3. Cinn
three
Cinn
C inn spent the entire aeroplane landing squeezing his eyes shut, trying not to think about the fact that he was still a million miles high, about to crash land in a fiery inferno. The awful pressure tormenting his eardrums didn’t pop until the very end. He clenched his armrest throughout the last few nerve-racking seconds before the jet hit the ground with a bump.
“I’m never flying again,” he ground out.
Another lady, dressed in a smart uniform, appeared and ushered them out of the door and down the boarding stairs. Glancing around, Cinn could only guess they were at another private airfield.
He’d never left England before. Switzerland seemed very similar so far. The same soft hues of pink and orange marking dawn, the sun’s gentle rays stretching across an otherwise blue sky.
“So… this is Switzerland?” he asked Madame Sinclair, who was trailing behind him as he crossed the concrete runway. Two attendants carried their bags: his duffle and her large suitcase.
“Indeed.”
“But you’re not Swiss.”
“No. I’m American, but I’ve lived in Europe for so long, I consider myself a citizen of the world, rather than one nationality.”
Cinn rolled his eyes. “And the other people at the Institute… ”
“Are from all sorts of places. Mostly Europe. Lots from England. I’m going to introduce you to three people I trust. They’re Scottish, American, and French.”
Cinn snorted. Did they walk into a bar?
“They’ll help orient you and get you anything you need.”
Would one of them help him get home? Unlikely. He was on his own, just like he always was.
Cinn had a million more questions, but Madame Sinclair directed him towards the back of a sleek black taxi, while she took the front passenger seat. After she reeled off an address in another language, she poured over a notebook, leaving Cinn to sulk in the back. He slipped on his headphones and plugged them into his Walkman.
For the first half an hour, he attempted to take mental notes on which roads they were travelling, but the few signs he saw were hard to pronounce and even harder to remember.
Large dual carriageways eventually turned into winding roads, which turned into small streets—quaint, detached and terraced homes with neat rows of chimneys and windows.
The car slowed, pulling up onto the pavement. After payment was exchanged, the taxi driver handed Madame Sinclair a set of keys.
“We’ve got you a little maisonette. All to yourself.”
“Huh?”
“These are the keys to your new home. Number five. It’s sparsely furnished, but it should do for now.”
Keys… a house … a home all to himself? It was more than he could have ever hoped to dream of.
Shame it was in Switzerland, and he’d be back in London by tomorrow night.
He reached out to grab the keys, the metal cool to the touch .
“I would come in with you, but I’ve got urgent business to attend to. I imagine you’ll want to relax and sleep properly, anyway. Someone will ring ahead to let you know when you’ll be taken to the Institute.”
“It isn’t here?” he asked, then winced. Obviously, it’s not on this road, Cinn.
“It’s a short drive away. We’re currently in the town of Talwacht, where lots of us live. You’ll like it here.”
Cinn scanned the sleepy row of houses, unsure why she would think that. He climbed out of the car.
“Oh, and Cinn?” Madame Sinclair had rolled down her window. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
The car roared to life and was at the end of the road before Cinn opened his mouth to reply.
He jogged to the front door, desperate to stretch his legs after sitting for so long in the holding cell, aeroplane and car. Once he was inside, he dumped his bag onto a wooden floor and stood still for a moment. The last lingering residual pressure from the plane thumped silence into his ears and he became acutely aware of the sound of his own breath, his own heartbeat. He’d never lived alone, and he didn’t want to, either. It must be incredibly lonely.
Even though he wasn’t staying, Cinn allowed himself a short tour of the homely house. One bedroom, a double bed claiming most of the floor space. A bathroom with an actual bath. When had he last taken a bath? Back when he was living with his first set of foster parents? A small living room, with a sofa and a tiny television. A dining table big enough for two. A modest sized kitchen, with a loaf of bread and a foil-wrapped block of real butter waiting for him. As he wolfed down two slices, he inspected the kitchen further to find ample cupboard space and a decent stove. Shame he wouldn’t be able to use it.
He glanced at the front door. The longer he lingered here, the more tempting it became to stay. To go to this mysterious institute where someone might be able to finally help him, after all these years. Or cut open his brain. Who could say? If he was so special, why had they waited until now to track him down? He didn’t trust them as far as he could spit.
But what if…
No . Tyler needed him, and that sealed the deal. He had to get back to London. Lay low until he figured out if he was still a wanted man or not.
Then a last glance at the plush sofa sent a wave of exhaustion cascading down upon him. He blinked, his eyes remaining shut for a fraction too long. He’d ‘slept’ on the plane, if you could call that drug-induced coma sleep. Before that, he’d only had twenty minutes here and there in the holding cells at the police station. Every inch of his body cried out for rest.
So what would be the harm in a quick nap? Surely he’d be more likely to get home safely if he was fully alert and functional.
He half stumbled towards the sofa, to sink deep within its embrace, letting the darkness of sleep drag him under.
