Twenty-Eight #2
“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” Julian said primly. “There’s something so invigorating about cold air from a wind machine,
isn’t there?”
Crispin didn’t reply, but his sallow face took on a rosy hue and his gaze dropped to the ground. Got you, you little rat, Julian thought.
The door opened again, this time more violently. Giselle came storming through, her cheeks pink and her eyes glassy. She stared
at them through a tangle of red hair and Julian realized with alarm that she had been crying.
“What happened?” Klaudia asked.
“Nothing,” Giselle said tremulously. “I—”
Nadiya appeared in the threshold behind her. It was hard to miss the heated glance that passed between her and Giselle.
Klaudia seemed unmoved by any of it. “Did you find anything of note?”
“We walked all the way up the residential street,” Nadiya said, stepping around Giselle and into the great room. “There’s
definitely something strange about the way the houses are numbered. Isn’t there?”
She looked pointedly at Giselle, who stiffened.
“There is,” she replied, swallowing. “Well—they aren’t numbered. They used letters instead.”
“Cyrillic or Latin?” Klaudia asked. When Giselle’s brow furrowed, she added briskly, “Russian or English?”
“Russian,” said Giselle. “At least, I think.”
Klaudia rose and riffled through the files on the table. She found a blank sheet of paper and held it out to Giselle. “Write
it all down. You do remember it, don’t you?”
A sedate gloominess descended over Giselle’s face, replacing the frenzy of her tears. “Yes,” she said quietly, and marched over to Klaudia like a convict to the gallows.
Nadiya remained at a distance, arms folded over her chest. She and Julian watched each other for a moment, her gaze growing
increasingly reproachful.
“Anything to contribute?” she asked. “Or would you need access to your checking account in order to do that?”
Julian had read her file. Her parents had been killed in some horrific, mysterious double murder, and Dr. Iver had taken her
in as his ward. She was a soldier; her file had been sure to emphasize that—as accomplished with a rifle as a handgun and
unmatched in tactical combat. Yet even now, with her glaring daggers at him, Julian found it all difficult to reconcile.
“I’ve been managing fine without my Amex,” he replied coolly. “But who are you without your weapons?”
Nadiya’s eyes flashed. Before she could reply, the voices from the table rose in volume, and they both looked up.
With a pencil, Giselle had sketched out Traumstadt’s residential street, and if he’d had any doubts about her ability, they
were now put to rest. Her drawing was impeccable, with artistic qualities like shading and crosshatching, every detail accounted
for from the arrangement of cobblestones on the road to the vines twisting up the trellises. Momentarily, Julian was too stunned
to speak.
Klaudia was watching her carefully, though she had kept a somewhat awkward degree of distance between them. It was not the
first time Julian had noticed that Klaudia was uncomfortable with anything more than the most cursory physical contact. He
had never even seen her hug Jane.
“Good,” Klaudia said to Giselle. “Now mark down the letters on each house.”
Giselle obeyed silently, scratching her pencil against the page.
“That’s impressive,” Julian said, unable to disguise his awe.
Nadiya kept a distance from the table, too. “Do you think it means anything?”
“Hard to say yet,” Klaudia replied. “But I don’t think Deckard included anything in this simulation without a good reason.”
Very faintly, Nadiya winced. “There is something else. . . .”
Klaudia lifted her gaze.
“When we were walking,” Nadiya went on slowly, “I bumped into one of the holograms. But I didn’t—I didn’t go through him. He was solid.”
“That shouldn’t be possible,” said Klaudia, though her tone was uneasy.
“I know. But it was. Giselle saw it.” She glanced at Giselle, who hesitated a moment before nodding. “I fell down, and he . . .
he just gave me a dirty look and walked off.”
Klaudia’s brows drew together. “Did he have a bowler hat on?”
“I think so,” said Nadiya. “Why?”
“The same man approached us on our way back to the lodge,” Klaudia said. “He was rambling in Russian about rude American tourists. I suspected he might mean you.”
Nadiya grimaced. “Shit.”
“Julian threw a snowball at him.” Klaudia said this as though she were offering comfort.
“Thanks for selling me out,” Julian said. “What happened to cooperation at all costs?”
Nadiya rolled her eyes. Then, quickly, her annoyance faded and she asked, “Did the snowball hit him?”
“It looked like it did,” Julian replied. “I didn’t think it was possible, but I suppose Deckard has tricks that Dr. Iver doesn’t.
Klaudia?”
Klaudia regarded him for a moment, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Then, instead of answering, she said, “Would you go upstairs? I left some of the files in my room. Crispin can help you carry them.”
It was not the most subtle ploy to dismiss Crispin, but Julian didn’t argue. Somewhere along the way it had become very easy
for Klaudia to persuade him.
“All right,” Julian said. He stepped away from the table and jerked his chin at Crispin. “Come on.”
Crispin, to his credit, followed him obediently. They ascended the stairs to the mezzanine. As Julian opened the door to the
girls’ room, he wondered if Klaudia had really left any files there, or if he was expected to invent some other reason to
delay Crispin.
Julian watched him. He had a slight build, his limbs graceful and sinuous, his silver hair silken-looking. The bones of his
face were delicate, lending him an almost feminine appearance. They both stood in the path of the light pouring in from the
window, gridding the carpet in pale gold and making the room seem hazy, slightly surreal.
Crispin closed the door behind them.
“You stare at her,” he said quietly.
His soft, airy voice brushed against Julian’s skin. “Who?”
Crispin didn’t answer, but he cast his gaze toward one of the beds. It was neatly made up, the duvet smoothed and the sheets
tucked under the mattress. The rigid precision could only have been Klaudia’s doing.
“No, I don’t,” Julian said. Even to his own ears it was unconvincing.
Crispin cocked his head. “You don’t seem very happy.”
At that, Julian let out an abrupt laugh. “What tipped you off?”
The surrealness of the situation multiplied as Crispin took a step toward him. One careful pace, and then another, until he
was standing within arm’s reach.
“I can make you feel better,” Crispin said.
Heat shot up Julian’s spine. He took a step backward, and Crispin moved forward to close the distance between them. His eyes were liquid-dark. Julian felt the rising of his pulse alongside a stiffening between his thighs.
He grasped Crispin by the sleeve and thrust him away. Too hard. Crispin stumbled and let out a small, pained gasp. Instantly,
Julian was hammered with regret.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, too bewildered by the events of the moment to articulate anything else. “Just—”
Crispin moved toward him again.
“Don’t you want to?”
“What are you talking about?” Julian demanded hoarsely. But he didn’t push him back this time. In fact, when Crispin reached
out his arm, Julian grasped it and guided it to his belt.
Crispin knelt in front of him. Muffled voices rose from downstairs. Julian pressed his hand against the wall and succumbed.
Back in his room that evening, Julian felt defiled, dirty. He curled onto his bed and pulled the covers over his head, the
scene playing on the insides of his eyelids. His hand burned where he’d palmed Crispin’s hair, the locks of it threaded so
tightly between his fingers that it left red marks in his skin.
But when he worked himself over that night, it wasn’t Crispin he thought about. It was Klaudia.