Mud Vein (30 page)

I shove open the lid to the chest and see the book lying at the bottom. There is a single puzzle piece resting on its cover. I dust it away. This was the only book I saved when we burned everything to keep warm. It makes no sense why I’d save it. I had Isaac to answer my medical questions. Isaac to stitch me up. I saved it for myself. Because on some level I knew the zookeeper put it here for me. My stomach clenches. I flip through the index. Page 546.
Fever.

The part I am looking for is highlighted. In pink. It’s a coincidence, I think. An old textbook bought at a yard sale or something. This person couldn’t possibly have known that Isaac would spike a fever that could kill him. Could he? I suddenly get chills. I look up, and when I do, I’m eye-to- eye with the black horse. I drop the book.

This is a game. This move is mine. I go to the wood closet. There is no more shed; Isaac started storing the tools in the Chapter Nine wood closet. I pull the axe from where it is propped, ignoring the glossy pages that run up and down the inner walls. I touch the tip of my finger to the blade. Isaac kept it sharpened.
Just in case. Just in case Senna loses her mind and needs it
, I think. I make my way up the stairs and turn right into the carousel room. The book is facedown on the carpet where I dropped it. An ungraceful splat on the floor. I kick it aside and look at my horse. Right in the eye. This horse and I bonded once upon a time over an arrow through the heart. I feel as if it betrayed me. Made me love it with its bone saddle and death tokens and morbid obesity—morbesity. Fattened me up for the fall.

“Give me what he needs,” I say. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just give me what he needs.” And then, “Checkmate.”

I lift the axe and don’t stop lifting the axe until my arms are jello-fied and my teeth are clanging together hard enough to deliver a headache, and the horse is just a mess of jagged, ripped metal. It reminds me of the inside of a Coke can I once cut open with a knife.

Now he can’t see us anymore. Why did it take me so long to figure that out?

I lie beside Isaac, still as stone. I can hear the wind whipping the snow around outside. There is no window in Isaac’s room. It’s on the side of the house that faces the cliff and the generator shed that the zookeeper didn’t want us to see. But across the hall is the carousel room, and the noise filters in from there. It sounds like a blizzard. I’m unconcerned. I’m already cold. I’m already hungry. I’m already hopeless. I’m stuck in reverse; always trying not to die.

I lift my head and check his breathing. Shallow. He needs fluids. I hold a cup of melted snow to his lips, but it just runs out of his mouth when I try to make him drink. I read the highlighted portion in the book and I do everything it tells me. Though there isn’t much. Cool cloth to the forehead—we are in the arctic. Keep room at cool temperature—we are in the arctic. Cover him with a light blanket, doesn’t matter if it’s made of fur—we are in the arctic. Fluids. That’s the most important thing, and I can’t get him to swallow anything. There is nothing I can do.

He starts to mumble, his eyelids flickering from the turbulence of his dream. They are just words that drop off before he can finish them. Tormented moans and gasps intermingling with the chattering of his teeth. I lean my ear close to his lips and try to make out what he’s saying, but as soon as I do, he stops. I am scared. I am really fucking scared. He’s probably calling for his wife. And all he has is me.

“Hush,” I tell him. “Save your pluck.” Though I get the feeling I’m really telling me.

I fall asleep for a bit. When I wake up my body is pressed against Isaac’s. I went looking for his heat while I slept. I’m too afraid to move. If he’s hot, he’s still alive. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. Relief floods. I get up and light a fire. I try to gather its heat in my palms as I wiggle my fingers toward the flames. Every few minutes I look over my shoulder to check on the rising and falling of his chest. It’s barely a rise and fall. It’s more of a little flutter.

Then I get an idea. I get up and grab the cup of water from the bedside table. The cup is cool against my hand. I climb onto the bed and throw a leg over his waist until I am straddling him. I keep my weight off his body by suspending myself on my knees. I just need enough leverage to get to his lips. Staring down at his gaunt, skeletal face, I take a deep sip of the water. This is probably a stupid idea, but there is no one to witness it. I bend my head down until my lips are touching Isaac’s. It feels as if I have my mouth pressed against an overheated car engine. His lips part automatically. I push the water into to his mouth and keep my lips firmly pressed to his to keep it from rolling out. I feel his throat move, feel it push the water down, down, down his esophagus. I imagine that I can hear the tinkle as it drops into his empty stomach.

I do it again. The second time doesn’t go as well as the first; water spills down the side of his face and he sputters a little, but I keep trying. When Isaac has swallowed a shot glass worth of the melted ice, I roll off of him and lie staring up at the ceiling. After the hours I’ve spent being helpless this feels like an accomplishment. One of epic proportions. It used to be that if I finished a book I’d feel accomplished. If I landed on the
New York Times
bestsellers list I’d feel more accomplished. If they made a movie out of the bestseller I’d feel like I was the essence of accomplishment. Now if the man I’m imprisoned with swallows a mouthful of water, I want to sprint around the room in victory.

My limbs and brain are flaccid. I repeat the process every twenty minutes. If I try too often he starts to choke. I’m so terrified that his heart will stop I keep my palm pressed to his chest to feel the lazy thud.

“You keep him alive,” I tell it. “Keep beating.”

