Sanctuary Page 5

  There was probably not much chance of that, she decided. But it was worth a shot. There might be a floor there, or there might be something else. Maybe she was on the back of a giant moth, flying through a cityscape of graceful minarets. Maybe she was on the moon. Just not Pylea. Or the kitchen of a fast-food restaurant. She opened her eye, just the tiniest bit.

  Hardwood floor.

  What the heck, Fred thought. Might as well go all the way. In for a penny, in for a pound, that’s what momma used to say, and although I was never quite sure what she meant by it in the literal sense, the gist of it was clear enough. Mentally bracing herself, she opened both eyes, wide.

  Now she could see more of the floor, but still not a very large swath of it. The other eye was also relatively close to the floor, which only made sense because, as she had already determined, she was more or less face-planted on it. For the first time, she wondered about the positioning of the rest of her body. Though it was hard to tell through the headache, the rest of her seemed to be in quite a bit of pain as well.

  She tried to isolate individual body parts, to figure out what condition they were in, but it was too hard, and her focus kept skipping around like a flat stone thrown sideways at still water. She would try to picture her left knee, but then the image of a carousel would pop into her head, its animal seats snarling and dripping saliva from hungry, chomping mouths. She felt as twisted-up as a pretzel, and it confused her nerve impulses. There was only one way to solve this, she decided. She had to actually move herself into some position from which she could see herself and her surroundings.

  And as she had that thought, a chill ran through her, because she realized it meant she was coming to her senses, and that meant that she had been, at least for some period of time, out of her senses. It also meant that she understood now that, wherever she was, it wasn’t a place she had taken herself. Something had been done to her, by somebody, and apparently her own personal comfort was just about the last thing that somebody had in mind. She remembered, suddenly, where it must have happened—outside Caritas, where they were watching the fire across the street, and then a car rushed toward the crowd, and then…and then, she didn’t know what. Someone must have knocked her out then.

  Was that person, or persons, still here with her? Watching her, maybe? That idea was terrifying, almost paralyzing. But she couldn’t allow it to paralyze her, she knew. Her breaths became short and shallow, barely bringing in enough oxygen to keep her awake, and her heart started to pound rapidly in her throat. She was already physically in bad shape, practically frozen, anyway, by the stiffness of muscles that had been pushed into unfamiliar position and left there for she didn’t know how long. She couldn’t afford to let blind panic make her situation worse. She had to think this through, quickly and decisively, and do whatever needed to be done to get herself out of this. Getting control of her breathing, she took in deep lungfuls of air, trying to calm herself. Gradually, her heartbeat slowed.

  Angel will help me, she found herself thinking. All I have to do is wait, and Angel will rescue me. That’s what he does.

  Which she knew to be true. But there was always the possibility that he wouldn’t, this time. That he couldn’t. What if something has already happened to him? What if he was taken out first, before they even came for me? What if I’ve been portaled to some strange new dimension he can’t even find?

  No—what she had to do was assume that she was on her own. If Angel did come—and he will if he can, I believe that—then he would save her. But even if he didn’t, she couldn’t just lie here on her face on the wooden floor and wait for more bad things to happen. She had to brainstorm a way out of this, and she had to start now.

  She started by listening—really listening—for a moment. Her own breathing sounded loud, but when she held her breath she couldn’t hear any other sounds that seemed to be coming from inside this room. No other breathing, no rustle of fabric, tapping of fingertips…nothing to indicate that there was anyone in the room with her. The only sounds, she realized, were faint, occasional bursts of a frantic buzzing noise, the source of which she couldn’t locate. Resuming her own breathing, taking in the stale air, she knew the time had come to make the scariest move of all. She had to sit up.

  Her muscles screamed with agony as she called on them to do their thing—pain shot up from her arms and legs, from her ribs, from her neck, almost driving her back to her awkward but now-familiar facedown pose. She bit down on her lower lip and worked through the pain, ignoring it as best she could. She was able to bend her knees, to bring her legs up under her, noticing as she did that her shoes were missing. Then she flattened her palms, pressing them against the cool wood floor, and pushing off.

  Her right hand felt odd. Heavy. She looked at it.

  A metal bracelet encircled her thin wrist. A chain extended from the bracelet to a similar one, looped around an old-fashioned radiator attached to the wall. She was handcuffed.

  I really am a prisoner, she thought. I really am trapped here.

  The radiator pipe came out of the wall about eight inches from the floor and ran straight up, joining the tubes that provided heat at the top. It gave her about eighteen inches of play, all vertical. Still, the cuff would slide up the radiator pipe far enough to enable her to sit up, so she did, in spite of the screaming pain. She let out a whimper, but that and the rattle of the metal bracelet on the pipe, and the slight rasp of her clothes rubbing together, were the only sounds she made.

  She couldn’t see whoever had put her here. But there was a door, across the room, and there was no telling who, or what, was on the other side of that door.

  I have to get out of here. I have to get myself free.

