’t a trap?”

  “You don’t. And it isn’t. The red line will take you into London proper but you have to run to make the last train.”

  Wolf suddenly spun into an alley and slammed on the brakes. “Out! Now!”

  I didn’t wait to be told twice. I jumped out of the car and sprinted down the alley toward the cross street at the far end. I had heard him say something just as I slammed the door. The words, “Spiral at Whitechapel” didn’t make sense to me, but at this point, nothing did.

  I saw the entrance to the Tube across the street and I dashed for it. Suddenly the screech of brakes filled my head and my knees buckled as a taxi sent me flying over its hood. It happened in slow motion and I saw the cabbie’s face for one brief, horrifying moment, right before I sailed over the windshield.

  Miraculously, I landed on my feet - wobbly, but still standing. The cabbie reached for his door handle but I was already gone, racing down the stairs to the Tube station. The gates were open but the place looked deserted. I sprinted down to the lower tracks just as a train rumbled in to the platform.

  My legs were shaking and my breath came in ragged gasps. I didn’t think I was hurt, but I’d probably feel like a bag of bruises in the morning. Finally the warning bell bonged and an electronic English accent chimed, “Mind the gap.” After a last quick glance at the empty stairs, I darted into the nearest compartment.

  The London Underground is an eerie place in the middle of the night and by the time the nearly deserted train reached the Whitechapel station, I was feeling pretty exposed. I was very curious about Wolf’s “spiral at Whitechapel” statement so I hopped off the train to see what I could find. I figured things were already so strange in my world; one more thing couldn’t tip the balance either way at this point.

  Boy was I wrong.

  Suddenly there was a distant screech of tires, a car door slamming, and the sound of running feet. Footsteps exploded into the tunnel behind me and I bolted, ducking into a service alcove to hide. I realized I had switched into this kind of cat and mouse mentality without even knowing it. Somehow I had become hunted by unknown predators and every survival skill I’d spent my relatively short lifetime honing was being put to the test.

  The footsteps stopped near the service alcove where I was hiding. Panic rose up in my throat and I shut my eyes, took a deep, silent breath, and firmly told myself to keep it together. I spotted some scratch marks in the tile and tried to deal with my fear by focusing on them, and I barely swallowed my gasp. It was a spiral, leading to another, and another. This was a smaller version of Doran’s spiral, hidden in an alcove at the Whitechapel station in London.

  I quickly looked for a signature and near the bottom of the right spiral found a “D” scratched in. Was this what Wolf meant? But how could he know about the spiral – this design my grandmonster had specifically forbidden me to draw?

  My fingers found the grooves and I began to trace the pattern, which tingled with every sweep of my hand. Then I heard it. A footstep, light like a cat’s. And a soft, menacing voice. “I think we found our little Clocker.”

  A buzzing started in my head. This couldn’t be happening! There’s no way Slick could have fo
und me at Whitechapel station. Not unless Wolf told him to look here. The buzzing sound in my head got louder and my fingers hadn’t stopped tracing the spirals of Doran’s design. There was a dim light coming from the edges and the sound in my head was so loud I finally realized it wasn’t in my head at all. I felt myself starting to freak - about Slick, the light, the noise, and still I couldn’t stop tracing the design. I had absolutely no choice about it. I had to finish and I felt like I was about to scream!

  And then I was screaming. My lungs ached and my throat burned and my brain reeled with a sound my ears couldn’t hear. And suddenly I was falling and my body felt like it was a giant rubber band. Stretched and pulled, with a thrumming sound underneath my silent screams. Bile rose up in my throat and I tasted the sourness of puke.

  And then suddenly, everything stopped.

  It was pitch black and cold and I felt like I’d just stepped off the teacup ride at Disneyland. Or maybe I really did hit my head when I went over the taxi and I had a concussion. But then my vision started to clear and I could make out the flicker of dim lights.

  I was still in the service alcove. My spine stiffened and I held my breath, expecting Slick’s hand to come snaking around the corner to grab me. But nothing happened. And except for the hammering of my heart and the silent screams still ringing in my ears, the station was completely quiet.

  The flickering light had an orange cast and made shadows dance on the tile walls. I had to will my muscles to take a half step out of the service alcove so I could peek around the corner. No one was there. But unless I had blacked out for a few minutes and Slick just left, there was no reason I could think of that he wouldn’t be waiting for me. Not that I understood why he would be waiting for me, but I’d come to accept that I was somehow his prey.