He awoke to far less natural light streaming in through the window. Cinn groaned, pushing his head back into the cushion. It was twilight—he’d slept all day.
Wiping a hand over his face, he peeled himself off the sofa. After one last lingering look around the room, he forced himself towards the front door. His time here was up. He wasn’t meant for here, not meant for a life living in a house with a bath and a fancy stove. And if that crazy woman thought for one second he’d do what he was told, she had another thing coming .
Patting his pockets, Cinn stock-checked. In addition to the clothes and cassettes in his bag, he had one lighter, five mints, and zero money. What currency did they even use in Switzerland, anyway?
Well, you’ve done far more with far less.
He set about rooting through the sparsely furnished apartment for anything worth anything—he’d beg, barter, and steal his way home if he had to.
Cinn briefly contemplated stuffing the wall clock into his bag—it had silver edging and looked vaguely antique—before deciding against it, and leaving empty-handed.
Not a single other soul could be seen on the street, but Cinn crept along the shadows, regardless. He knew exactly what he had to do: find a main road, hitch-hike to the train station, and lock himself in a toilet cubicle at the first sign of a ticket inspector. Simple.
He inserted his Blunted on Reality cassette into his Walkman, thinking the title of the Fugees’s album apt for his situation, put on his headphones, and walked.
And walked.
And walked some more.
God, what he’d do for a cigarette right now.
Or a map. But mostly a cigarette.
After over an hour of walking through silent residential streets, stomach empty and fingers starting to freeze, the first slivers of regret started to form. Surely this escape plan would have been easier in the daylight of tomorrow?
The clouds parted, and he tried to orientate himself using the moon. He spun until he was fairly sure he was facing west, the direction they’d landed in earlier. A thick layer of trees greeted him, a narrow winding path cutting through what appeared to be a grove. He stared into the darkness, supposing he could use his lighter as a torch, if it really came to that .
He tugged his headphones off his head, wrapping everything up neatly to put back in his bag. This was murder territory.
Indeed, the feeling of being watched pounced upon him as soon as he stepped into the dark thicket. Twice he spun around to check if the footsteps behind him were real or a product of paranoia. When the path widened, he picked up his pace, eager to find civilisation, even if it was just another housing estate.
He squinted through the darkness. The path opened out into a small, grassy clearing. And across it… was that an exit he could see between two brick walls, dimly illuminated by two sconces?
Shadows that had previously hugged the wall moved, blocking his view of the gate. Three silent figures—a woman and two taller men.
Clearly, they weren’t hanging out here for fun, but Cinn decided to press on and ignore them completely. He avoided eye contact, ducked his head, and tried to weave around to the left of them.
“Hey,” said one of the men, in a European accent Cinn couldn’t quite place. Tall, with blond hair falling in curated waves around a pale face. An annoyingly symmetrical face. “Where are you going?” He grabbed Cinn’s wrist.
Surprise froze Cinn still.
The auburn-haired girl beside him tutted. “That’s not how you greet someone, Julien,” she said, a subtle Scottish twang to her voice. The second man—a darker, lean-looking fellow with a lion’s mane of corkscrew-tight dark blond curls—laughed.
“None of your business. Unless you want to give me a lift to the train station, let go of my arm.” Cinn wrenched his limb free of the vice-like grip, rubbing it to soothe the bruise.
“You’re not allowed to leave,” the guy stated, in a manner that seemed so matter-of-fact, so absolutely true, Cinn laughed. The asshole was starting to remind him of a spoiled prince, with his pretty face and entitled attitude .
“Watch me.”
“I mean it,” the guy continued. Was that a trace of panic in his voice? Of fear? “You’re under strict instructions to stay within the boundary of this town. Take one more step, and we’ll have to restrain you by force.” He flashed Cinn a predatory smile.
Who were these people? Madame Sinclair’s guard dogs? Cinn almost stopped then, almost gave up. Then he heard the words clear as day, as if Tyler was right there, whispering in his ear: Don’t give them an inch, Cinn.
He was going to wipe the smile off of that infuriatingly perfect face if it was the last thing he did.
Cinn went to kick the man’s right knee, but he easily slid to the side. Changing tactics, Cinn lunged for the guy’s coat, planning to hold the cuff while he punched him in the face. To Cinn’s immense displeasure, his opponent had the audacity to laugh as he jumped back to dodge Cinn’s attack, then hooked his leg around Cinn’s ankle, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Damn.
The pretty boy could fight.
Cinn groaned, then blinked up at branches stretching across the night sky, a lattice of dark criss-crossing the stars. Something was painfully digging into his back.
Off to the side, the girl made a soft squeaking sound—of protest?—but there was no time to look that way. His attacker was aiming another foot at the soft part of his stomach.
Get up.
