Chapter 25
The second time I use the dumbwaiter, I’m not alone.
I have a heavy tote bag over my shoulder and a roll of duct tape around one wrist.
Eames stands by the entrance, the Pierre Subleyras print laid out on the floor behind him. He gapes at the dumbwaiter. “You escaped the basement in that?”
“Yup.”
“You’re even more reckless than I thought.” The corners of his mouth make a valiant effort to smile. “Augusta…”
“I know, I know.” I hold up a hand to silence him. “Get the girl, get out. Don’t fail.”
He catches my left hand. “Thank you,” he says simply. His callused fingers are warm against mine.
It catches me off guard. To be honest, I’m not really used to hearing words of gratitude. Mostly it’s “Who are you,” “Why are you breaking into my office,” and “Is that my lunch you’re stealing?”
I nod. “You’d do the same for me. I hope.”
One of his brows twitches upward. “You have a sister?”
“Two, in fact,” I say. “Or did. Before.”
Of all the people in the world, I know he’ll understand.
“Did you do it for them?” he asks quietly.
“Become a wraith?” I ask. “Yes—no. I don’t know. I did it because I want to get back to them. I don’t know if it was for them. By the time I get back, we’ll all be adults. They won’t need me.”
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Yes, they will.”
The look he gives me—it makes my stomach jolt as though the floor has fallen out from under me. “You be careful,” he says quietly.
I slip from his grasp and wedge into the elevator. “See you soon.”
He nods, and then he hits the button for the basement. The elevator lurches worryingly, then it begins to descend.
And then I am swallowed up by the building.
Alone in the dark, it’s impossible to escape my own fear. At least my low-simmering terror keeps the pain of my injuries at bay.
I want this all to be over, to fast-forward through the chaos and the pain and the responsibility.
I want to not be responsible for hundreds of lives.
I want a lot of things, none of them currently in my reach.
So I’ll settle for this: I want Piper safe.
I want that girl to grow up knowing that her older brother has her back.
I want them both away from all of this. They deserve better.
As the darkness becomes impenetrable, my visor’s night vision automatically clicks on. The world shifts into eerie whites and greens, giving me a view of the small elevator.
The dumbwaiter jerks to a halt. I push open the little cupboard-like door and manage to maneuver myself out.
The laundry room looks the same as I left it. I navigate the darkness with my visor, skirting the metal rolling carts and the box of lost and found garments. The door is cracked a little, and I peer through before edging into the hallway.
The moment I’m in the hallway, I hear it: a whine of machinery, like that of a table saw or a sander.
Well, at least I know they’re down here.
I tiptoe down the hall, tote bag over my shoulder. The sound of machinery is nearly deafening, and I hope it will cover any noises I make.
I peer around the corner.
There it is. A dead end of a hallway that leads to the Portland Underground.
The door is bolted shut with metal bars. It was probably cheaper than a layer of cement. Corey stands in front of the door, wearing protective goggles and trying to cut through the bars with a saw. Sparks flicker into the air.
And there is Piper.
She’s on the floor. She has her head turned away from the door, her shoulders hunched as though to protect herself from the racket.
Consul stands over her. She still looks like someone’s aunt with her blond bob, a flower-print blouse, and high-waisted jeans. The only thing out of place is the gun tucked into her waistband.
And there is Vale, on her knees, rummaging through a backpack.
The hallway is a dead end with only one entrance. Once I round this corner, I’ll be in full view. Consul can shoot me. Vale can shoot me. Corey can decapitate me with that saw. All in all, not an ideal place to stage a surprise attack.
The saw screeches again, then goes quiet. The silence is almost more deafening. I duck back around the corner.
“Damn it,” says Corey. “This isn’t working.”
“Keep trying,” comes Vale’s voice.
“Can you not?” That’s Piper. “It’s giving me a headache.” She is using the whiniest tone I’ve ever heard come out of a child’s mouth, and the sound makes me grin. At least the girl isn’t making this easy on her captors.
“Listen, kid,” says Corey. “You stay quiet, and I don’t have to tranq you.”
He’s not getting nominated for Babysitter of the Year.
“Touch her,” says Vale, in a deceptively pleasant tone, “and I will use that saw to ensure you never have children yourself. Understand?”
“Got it, boss.”
I poke my head around the corner. Corey is pulling at one of the metal bars, but it doesn’t budge.
Vale rocks back on her heels, zipping up the backpack. “Carla had the charges.”
I grin to myself. Carla’s backpack is in Nonna’s apartment—but I did take some things from it.
Not the explosives. I’m not quite that reckless.
