Ten Thousand Skies Above You (19 page)

DESPITE MY EXHAUSTION, I LIE AWAKE FOR WHAT SEEMS TO
be a long time.

Paul thinks I'm pathetic. Ridiculous. Naive, and proud, and a hundred other things I never wanted to be.

Maybe that seems like a stupid thing to worry about, compared to the fact that I'm being held captive by armed mobsters. But I was relying on my knowledge of Paul to protect me here, and now it feels like that shield is gone.

He saw more in me after
one day
than I saw in him after months of his practically living at our house. Of course I already knew Paul was perceptive. One of the reasons I fell for my Paul was because he saw through all my defenses. Somehow he saw the real me, and he loved what he saw.

This Paul looks at me and sees weakness. Immaturity. Even danger.

Okay, I did set out to kill you once, but I had a good reason.
Doubt he wants to hear that.

Whatever he's seen, he doesn't like it.

Maybe it was that splinter of my Paul inside him that knew so much. But that would be even worse. Does my Paul think all those things too? He can't. Otherwise he couldn't love me.

I imagine his soul within this Paul's. If they influence each other, it won't only be my Paul affecting him. Maybe this Paul's contempt will carry over. Maybe my Paul will begin to think of me as insecure and arrogant. Maybe he'll never see me the same way.

Even if I can put the three parts of Paul's soul together again, he might never be the same.

Then I hear something from above—a low, heavy thud. Another. Like thunder, but not—

I jump as I hear loud popping, over and over, super fast. My first thought is of one of those little bundles of fireworks—but I know better. It's gunfire.

Oh God, oh god ohgodohgod.
What's happening?

Forget what Paul said about the cot. I kick at one of the legs, and it collapses. If I can pry one of the poles free, that would at least be a weapon. Even with my hands tied, I can probably manage that.

The door swings open. The sound of gunfire goes from loud to deafening. I push myself into the corner, like that's going to do any good. Paul comes downstairs toward me.

“Come on!” he shouts, grabbing my wrist. His grip is too tight, and the raw stripes on my skin beneath the zip tie
sting. It doesn't matter. I follow him, stumbling up the stairs.

I scream over the sound, “What's happening?”

“You shouldn't be here!”

Not an answer. But I agree with him.

None of the shooters are visible in the dark concrete corridor, but distant sparks suggest ricochets. The gunfire echoes so that the sound doubles on itself, disorienting me.

Paul pulls me forward, and we turn a corner—another—and now the fight seems farther away. The roar of guns has muted, only slightly, but enough that my ears stop ringing. Paul opens a door to reveal a large closet. “Get in.”

“What?”

“Get in!” he shouts. “You're safer here.”

“How?”

Paul's hand fists in my sweater. “My father would kill you rather than let you be taken. Do you understand?”

I wish I didn't.

Terrified as I am, I try to use this moment. “Please. You have to untie my hands. What if someone else comes for me?” I hold up my bound wrists. “
Please
.”

He makes his decision in an instant; the butterfly knife seems to appear in his hand by magic. I jump a little, but then hold still so he can cut through the plastic. He does this deftly, in one smooth practiced motion.

All I have to do is grab him, grab the Firebird, and I can get the next sliver of Paul's soul back again—

But immediately Paul shoves me into the closet so hard I hit the back wall. It's not cruelty; this is his idea of keeping
me safe. “Don't move until I come back for you. Do you understand? You must not move.” Then he slams the door shut and turns the lock, sealing me in total darkness.

I miss my cell already.

Paul will come back for me. I'll have another chance.
I take deep breaths and try to tell myself things are looking up, between bursts of distant gunfire.

At least Paul brought me to a safer place. Protected me
.
The man I love is in there after all, just buried deep.

My father would kill you rather than let you be taken
, he said. Taken by who? A rival gang? The police?

Impossible to guess what's going on. I have no way to know until Paul comes back for me. And what if it's not Paul who opens the door?

I don't want to be here. Maybe I don't have to be here.

