Chapter Nine #2
I don’t have to know Catalan to understand the outrage of people outside the gate.
The sound of people running on the other side of the cloister—the authorities, likely—spurs me to move faster.
The only thing worse than getting deleted would be getting arrested in Spain and having to call Christine to bail me out.
I haven’t committed the sin of destroying these gorgeous festival flowers for that level of humiliation.
I push up and reach over the last level of the fountain, on my tiptoes, and make a grab for the egg.
The egg is elusive because it’s in water, and it takes three heart-stuttering tries for me to wrap my fingers around it. But I’ve got it; it’s in my hand.
The shouting is louder now, and the crowd has definitely thickened.
ProtoDark must be powerful indeed to get this puzzle placed here, which is a worrying thought.
No matter their reach, I’m afraid of being caught and forced to hand the egg over—and whatever’s in it—so I crush it in my hand, the shell shards slicing into my palm.
The outrage is almost palpable from the spectators.
The egg is empty but for a tightly folded piece of paper.
It flutters out of my hand, and I almost lose it to the water, to the flowers, but I manage to catch it.
My heart is pounding like it’s going to fly through my chest.
It’s the official second puzzle. A bolt of elation flies through me that I solved the puzzle correctly to get us here; that this horrible flower crushing isn’t all for nothing.
I want to stop and unfold it, but now is definitely not the time.
I stuff the paper into my bra and clamber down, slipping on flowers and making the mess even worse.
Blooms fall around me, each one causing my heart to sink further, and my sodden jeans make me feel lumbering and clumsy.
“Zoe,” Dane yells, his tone full of warning.
I jump down from the base of the fountain, my knee scraping more flowers off.
There’s a scuffle at the gate, and I don’t know how I’m going to get out—I’m cornered in here; we didn’t think this exit through.
Dane reaches out a hand, keeping what looks like a surging crowd at bay, and yells something in Catalan, then repeats it.
He yanks me, hard, across the now-crowded passage, filled with lookie-loos who have come to witness the commotion.
I look back at the fountain, at the crushed flowers, and see a priest accompanied by police pushing their way through the crowd.
Dane tugs me out of the fountain’s line of sight through the heavy iron doors he marked earlier, and then we are outside, in a small alley to the side of the cathedral, its crumbling stone walls casting shadows on the cobbles.
We’ve barely taken a step when the door bursts open behind us.
I don’t look back as Dane pulls me with him, out of the alley and into a busy pedestrian street with gorgeous Gothic details like covered bridges high above us connecting the cramped buildings, perfect little Barri Gòtic details that there is no chance of enjoying right now.
Dane doesn’t turn to look back. “Hurry!”
Fingers grab my shoulder. Someone’s caught up to us, and I’m yanked back, but so is Dane because I’m holding his hand. We stumble, a horrible tumble of limbs and body, slamming into the side of a building. Rough brick scrapes across my shoulder.
“The paper, give it to me,” a man sneers at me with accented English and rank breath.
I recoil as Dane’s arm shoots out in front of me.
He plants his fist into the man’s face. The man’s head snaps back, but he doesn’t let go, and then something hard and definitely lethal is rammed into my side. I gasp.
“I have a gun pointed at her,” the man spits.
He’s recovered from Dane’s punch admirably, although I think his nose is broken: It’s at an angle that’s all wrong, and thick rivulets of blood drip down his face.
I can’t take in the reality of this man and his gun and Dane, looking like wrath incarnate.
“The puzzle,” the man snaps.
I suspect Dane is capable of taking out this man, but we’re stuck in a stalemate. Ignoring the fear coursing through me, I dig the piece of paper out of my pants pocket and hand it over to the man.
“Here,” I say. “Take it.”
The man glances at it, snatches it, and takes off running.
“Zoe,” Dane says, eyes wide and tone aghast. “You didn’t.”
“Of course not,” I say, pulling him in the opposite direction. “It was a fake. Let’s go.”
Dane grabs my hand, and we’re running so fast that I’m stumbling rather than running.
For a moment I might be flying despite my wet jeans and squelching shoes.
We careen through the narrow streets. When we finally stop I am gasping for air and there’s a painful, burning stitch in my side.
We’re clear over on La Rambla now, the huge pedestrian boulevard and tourist draw that stretches down to Port Vell and the sea.
There are thick crowds here, which is helpful.
We slow to a stop on the median to catch our breaths.
Finally, he looks at me. “I can’t believe you gave him a fake. That’s what you were scribbling on our way to the cathedral?”
“Yes. How’s your hand?” I ask. His knuckles are bloody, but I don’t know if it’s his blood or the man’s. I take his hand and hold it up to examine; some of the skin has split.
“Don’t take out the puzzle. Keep it safe,” he says.
“It’s in my bra,” I say, annoyed with myself that I’ve clearly overstepped by looking at his hand, and with him for telling me something so basic as to keep the puzzle hidden.
His eyes flit to my chest and then away, so fast I almost don’t see it. “It’s secure?”
“I said it is.”
He moves away to pace along the median, and I’m glad for the space.
He needs to calm down from that run, from that altercation.
I need a moment to ground myself too, to reassure myself I got the egg and that, amazingly, the fake puzzle fooled that man and he didn’t shoot me.
I take a few deep breaths. Dane seems to regain his composure the same time I do, because he comes back to where I stand.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“Let’s get somewhere else, somewhere not out in the open. Then we can take a look at the puzzle.”
I look at his swollen mess of a hand. “And get ice for your hand.”
He doesn’t look at his hand. “You’re okay?”
I cringe at the memory of crushing those flowers. Destroying the egg. “I hate that I ruined the display.”
His eyes slide to mine before looking away to scan the street. “We’re probably going to have to do other things that don’t feel good or moral for this challenge.”
I shake my head. The fountain was bad, but no one got hurt. “How bad? Murder-level bad?”
He gives me a half smile. “Hopefully a little public destruction is the worst of it.”
“What did ProtoDark make you do in past challenges?”
He looks around and says, “Not here.”
We cross and walk around groups of tourists and vendors with huge spinning racks of souvenirs spreading onto the sidewalk—magnets, postcards, sunglasses.
I slow to look at some cheap sandals hanging from a stall. Dane turns back and pulls me along, up La Rambla. “We’ll get you new shoes farther up.”
“People had their phones out, filming me, while I was on that fountain,” I say.
“I know.” He guides us toward a giant market entrance. “It’s not ideal. We’ll have to see how that plays out. But we’ve got the second puzzle, and that’s what matters.” He gives me a sly look. “What did you write for the fake one?”
I used a regular pigpen cipher. “It decodes to Fooled you.”
Dane snorts. “I’m impressed that you thought to do that, while walking, no less.”
I can’t help smiling. He takes my arm, holding me by the crook of my elbow as we cross the street. The discomfort of the last hour eases. We walk up the street, approaching the huge iron entrance of La Boqueria, the iconic public market. We’re okay. We got out. We are going to do this.
That’s when my phone rings. I fish it out of my pocket and look at the screen.
It’s Eric.