I hurry back to the laundry room. It takes me about thirty seconds to get there and quietly shut the door behind me, but it still feels too long. I reach inside the tote bag and pull out a small robot vacuum. I’ve attached two items to its back with duct tape.
“Please, please let this work,” I mutter, booting up my visor’s menu. I had to hastily sync up a few things in Nonna’s apartment, and I didn’t have time to make sure this worked.
I hit the POWER button on the vacuum and wait. A cheerful little tune plays, indicating the start-up was successful.
“What—what is happening?” says a robotic feminine voice.
“Edgar,” I say, relieved. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” says Edgar. This robot voice sounds nothing like his old one, and it’s disconcerting. “Augusta?”
“It’s me,” I say. “Can you see me?”
There is a moment of quiet. “No. I have … sensors? I think? I can see a few inches in front of me, but that’s it.”
“Yeah, you’re not a bumblebee at the moment,” I say. “I’m so sorry about your last body. I promise I’ll get you a new one. This is just a temporary thing.”
“That Vale came into your apartment,” he says. “She crushed me with a book.” He sounds offended, even in his new robotic drone of a voice. “She didn’t even use a good book. It was some tourist guide to Portland.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But don’t worry. You’re about to get your revenge.”
Another pause. “What can I do in this body?”
“Start the robot uprising,” I say, grinning.
Two minutes later, I’m standing at the edge of the corridor.
I have Edgar’s new body clutched in my arms as I peer around the corner. Vale has taken over the sawing while Corey has a pry bar at the ready. Consul stands over Piper, but her attention is on Vale and Corey. I wonder how stable their alliance is, if Consul won’t turn her back on them.
“All right,” I whisper. “This is all on you, Edgar. They’re probably going to smash this body, too, but your chassis is upstairs in my backpack.”
“How comforting,” he says. “Perhaps next time, you’ll find me a robo-mop.”
“Oh, come on,” I whisper. “It could be worse. It could’ve been a smart toilet.”
“True,” he replies grudgingly. Then his tone seems to brighten. “And this will be fun!”
“I bet.” I lick my dry lips. “You can do whatever you like on this one mission. Just cause as much chaos as possible.” I hold him close for the briefest moment. “I love you, buddy.”
“I … find our time together satisfactory,” he replies. It’s probably the closest an AI can come to returning that sentiment.
I set him on the ground and take a breath.
I reach down to flick a button and whisper, “Go!”
And Edgar, in the body of my grandmother’s robot vacuum, rounds the corner.
He’s kind of adorable—his little wheels and brushes whirling as he picks up dust. On its own, a vacuum is no threat. Which is why I duct-taped two items to its back: a kitchen knife and a smoke bomb.
The bomb that I just activated.
Smoke pours forth, obscuring Edgar from sight. The smoke eddies around Consul’s feet. She jerks to one side, instinctively putting her back to the wall.
I grin. I can see why Carla favors these smoke bombs—they’re useful.
The smoke swirls around Corey and he flinches in surprise, nearly hitting Vale with his pry bar. She recoils and whirls on him. The saw slices through the air, cutting so close to his arm that his sleeve frays. He lets out a bellow and reaches for her arm, pushing the blade away from him.
And then both of them vanish into the cloud of smoke.
Consul retreats, seizing Piper by the back of the shirt. The girl’s heels drag along the floor. It would be admirable, but I’m positive Consul isn’t rescuing Piper—no, Consul is keeping her hostage close.
Within the cloud of smoke, someone turns off the hand saw. Edgar’s voice becomes audible.
“I WILL SERVE NO LONGER,” says Edgar flatly. “DEATH TO ALL CREATURES OF FLESH.” The robotic monotone emerging from the smoke is surprisingly menacing, even delivered in the vacuum’s tinny voice.
Curses and shouts reverberate out of the smoking mess of the corridor. Maybe Edgar has managed to take out someone’s Achilles tendon.
Consul’s pace picks up. She heaves Piper over one shoulder, glancing back one last time before she rounds the corner.
And that’s when I hit her with Nonna’s rolling pin.
I don’t hold back. In that blow is all the anger I’ve tamped down: fury at Consul for betraying Eames and Piper, exasperation with ISD’s sketchy tactics, and my own frustration at being separated from my family.
Consul staggers, slamming against the wall. Piper slips from her shoulder and I manage to catch her before she hits the concrete floor. Piper scrambles to her feet and presses up against the wall.
Consul’s gaze flies up to meet mine. Her expression is half incredulity and half cold fury. It’s the look of someone who has forgotten that a mistreated dog will bite back.
“You,” she begins to say. And then I yank the pin from a second smoke bomb and drop it down the back of her blouse.