Even now, I don't want to escape this place before I've had a chance to rescue that splinter of my Paul's soul. Still, I could contact him again and ask to meet like actual normal human beings—hire a detective to locate him—

I can find another way.

Paul, I love you, but I'm getting myself out of this.

Lying down, back on the floor, I kick up at the doorknob with both feet, hard. The wood starts to splinter; this closet wasn't meant for anything but brooms. Two more kicks, and the door wobbles open.

I jump to my feet and start running away from the noise. Hopefully the roar of the guns kept anyone from hearing me break out. Even though my knees buckle under me, and I'm
breathing so hard the world goes dark and sparkly around the edges, I push myself forward; there are no second chances, not with this.

The corridors bend, bend again, like the walls of a maze. This place is huge, maybe many buildings' basements connected into one compound. But that's good. If so, there are many ways out, and I only have to find one.

By the time I almost can't hear the gun battle behind me, I take another turn and see the most beautiful sight: light filtering in from a grid above. The rusty metal ladder bolted to the wall suggests this is for utility service. Which means
that grid comes off.

The ladder is so rusty that it crumbles slightly beneath my hands and feet. When I get to the top, I press both hands against the grid—and it doesn't move.

The metal presses into my palms, carving cross-hatches into my flesh, but I give it all my strength anyway. Still it won't budge.

Breathing hard, trembling, I try to think of what to do next. One, go down the ladder and find another exit. Two, go down the ladder, but to search for something to use to pry the grid open.

Just as I'm about to descend, though, a shadow falls over the grid. I look up to see a backlit figure—

—who then crouches down so I can see his face. I shout, “
Theo!
”

“Marguerite!” He drops to his knees. “Thank God. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” I reach through the grid with my fingers, which he takes for just a moment. “What are you doing here?”

“Firebird locator function, remember? I tracked your signal all the way out here to Brighton Beach. Once I was sure you were here—I tried to get to you myself, but I couldn't—so I phoned in an anonymous tip to the cops about your location.”

Of course! I ought to have thought of that. “You're incredible.”

“That's what all the girls say.” His smile has the weariness of relief. Along one cheekbone I see a deep bruise beneath scraped skin, no doubt from when he was thrown to the ground during my kidnapping. “Did they hurt you?”

“No. I'm okay. I just need some help with this grate.”

“Hang on.”

Theo vanishes for a moment, and I hear the sounds of someone rummaging through trash. This must be a back alley; it's dark outside, nighttime, so the light I see must come from a streetlamp. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself. Almost home free, now.

Then all I have to do is figure out how to encounter the mobster Paul Markov again—not exactly easy—but no. That's not all I have to do in this dimension. “We still have to ruin the Firebird data.”

“Done and done. Your parents were distracted, so I took my chance. Put the virus on all their computers already, made it look like Ukrainian hackers.”

I'm sure he's telling the truth, but not the whole truth.
Theo betrayed my parents so I wouldn't have to; he spared me that pain, even though he loves them nearly as much. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

“Just call me your sin-eater.” Theo comes back with a hubcap or something else round and metal; whatever it is, he's able to wedge it beneath the metal edge of the grid. “Who were those guys?”

I don't know how to even begin telling Theo about Paul in this dimension. “You don't want to know.”

“Hang on—” With a grunt, Theo shoves harder against the grid, and the corner pops up with a clang. I push it aside and climb up, into freedom, into Theo's arms.

He sighs heavily, and I lean against his chest. After this long, terrifying day, it feels so good to be held. I clutch his jacket, pulling him even closer. I only want to stay here, safe and sound, forever.

But I'm not safe yet. “Come on. Let's go.”

Theo grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. I tell myself,
Just a few minutes now. Get this Marguerite to safety and rest. Then you can figure out your next move.

Just as we're about to dash toward the street, one of the doors to the alley swings open, hard, metal slamming against brick. We startle, and Theo gasps when he sees Paul running out.

Maybe it's because Paul has a gun in his hand.

