The Blood Guard (The Blood Guard series) (11 page)

C
H
A
PT
E
R
14
:

A HAND FOR A HAND

M
r. Four pulled in right behind the motor home. I could see clearly through the big hole in the back that it was dark and empty.

The single-story building in front of us was all ugly cinder block and smoked-glass windows and looked like the sort of suburban office mall where I went to the dentist every six months, only this one was plopped down in the center of an empty scrubby field. The glass doors opened automatically when we approached, revealing a gray-carpeted lobby that was also a lot like my dentist’s office. Cheap red couches sat against the walls and a flat-screen television on one wall silently played the news to the empty room.

“Come along, children,” Ms. Hand indicated, leading us through a door and down a hallway, flipping on light switches as she went.

The hallway was long. Lining both sides were big metal doors that were locked by simple metal bars dropped in bracket
s
—
n
ot the sort of thing that could be opened by a girl with a lock pick.

“Here you are,” Ms. Hand said, dragging open the second door on her right. She ushered us inside, then slammed it shut behind us.

For a moment, Greta and I stood still in the pitch-black darkness.

Then the overhead lights flickered on.

Our cell was a six-foot-by-eight-foot windowless room. Fluorescent lights caged in wire mesh were fixed to the concrete ceiling, and the featureless steel door closed off any hope of escape. The only things in the room were two cots with thin bare yellow mattresses, and an empty bucket that I was determined not to use.

Greta sat down on one of the cots and stared at her feet. She looked completely deflated.

I sat on the other cot and dug the disk of glass out of my pocket. “Look,” I said. “I’ve still got that purple monocle.”

“Great,” Greta said, scooting back against the wall so that her legs stuck straight out in front of her. “Maybe if you wear it, they won’t recognize you when they come back.”

I sighed and stuffed it back into my jeans.

“Did you get an eyeful of this place?” Greta said, her head snapping up. She wasn’t depressed, I realized; she was angry. “It’s where bad guys take people to kill them and dispose of the bodies so that no one ever finds any evidence.”

“If they were going to kill us, don’t you think they would have gotten around to it by now?” I said. If this was a place where prisoners were held, then maybe my dad was here, too, in another windowless cell like this one. Maybe I could find him and rescue him myself.

“Who knows? Maybe they have to set up their evil apparatus before doing us in. Maybe they know there is no way I am going to use that bucket while you’re in the room, and they’re just waiting for our bladders to burst.”

“You have to pee? I could look the other way.”

“You’d hear.”

“I can put my hands over my ears
”
—
I
demonstrate
d
—
“
and sing
La la la la la la.
”

The bolt must have clicked while I had my ears covered, because the door swung open. Ms. Hand and Mr. Four stood in the hallway staring. If they thought it was weird to see me with my hands over my ears, they didn’t show it.

Ms. Hand said, “Evelyn Truelove?”

“That’s my name,” I said with a sigh.

“Actually, he prefers to be called Ronan,” Greta said. She gave me a tight little smile.

“Come with us.” We both stood, but Ms. Hand gestured at Greta. “You will wait here.”

Out in the hall, Mr. Four dropped the crossbar back into place, and then Ms. Hand walked away, saying “Follow me.”

At the end of the passage was a right turn and a set of double doors that Ms. Hand opened by punching some numbers on a keypad. On the other side, she hit a switch and a single bar of fluorescents flickered to life.

We were in a huge dark room like the one where I’d taken shop class in seventh grade. The place was packed with drill presses, table saws, lathes, and other giant metal machines that stood in a shadowy row in front of a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. In the center of the room were two deeply scarred wooden tables, each as big as my bed at home. And sitting by itself in front of those was a simple metal folding chair.

“You guys do arts and crafts here?” I asked.

On the closer table was Dawkins’ satchel, which had been cut open and was now just a mess of nylon shreds. Beside it was the Zippo lighter, Dawkins’ notebook, and the wad of bills. In the corner of the table sat a plastic intercom with a blinking row of lights in its base. The other table was farther away, stained and dirty and empty.

“Take a seat, Evelyn.” Ms. Hand gestured to the chair. She looked terrible. Which made sense, I guess. She’d been hit by all that river water, tumbled around like a pair of sneakers in a washing machine. Her hair was uncombed and matted to her head on one side, her clothes a wrinkly mess.

I could see the welt on Mr. Four’s temple from that hubcap I’d hit him with. I hoped he wasn’t the kind of guy who held a grudge.

“First,” Ms. Hand said after I sat, “you can save your life and that of your friend by telling us where you have hidden our propert
y
—
t
he case in the back of our vehicle.”