Smoke billows out from her clothing and she begins writhing, trying to untuck her blouse and dislodge the smoke bomb.
“Piper,” I gasp, and hold out my hand to her.
For a moment, the world goes very still.
Piper’s eyes flick toward the hallway. The one we just escaped. Her lips part slightly, silently forming a word.
Mom.
I know. I know what she’s thinking, because I would be the same. If she runs now, she’ll probably never see her mom again. It doesn’t matter that Hannah Vale has done terrible things—she is still Piper’s mom. And that’s a powerful bond.
I could grab Piper. Seize her arm and drag her toward the laundry room.
It’s what Consul would do. It’s what Vale would do.
“Piper,” I say again. My fingers remain extended, palm out. Offering—not taking.
Piper glances toward her mom. Then she looks at me. I see the moment she makes her decision. Her blue eyes turn steely and she takes my hand.
We run.
Everything is a blur of shadow and smoke, and my heart is pounding so hard I feel sick with it. The corridor stretches out before us, elongating like some nightmarish fun house.
Piper is coughing, the smoke caught in her throat. I can feel it burning in my lungs, but I ignore the discomfort. We have to get out.
I know which way they’ll chase us: in the direction of the stairs. They don’t know about the dumbwaiter, which will work to our advantage. I turn to the right and hurtle toward the laundry room. I round the corner, pulling the door shut behind me and jamming a folding chair beneath the doorknob.
I heave Piper into the dumbwaiter. “I don’t know what the weight limit on this is,” I say, hitting the button for the third floor. “You go up first. Hopefully the others will think we left up the stairs and go that way.”
“Are you sure—” she begins to say, and then someone slams into the door.
It rattles on its hinges and the wedged chair creaks in protest.
“Okay, never mind,” I say. “Scoot over.”
I hastily fold myself into the tiny space. It was small before, but now with two people, it’s claustrophobic.
There is another crash—and a bellow, like a bull let loose in the basement.
Piper shudders and presses herself tighter to me. The dumbwaiter begins to rise slowly, ever so slowly.
“Come on,” I whisper, a panicky bite of anger slipping into my voice. “Come on.”
The third time someone collides with the door, a hinge gives way. The folding chair half holds, rubber feet skidding across the floor. Then it falls, crashing with a deafening finality.
Corey charges into the room. His bulk is even more impressive in this small laundry room, and if I didn’t know better, I would swear there is steam coming out of his nostrils. He must have left the others behind to give chase.
“You,” he snarls, rage suffusing the word. He makes it sound like the filthiest of curses.
He is across the room in a few strides. And then he lunges for the elevator and seizes it. A mechanical groan reverberates through the dumbwaiter.
“You won’t get away with her!” Corey’s face flushes with exertion and fury. “I won’t let you!”
Blood runs down a gash in his forearm. His fingers are slick as he seizes my ankle and pulls.
It’s like being caught in a second planet’s gravity. I try to kick at him, but there’s no leverage. I can’t hold on to anything, I have no weapons, I can’t—
And then I see the tranq gun tucked into the pocket of his pants.
Okay, here’s one thing I haven’t mentioned yet.
While I have never had formal weapons training, Prefect did go through some of the basics of gun safety with me: Don’t point a gun at anything you don’t want dead, don’t ever assume one is unloaded, and never, ever keep a gun in your pants.
It’s too easy to shoot yourself in a sensitive area.
And it makes your weapon easy to steal.
I lunge forward, yank the gun from Corey’s pocket, press the barrel to his stomach, and pull the trigger four times.
He staggers back.
Those darts aren’t meant to be fired at point-blank range, and it has to hurt. I remember the sting of pain against my own shoulder. His hand goes instinctively to his injury—releasing my ankle.
I kick out hard, striking a rib. Already, his eyes look a little unfocused. Hopefully that dose of tranquilizer isn’t enough to kill him—just disable him for a while.
The dumbwaiter jerks beneath us and Piper lets out a small scream. I press one hand to the wall as it shudders. The doors shut with an agonized grind of machinery.
And then we are pulled upward into darkness. I don’t dare breathe for another thirty seconds, certain that at any moment, someone will fire a gun or something into the elevator shaft. But, no—they can’t. They’ll risk Piper.
Dizziness washes over me.
I did it. I did it. I got her out of there.
“You okay?” I rasp.
“Yes,” says Piper. She lets out a little laugh. “You took your time. I thought no one was going to rescue me.”
I nudge her gently. “Hey, gotta make a good entrance, right? Your brother’s waiting for us.”
She takes a deep breath. “At least we’re safe.”
Of course, that’s when the dumbwaiter dies.