  When Fred had managed to get herself into a sitting position, back up against the wall next to the radiator, she took stock of her surroundings. The room she was in looked like an old apartment, or maybe an office. Old because of the crusty, peeling paint that had once been white, dotted with mold in spots, the apparent age of the radiator, all coiled metal, and the glowing lamps set into sconces on two of the walls. She guessed the building was from the nineteen thirties or forties, though architecture wasn’t really one of her specialties and she knew she could be off by a couple of decades in either direction. There was a bit of a mildew smell to the room—mildew and dust, she decided. At the other side of the radiator, where she couldn’t reach it from here, a dark, dust-caked window looked blankly out at nothing she could see.

  At least everything looks and smells like Earth, Fred thought with a degree of satisfaction. If there’s a silver lining to this cumulonimbus, that’s it.

  Halfway between her and the door was a dinette table with metal legs, and a flat top that she guessed was probably linoleum. Two chairs were tucked up underneath the table. The legs of the chairs were partially rusted where they met what looked like green Naugahyde seats. Against the far wall was an old, overstuffed chair with a brown fabric covering that was wearing through in spots. The seat of that chair looked uneven, and she suspected springs would poke at anyone who sat in it. The last piece of furniture in the room was the one nearest to her, tucked into the corner where the wall she sat against came together with the side wall. It was just a small piece, like an end table or nightstand, with a single hinged door enclosing a shallow space where there must have been a shelf. Other than that, it was open and its surface was empty.

  Then there was the door.

  All the way across the room, centered in the far wall. It was natural wood, which had maybe been stained once, but probably never painted. The wood was rubbed smooth around the knob, and splintering a bit around the lock and the hinges. But, from here, at least, it looked solid. Artificial light leaked in from underneath, where there was a quarter-inch gap, but Fred couldn’t see anything through the gap, couldn’t tell if there was another room, or a hallway, or what, beyond the door.

  But it was clearly the only way in or out of the room, unless the window conveniently opened onto
the ground floor, or a fire escape, or unless the walls were really secret hatchways that led into tunnels habituated by mole men. She had to get to the door, even though it might as well have been a continent away.

  Quiet, she realized, was counterproductive. If there was actually someone on the other side of the door, then they meant her harm, anyway, and it wouldn’t hurt to alert them to the fact that she was awake—and seriously ticked off. If she was completely alone, then a little noise wouldn’t be a problem. But she wasn’t going to get out of these handcuffs without making a racket, and obviously, the cuffs had to go. Anyway, she couldn’t hear the slightest sound from the outside world in here—wherever she was, it was well insulated—so chances were that no one could hear her unless they were actively listening for her.

  Most of the pain she’d felt had changed—she had a pins-and-needles sensation in her arms and legs as her circulation returned to something approaching normal, but the headache and muscle aches had dropped to a dull, steady throbbing. She knew she risked bringing it all back, but like the noise, that was just something she would have to live with. Readying herself for lances of agony, she drew her right arm back all the way against the wall, letting the cuff chain go slack, and then threw her fist out as fast and as hard as the could.

  The manacle bit into her flesh, tearing the skin. The chain clattered, and the manacle wrapped around the radiator pipe clanged against the metal. But it didn’t give.

  It’s got to, she thought. This building is so old, the radiator can’t be stronger than I am.

  She tried it again, and a third time, each time wincing at the sensation of the metal ripping her arm. After two more lunges, she gave up. The radiator was holding, but her arm wasn’t. Blood ran down into her hand now, and dripped onto the hardwood floor. She elevated her hand as much as she could, trying to slow the bleeding, but it just ran the other way, down her arm to her elbow. She was still wearing the silk blouse and flower print skirt she’d worn for Lorne’s party, and she was reaching down to tear a strip from the skirt with which to bandage her arm when she had another idea.

  My wrists are skinny little things, she thought. Like a stork’s legs, or those needles you find in the carpeting months after Christmas. And the blood will make them slick. Just maybe…

  She brought her thumb and little finger together in the center of her palm, trying to make her hand as small as possible. The cuff fit fairly loosely about her wrist, so she thought she should be able to slip it off. But try as she might, even with the blood to lubricate it, she couldn’t work the narrow circle over the base of her hand. It widened just enough that the manacle wouldn’t let go. When she realized that she was just cutting herself worse, digging the steel bracelet into herself, she gave up on that attempt.

  Fred had survived for five years in a place where humans were considered cattle and were often fitted with collars that would cause their heads to explode if they displeased their masters. Earth can be a scary, dangerous place, but if I could make it in Pylea, I should be able to take care of myself here. All I need to do is not give up.

  The racket of the cuff slamming against the radiator hadn’t brought anybody charging in, which at least was one good thing. It meant she had more time to try a different approach—though she was running out of ideas. She took a closer look at where the radiator pipe came out of the wall, but that didn’t seem at all encouraging—the pipe was solid, and she couldn’t even seem to budge it. Short of sawing off her own hand on the metal bracelet, she wasn’t sure what to try next.