Paul stops short, staring at us. “I told you to stay put,” he says to me, before looking at Theo. “Where are you taking her?”

“Marguerite's okay. I've got her, she's all right.” Theo's relieved. He assumes Paul could only be here to help, maybe even that he's with the police. Which is why he steps forward, one hand up. “It's all good.”

“Why do you act like I know you?” Paul demands. Something wild lurks within his voice, his eyes; he's had to pretend to be brave here, to be tough, which means he has no way to deal with fear. His grip on his firearm is tight. “Why do both of you do that?”

Theo grins. “Can't help it, pal.”

He steps away from us, lowering his weapon, no doubt about to run. Even in my terror, I know I will never see this Paul again.

If I think, I won't act. So I hurl myself at him. He's too surprised to raise the weapon right away, which gives me my chance to make contact.

Even as we slam into the brick wall, even as I look down at the gun in his hand, I manage to grab Paul's Firebird and press it against his chest—against the dove—and there it is, that tiny warm vibration that means I've rescued the next part of his soul.

Paul curses in pain and shoves me back so hard I fall to the ground. Theo runs toward us, yelling, “What are you—”

What happens next is so fast that everything blurs together.

The sounds all seem to roar at once: swearing, screaming, gunfire. The few concrete images I see have no order, no sense, not even motion, as if they were a series of photographs flung in front of me.

Paul, swinging his gun toward us.

Theo throwing his arms wide to try to defend me.

Flashes of fire at the muzzle of Paul's gun.

Blood and bone spraying outward.

Theo falling.

My own hands reaching for Theo as I sink down beside him.

And one terrible moment when my eyes meet Paul's, and I see no regret. No remorse.

Paul says, “You don't know me.” And then he runs away, disappearing into the dark.

The first thing I think is stupid, the product of shock:
This is real. It's all real.

Then I hear Theo groan, and I pull myself together.

“Are you okay?” I roll Theo over, knowing he's not. At first I'm relieved, because he's conscious and his shirt is only flecked with blood. Then I see his legs. “Oh, my God.”

“Jesus.” Theo can hardly get the word out; he's trying not to cry, or scream.

From the thighs down his legs look like something from a butcher shop: exposed, broken bone, and flesh torn into ribbons. Shards of white jutting from the gory mess must be what's left of his kneecaps.

There's
so much
blood. It oozes down the wall where it spattered; it drips from my hair, my ear. It pools on the asphalt beneath us, black rather than red in the twilight darkness, and shining as each puddle enlarges. Theo could hemorrhage to death within minutes.

“Hang on.” I undo his belt and pull it free of the loops, so I can wrap it around one leg as a tourniquet. I need to do the other one too. As loud as I can, I scream, “Somebody help!”

“Phone.” By now Theo's voice is hardly a whisper, but that's enough. I fumble in his back pocket and pull out his cell phone. Thank God it lets me call 911 without the security code.

The next few minutes aren't much clearer. Theo's able to give me the address of our location. Emergency crews were standing by during the police raid, so EMTs get to us within moments. By then Theo's skin has turned white and his breathing is shallow, but he can still talk. I can tell by the way the EMTs act that they expect him to live.

But they don't have to tell me that he might lose his legs.

Paul shot without hesitating. Without blinking. He savagely destroyed a stranger's legs for no reason, and ran away without even looking back.

All that time I was held captive, I thought he wouldn't hurt me, but I had no idea who I was really dealing with.

I want to think the splinter of my Paul's soul within him would have made a difference—but this Paul is still Paul. They are more alike than unalike.

If we all have one essential self that remains constant through all the worlds, then the evil in this man exists within my Paul, too. Even within the splinters of his soul I've already rescued.

The Firebirds feel heavy around my neck.

As soon as Theo is settled on a stretcher, the paramedics
hook him up to a saline IV. Numbly, I watch the needle enter his skin. While they tape the plastic tubing in place, I lean over Theo. He whispers, “Did you get the splinter?”