I thought of those evil-looking Tesla rifles in their watery grave at the bottom of that river. Could they be dried out? Or were they ruined? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“You’re lying,” Ms. Hand said. “But we shall see what you know soon enough.” She picked up Dawkins’ notebook, holding it between two fingers like it was diseased. “Now we are going to discuss the Blood Guard,” she said.

“Great,” I said, “I’m dying to know more about them.”

“When did your mother recruit you into service?”

“She didn’t,” I said. “Until today, I’d never even heard of the Blood Guard.”

That smile was back on Ms. Hand’s face, the one that made her seem like a nice mom until you got a look at her flat, dead eyes. “A reliable source informs us that your mother has been training you since you were a child.”

“I guess, maybe,” I said, “but she never told
me
that.”

Abruptly, the smile disappeared, like a switch had been flicked off. “Joking with me is a very bad idea, Evelyn.”

“I’m not joking!”

“Tell us what your mother is doing in Washington, DC,” she said, crossing her arms.

I couldn’t help myself: I smiled. My mom was alive! And she was causing trouble for Ms. Hand’s buddies in our nation’s capital. “Beats me. She didn’t tell me before she kicked me out of the car.”

“And your father? What do you know about him?”

Was this a trick? I thought
they
had him. Was my mom after the wrong people? Or was Ms. Hand trying to find out how much I knew? “Um…I know you guys have him,” I said and swallowed. “He’s okay, right?”

Ms. Hand ignored my question. She dropped the notebook back onto the scarred wooden table, then calmly said, “Tell me about Mount Rushmore.”

“It’s a mountain with the faces of four presidents carved into it,” I said. “George Washington, Abe Lin
c
—
”

I had never been slapped before. I had no idea it would hurt so much. It stung like my face was burning, and made my ears ring and my eyes water. I couldn’t even say, “Ow.” I just breathed through my open mouth and tried not to sob.

“I warned you not to make jokes,” Ms. Hand said. “Look at me, Evelyn.”

I did as I was told. The whole left side of my face was numb.

“What does the Guard know about the Eye of the Needle?”

“You mean like the story about the camel?” I gingerly touched my cheek. It was warm. “I’ve never heard about anything like that.”

She clucked her tongue at me. “And I suppose you know nothing about the Bend Sinister?”

I shook my head. “I don’t even know what that means. Something evil?”

Ms. Hand raised her open palm to hit me again, but paused when I flinched. “I almost believe you, poor thing. Raised by your mother and told nothing, forced to train for something you don’t understand at all. You should be angry with her!” She lowered her arm. “
We
are the Bend Sinister. The
sinister
in our name comes from the Latin for
left
. Not for
evil
. It is because of our foe
s
—
p
eople like your mothe
r
—
t
hat the name of the Bend Sinister has been demonized over the centuries.”

I didn’t know about that. They sure seemed evil to me. “If you say so,” I said.

Ms. Hand barked out a laugh, like she’d never laughed before in her life and was trying it out. Over in the corner, Mr. Four stood at attentio
n
—
o
r boredo
m
—
h
e was so expressionless it was hard to tell.

“The Bend Sinister is a rational society, rooted in scholarship and science,” Ms. Hand continued. “We count among our members some of the greatest scientific and alchemical talents of the ages. And what binds us together? What drives us to devote our lives to the Bend Sinister? A long-ago promise to make the world a better place.”

Her words were impassioned, but she delivered them like she was reading from the world’s dullest textbook. Maybe that’s why I opened my big mouth. “Is that why you kill people?” I asked. “The thirty-six or whatever Dawkins called them?”

Ms. Hand stopped talking and stared down at me for a long minute. Then she went over to the plastic intercom and pressed a switch. “Mr. Five, Mr. Two, collect the girl.”

“What?” I said. “N
o
—
l
ook, Greta’s got nothing to do with any of this, honest. She’s just some stupid girl from school I bumped into on the train.”

“You have been lying to me since the moment you entered this room,” Ms. Hand said. “And because of that, your friend is going to suffer.”

“But I’ve told you everything I know,” I pleaded. “I never heard of the Blood Guard before my mom told me about it this afternoon, and that Dawkins guy barely had time to tell me his name before he got run over.”

“Only someone who has given himself to service in the Blood Guard can do the sorts of things you’ve done today.”

“I haven’t given myself to anything! I just do as I’m told. I take a lot of extracurricular activities. I’m not even the best in my class!” I started to stand, but both Ms. Hand and Mr. Four tensed up, so I eased myself back down. “What is it you want from me?”