  Feeling panic well up in her again, she let her gaze dart about the room. The door, the table and chairs, the little end table, the impossibly distant overstuffed chair, the hardwood floor. Not much to look at, she thought, although it’s not like I came here for the scenery, anyway, right? But then she stopped, swallowed, tried to calm herself again, and took a long look at the end table, nightstand, whatever it was. She wondered if she could reach it. Not with her left hand; it was too far away for that. But maybe with her feet.

  She slid the cuff all the way down the radiator pipe to its lowest point and once again flattened herself against the floor. With her free hand and her feet, she scooted herself toward the end table, forcing herself to the limit of where the handcuff on her right wrist would allow her to reach. She felt about with her foot, but found only empty air. No, she thought. It can’t be out of reach. It just can’t!

  Raising her head just enough to allow her to locate it again, she realized that her foot had just barely missed one of the table’s legs. She lowered her head, extended her foot as far as she could, arching it, stretching toes out, and swept the air again. Then her foot touched wood and she stopped.

  The table was in the corner, and as far as she could tell from here, it was right up against the wall. Her fear was that it wasn’t but that the pressure from her foot would push it back until she had shoved it out of her own reach. But she couldn’t manage to hook her toe around the leg, so she had to risk it, anyway.

  Pressing her toe against it, she pushed with what little force she could muster. The table rocked a little. Finding it with her toe again, she pushed once more. This time, the table clunked against the wall, rocking for a moment longer. She pushed again.

  Finally, on the fifth push, the table hit the wall and rocked back toward her, and she was able to kick out again, catching one of the legs as it swayed. The whole thing tipped forward and crashed to the floor.

  Well, if that noise doesn’t bring people running, then I guess I really am alone here. I wonder, if I do manage to get out, if I’ll even be able to figure out where I am.

  Bringing down the table was the most positive thing she’d done since she’d found herself here, though, and it filled her with new hope. She hooked a leg around it and slid it up to where she could reach it with her left hand. Then she sat up again and flipped the table over so she could get at the door.

  And now she saw the source of the occasional buzzing sounds she’d been hearing—a fly, trapped in a web that a spider had spun in the corner of the two walls. The fly didn’t seem to be hopelessly entangled yet, and could jiggle the web by trying to fly out of it, but couldn’t seem to make the break. The spider itself, no bigger than the fly, waited on the far side of the web, apparently confident that the fly could do nothing more than wear itself out trying to escape.

  “I know just how you feel,” Fred lamented. At this moment, all her sympathy was with the fly.

  Fred turned her attention back to the table. There was nothing at all on the shelf behind the door, just a little storage space where someone might keep tissues or a book or a couple of magazines, maybe. But she hadn’t counted on there being anything inside. She wanted the door.

  Or more precisely, one of the small hinges.

  Hinges, Fred thought, have pins. Small hinges have small pins.

  Working the table to where she could use both hands, she waggled and jerked the door around, trying to loosen the two hinges. That wasn’t notably successful, though, so she tried to pry the pin out of the top hinge with her fingernail. She almost had it, she believed, when her nail bent backward in the middle. It felt like a hot nail being driven down into her thumb. Biting back the pain, she tried a different fingernail. Still no go.

  I need a tool. Pliers, a screwdriver, something.

  Obviously, none of those things were close at hand.

  But there was something, she realized. Hoisting the table up onto her lap, she went to work on it with the handcuff bracelet, trying to wedge the metal band against the top of the pin and force it out that way.

  The pain was incredible. With each movement the bracelet was jammed against the part of her wrist she’d already mangled. Blood started to flow again, splashing her silk blouse and once-beautiful skirt with every jolt of the cuff. But the pin was moving—she thought a couple more millimeters of it were showing above the hinge than before. She slammed it a couple more times with the cuff, and it moved again.

  F
inally enough of the pin stuck out that she was able to grab it with her fingers and work it free. She held it in her hand—a narrow metal pin, not much bigger around than a toothpick—and tossed the rest of the cabinet to the side.

  Now, Fred thought, all I have to do is teach myself how to pick a lock. She giggled at the idea—it seemed so impossible, and yet, considering everything she had already tried and failed at, it was her absolute best hope.

  She was still marveling at it when she heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and saw the knob start to turn.

  Chapter Six

  After working for a while, Cordelia had taken a few moments to change out of her party dress into a pair of old sweatpants and a soft cotton V-neck shirt that she kept at the Hyperion, mostly for workout sessions or combat practice in the basement room Angel had converted into a gym. She hadn’t wanted to spare the time, because she knew that every minute counted in trying to get Fred back, but she believed she’d be more productive if she was a bit more comfortable. Her strappy heels had been terrific shoes, but they too had been discarded and she sat at the computer barefoot.

  Usually the problem she faced being research girl was that, since very few people knew about the demons, vampires, and other assorted nasties with whom they shared the planet, there was precious little info to be found about any given creepy-crawlie. And much of what could be turned up was wrong—a mixture of legends and lies, with the occasional nugget of reality thrown in almost by accident. Which is, she thought, pretty much the whole problem with the Internet, at least the way I hear it. More info available more easily than at any other time in history, and most of it’s wrong.