Ugh.
My tear ducts are burning. I fist my hands and rub my eyes like a child. I need to refill the water in the cup. I could slip around the corner to the bathroom, but the water from the faucet is brown and tastes like copper. Isaac and I usually drink the snow. My mouth is dry and my throat feels coarse. I haven’t wanted to drink the water in the cup. I don’t want to leave him, but the need to drink, to pee, to get more snow moves me off the bed.

I make my way down the stairs, grabbing my sweatshirt from the banister. Isaac’s rubber boots are at the front door. I slip my feet into them and plod to the kitchen to grab a pitcher for the snow. The pitcher is below the sink. I duck down to retrieve it. When I come back up, I glance out the window to assess the snowstorm. That’s when I see him.

The zookeeper calls me into the snowstorm. I knew he’d come eventually. You don’t put on a show like this and not expect applause. I see him outside the kitchen window; a dark shadow against the white snow. He’s facing me, but there is snow and wind and it’s swirling around in cold chaos. It’s like I’m looking at a grainy television picture. He stands there for at least a minute, until he knows I’ve seen him. Then he turns and walks toward the cliff. My hands grip the edge of the sink until my wrists ache from the pressure. I have no choice but to go out there and follow him.

Isaac is unconscious, his body overheating. I leave my pitcher on the counter, pocket an inhaler and then I take the knife. The little one he left me on the first day I woke up in this Hell. It was a gift. I want to thank him for it. I slip it into my pocket and step outside, veering right. Five steps into the swells of snow and my leg is aching. I am shivering and my nose is running. I glance back at the kitchen window, afraid Isaac will wake up and call for me. What if his heart stops while I’m gone? I push away these thoughts and focus on my pain. Pain will carry me through; pain will help me focus.

All I can see is his back; the silhouette of him against the white, white snow. A black coat hugging narrow shoulders and hanging down to the backs of his knees. He’s facing the cliff as I walk toward him. If he’s close enough maybe I can push him off and watch him crack on the bottom. I search for the direction he came from: a car, another person, a break in the fence where he could have slipped through. Nothing. My legs want to stop when I’m a few feet away. This is a heavy thing—meeting your captor. I am afraid. I am afraid the fuse in my bone will snap apart as I struggle to push through the last few yards of snow. I take my last step and I am beside him. I don’t look. My own hood is pulled up around my face so that I can’t see left or right unless I turn my head. It’s snowing into the hole in front of us. The flakes are heavy and dense. They fall quickly. The knife is out of my pocket, the blade pointed toward the body to my left.

“Why?” I ask.

Snow fills my eyes and mouth and nose until I feel like I’m going to choke on it.

There is no answer so I turn to face my captor, ready to stick the blade in his throat.

Her throat.

I drop the blade and stumble backwards. I almost fall except she reaches out and catches me.

I scream and thrash out of her hands.

“Don’t touch me!”

My leg. Oh God—my leg. It hurts.

“Don’t touch me,” I say again. Calmer this time.

I start to cry. I feel like a little kid, so uncertain, so lost. I want to sit down and process this.

“Doctor,” I say. “What is this?”

Saphira Elgin turns back to the cliff. It looks like a big bowl filling up with flour.

“You don’t remember?” She sounds disappointed. I sound like I can’t breathe. I pull the inhaler from my pocket, eyeing her red lips. I don’t remember her being so tall, but maybe I’ve become more bent from the weight of this.

“Why would you do this, Saphira?” I’m shaking violently and I’m light headed.

Dr. Elgin shakes her head. “I can’t tell you what you already know.”

I don’t understand. She’s obviously crazy.

“You can save him. Send him back to his wife and baby,” she says.

I’m quiet. I can’t feel my toes.

“How?”

“Say the word. It’s your choice. But you have to stay.”

I feel an ache in my chest. Saphira sees the look on my face. Grins. I recall the dragon in her, the way her looks seem to regard my soul.

“Can you do it? It brings you pain to part with him.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” I cover my ears with my hands.

I feel everything on my skin. I’m boiling over. I want to attack her, and sob and scream, and die all at once.

“You’re sick,” I hiss. I raise the hand with the knife, and she makes no move to stop me or step away. I drop my arm to my side. Save Isaac and die here.

“Yes. If that’s my only choice, yes. Take him. He’s sick and we don’t have any more medicine.” I grab her arm. I need her to take him with her. “Now! Get him to a hospital.”

Where did she come from? Maybe if I can overpower her I can get to her car. Get help. But even as I think this, I know I am too weak, and I know she did not come alone.

She watches my struggle with interest. I’m so cold. I have so many things to ask: the box, my mother … the
Why
?
Why? Why
? But I am too cold to speak.

“Why?” I ask again.

She laughs. Her breath blows snow away from her mouth. I watch the flakes shoot horizontally and then continue their dance to the ground.

“Senna,” she says. “You are in love with Isaac.”

I don’t know it until the words are out of her mouth. Then I know it, and it feels like someone has sucker punched me.

I’m in love with Isaac.

I’m in love with Isaac.

I’m in love with Isaac.

What happened to Nick? I try to pull up my feelings for Nick. The feelings that imprisoned me for a decade, chaining me to a rotting corpse of a relationship. All I did for years was punish myself for not being what he needed. For failing the person I loved the most. But out in the freezing cold, with the blizzard swirling around me, and my kidnapper’s liquid eyes probing my face, I can’t remember the last time I thought of Nick. Isaac happened to Nick. But when? How? Why didn’t I know it was happening? How could my heart switch allegiances without me knowing?