“From you? Nothing,” she said. “But you’ll be useful in making your mother give up the Pure one she protects. And then…that person will contribute his soul to our grand undertaking.” Ms. Hand smiled again, and for the first time since I’d met her, she seemed genuinely happy.

There were a series of beeps and a clank, and the doors opened. Greta stepped in between two guys I recognized from the train station. Mr. Two and Mr. Five, I guessed. They walked her over to the other wooden table. One took her arm and clasped something I hadn’t noticed before over her wrist: a black metal shackle. There were four of those things, I could see no
w
—
o
ne at each corner of the table.

Greta hunched over the shackle and tugged at it. “What are they doing?” she asked me.

Mr. Four began rooting around in one of those giant rolling red metal toolboxes. Every now and then he’d raise up a too
l
—
a
hammer, a pair of huge clipper
s
—
a
nd then put it back.

Mr. Two and Mr. Five went to the doors, punched in a code, and left the room.

Greta rattled the cuff. “What’s going on, Ronan?” she cried.

“How are you going to contact your mother once you reach Washington, DC, Evelyn?” Ms. Hand asked.

“Until you told me, I didn’t even know she was there,” I said. “I was just supposed to go with Dawkins. And now he’s dead. That’s all I know.” I couldn’t allow Greta to be hurt. “Just let her go, and I’ll tell you where those weapons are, the ones we took from the SUV.”

“That will be a nice start, but just to show you how very serious I am, Evelyn, and to stop you from making your little jokes, we are going to have a little demonstration. Mr. Four?”

Her partner came plodding back to her side. In one hand he held a silver hatchet, the kind you might use to chop up firewood while camping out. In the other hand he held what looked like a small black brick.

“Mr. Four,” she explained, “will now take your friend’s hand off at the wrist.”

C
H
A
PT
E
R
15
:

HATCHET JOB

M
y fifth-grade summer coach, Mr. Entwhistle, used to grouch that I didn’t have enough “heart.” He coached a unicycling class, and we had to ride a timed course while juggling bowling pins. (My mom signed me up for a lot of weird programs.)

Anyway, I always figured
balance
was most important, but my coach insisted otherwise. “Something matters enough to you,” he promised, “you’ll reach a make-or-break point where
heart
comes in.
That’s
what pushes you to do the impossible.”
Make-or-break?
I thought at the time. I just didn’t want to drop a pin while rounding flag fifteen.

I knew what he meant now. A cold desperation left me sweaty and breathless. I had to do
something
to save Greta. Only problem was, I had no idea what that might be. “The impossible” sounded about right.

“No!” Greta cried. She planted her heels and jerked hard at the manacle.

Mr. Four set the black brick down on the corner of the table where Greta was cuffed, then began slowly dragging the blade across its surface. It was a whetstone, I realized, and he was sharpening the hatchet’s edge. The light rasp of his work filled the quiet room.

“We want the cut to be clean,” Ms. Hand said by way of explanation.

Greta gulped. “You know, you haven’t even asked
me
if I know anything. I’m happy to talk.” A grin flickered across her face, like this was all a misunderstanding between friends. “I
need
my hand.”

“Of course you do,” Ms. Hand said to Greta. “But you needn’t worry. We’ll let you keep it afterward. Mr. Five will fetch a bucket of ice for you.”

Greta didn’t have any response to that. She just turned back to the shackle and yanked at it again, trying to force her hand free.

“Greta, stop,” I said. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Shut up, Ronan. It’s going to hurt a lot more if they cut it off.”

“That’s not going to happen.” I took a calming breath. “Ms. Hand, the stuff about Mount Rushmore? It came out of that notebook, which belonged to Dawkins, the guy who got run over by the truck.
He’s
the one you should be asking questions of.”

Mr. Four scraped the blade first one way, then the other.
Rasp, rasp.

“Tsk-tsk.” Ms. Hand reached out and gently laid her palm against my cheek, the one she had slapped. I broke out in a sweat. “I’d like to believe you, Evelyn, truly I would. But every time I begin to do so, you reveal yourself in another lie.”

“He’s telling the truth!” Greta said, shaking her head so hard her hair fell over her face.

“Please, Ms. Hand, don’t hurt Greta. If you have to hurt someone, hurt me. Maybe that’ll convince you I’m telling the truth.”

The blade rasped across the whetstone a half-dozen times before Ms. Hand responded.

“We
will
hurt you,” Ms. Hand said. “But all in good time.” She turned away. “Mr. Four, cut off the girl’s hand.”