With energy he didn’t truly have, Cinn forced himself to leap up and throw himself at him, figuring a surprise attack was the only weapon available. He dove at the guy, ramming into his side to grab a fistful of his thick blond hair. Cinn pulled at it, hard, snapping his head backwards—perhaps he could make himself perfectly clear if only the dickhead would listen for a moment.
Unbelievably, the fucker smiled , revealing two perfectly symmetrical dimples. “Oh darling, how did you know I was into that?”
Cinn released him, shoved him with all the force he could muster, and followed it up with a punch that ended up connecting with his collarbone.
Before he could do anything else, a fist flew towards his face, hitting him square in the jaw. Cinn stumbled left, stunned. A gunshot-like ringing burst through his eardrums. Reaching new levels of fury, he launched himself at the man again, aimless this time, only intending to knock him to the ground.
Yet his opponent didn’t fall as expected—beneath the man’s slender frame was a surprising amount of strength.
“Just listen for one second,” he hissed, fisting Cinn’s shirt.
“Fuck you.” Cinn promptly spat in his face. He’d learnt that particular trick on his very first day in prison.
His attacker was horrified—disturbed even, going by his expression—and released Cinn to wipe the saliva off his cheek with the sleeve of his black trench coat.
Cinn readied his right hook, but before could he could enact what would surely be the final blow, strong arms wound their way around his neck. While he’d been so focused on the blond demon, his mate had crept behind him, got him in a headlock. Perfect .
“Get off me, you prick,” Cinn growled, reaching for the switchblade he always kept in the left pocket of his jeans—to find it missing, long since confiscated by the police.
“Oh, stop it, the three of you!” snapped the woman. “Does everything need to descend into violence?” Closing the space between them, she leant forward, uncurling a gloved palm to reveal white powder .
Upon seeing it, the two men leapt away, one to each side, but for Cinn it was too late—one gigantic breath, and the woman had blown the mass of ultrafine crystallised particles directly into his face.
Cinn coughed, spluttered, spat. The substance had entered his mouth, throat, nose, eyes.
Years of taking absolutely nothing, and now drugged twice in twenty-fours hours.
“I’m guessing this isn’t the fun sort of powder?” Cinn wheezed, feeling his stomach start to clench, and his muscles begin to seize. “What t-th…” His tongue, fat and heavy in his slack jaw, refused to move any further.
“It’s Frostbite,” the demon princeling said. “Don’t bother fighting it,” he added with a smirk Cinn itched to punch off his face. “It’ll only make it worse.”
Pure fear gripped Cinn. Rarely before had he felt as powerless as he did standing there, rooted to the spot, only able to blink. A rush of adrenaline coursed through him as his pulse spiked. With desperation, he attempted to force words out—he needed to warn them what might happen if they continued to put him under stress—but he only produced a strangled half cry.
The girl sighed and moved towards Cinn. Her alabaster skin revealed a sea of light freckles. “It was just to immobilise you until you calm down. Here, I’m going to give you a fifth of the antidote dose. It should be enough to let you talk, and to stop you shitting yourself.”
The two others snickered. Cinn, paralysed and powerless, could only watch as she placed a tiny chunk of a red pellet on his tongue. It fizzed as it dissolved.
She used her gloved hand to brush the remnants of the powder from his face onto the ground.
Cinn’s tongue came back to life somewhat, allowing him to spit out, “Naff off! ”
The girl stepped back.
Stretching out his jaw, he continued, “What the fuck is my leaving to you lot, anyway? You working for that Sinclair woman? Who are you?”
“Introductions were actually on the agenda, but you derailed it,” the blond drawled, rubbing at his cheek as if Cinn’s germs might still remain there.
The girl rolled her eyes with an exasperated shake of her head. “Julien, you’re the one that took this right off the tracks. All you had to do was say ‘hello, nice to meet you’, but no, instead you jump straight to threats. No wonder you spooked him.”
The other bloke, crazy-curls dude, laughed. “You’re acting surprised, Darcy.” Was that an American accent Cinn detected? These three were certainly an eclectic mix.
She spun to face the man. “And thanks so much for your support, Elliot. I thought we both agreed that not attacking the person who we’re supposed to be responsible for, supposed to be asking for help from, was the more sensible idea.”
“Hey, you only told me not to channel in front of him, not to not attack him.”
“It was implied!”
Elliot shrugged. “The back and forth was getting old.”
Cinn flicked his eyes between the odd trio, unable to fully move his head still. Just what had he stumbled into? And what did they need his help with?
The girl—Darcy—smiled at him, the way you might smile at a toddler you wanted to placate. “How about this? I give you the rest of the antidote, and then we all go back to mine for a nice mug of tea.” Her wide green eyes pierced him with her gaze.
After a moment’s thought, Cinn eventually made a noise of assent. It was late now, and he barely knew where he was. Once he’d convinced the group he was going to be of no use to them whatsoever, perhaps he could use them somehow. Darcy wore a sparkling jewelled necklace over her expensive-looking jumper—maybe there would be more shiny things to swipe on his way out.