“No!” I shouted, standing.

“You need to understand, Evely
n
—
I
am not playing.” She took a step toward me. If she was angry, it didn’t show. And yet somehow her icy calm was completely terrifying. “Now
sit
down
.”

My legs shaking, I edged back into my seat. If Dawkins were here, I knew, he’d find something to use as a weapon, but all I had was the chair I was sitting on. Maybe that was enough.
I could swing it around
, I thought quickly. I could fling it hard into the air, and hit Mr. Four before h
e—

But Mr. Four and Greta were too far away, twenty feet at least. I’d never be able to take him ou
t
—
n
ot in time, not with Ms. Hand between us.

Mr. Four raised the hatchet, the sharp edge of its blade glimmering.

“
Please
,” Greta cried, squirming and tugging at her arm.

“Be still, child,” Ms. Hand said. “You don’t want Mr. Four to slip, do you? He could easily cut off more than what’s at the end of your wrist.”

Greta froze, her mouth open. This was my chance.

While Ms. Hand had her head turned, I stood and swung the chair up over my shoulder like a baseball bat.

Everything happened fast after that.

With the hatchet held high, Mr. Four reached down with his other hand to grasp Greta’s forearm, to hold her steady.

As he did, the shackle holding Greta popped open. She swept her arm up, hooked Mr. Four’s arm, and pulled his wrist down to where hers had been.

With a loud “Ha!” she snapped the cuff shut, locking him in, and rolled out of range as he swung at her with his hatchet. Wound around her fingers, I saw now, were two bent hairpin
s
—
t
hat
was why her hair had fallen across her face.

Mr. Four dropped the hatchet and began moaning. He flailed against the table, jerking his whole body, trying to free himself. I just stood there like a dope, holding the chair, trying to make sense of what was going on.

Greta grabbed the hatchet and backed away.

“Mr. Four!” Ms. Hand shouted. “I command quiet!”

Abruptly Mr. Four’s moans ended, though he continued to pull at his arm.

“What’d you do to him?” I asked Greta.

“Nothing!” she said.

“He…” Ms. Hand seemed at a loss for words. “The flesh is all he has left. It dislikes confinement.”

Flesh?
I thought.
Confinement?
I had no idea what she was talking about, but that was nothing new. “Just stay where you are,” I told Ms. Hand. “I’m not afraid to…use this chair.”

Ms. Hand scoffed. “You think you’re in control? Because the girl slipped out of a simple handcuff?” She straightened her jacket.

“
Simple
handcuff?” Greta repeated. “That was like a six-pin tumbler.” She tipped her chin up. “Not a challenge for me, obviously. I could pick it in my sleep.”

“Okay, Houdini,” I said, “you’re the master locksmith. Can we just go already?”

Ms. Hand took a step forward, but paused when Greta swung the hatchet in the air. “Careful with that, child. You don’t want to hurt yourself.”

Greta snorted. “Your concern for my well-being is touching.” With a roll of her wrist, she flipped the hatchet into the air. It spun a tight loop, and she caught it by the handle. Without looking away from Ms. Hand, she brought the blade down to her righ
t
—
s
traight across the intercom line. The little lights in the base went dark.

“You know how to use hatchets, too?” I asked as we backed away.

“And axes,” Greta said. “My dad’s an outdoorsman. You think you’re the only one who’s ever gone camping?”

“You are outnumbered,” Ms. Hand said. She didn’t
appear in the least bit alarmed by our escape. “Mr. Two and
Mr. Five are outside, as well as the two acolytes and that boy.”

“Acolytes?” Greta asked.

“I think she means Izzy and Henry,” I said.

“They will kill you,” Ms. Hand said.

“We’ll take our chances,” I replied. I pocketed Dawkins’ notebook, the money, and the Zippo lighter. “What’s the code for the door?”

Ms. Hand put her arms behind her back. “Do you really think I’m going to tell you that?”

“We could always take a page from your book and cut off Mr. Four’s hand,” I said.

“And you pretend you know nothing of the Blood Guard.” Ms. Hand muttered something under her breath, a quiet singsong.

“I don’t,” I said. “Why won’t you believe me?” That’s when I caught the reflection in the windows: her hands were beginning to glow. “Cut that out!” I shouted, and raised the chair, ready to fling it. “Stop casting a spell or whatever you’re doing!”

But she didn’t stop, only brought her arms out where we could see them. The space around her hands shimmered with a red light.

“It’s okay, Ronan,” Greta said. She punched the keypad, and the door unlocked. “Those two guys didn’t bother to block my view when they brought me in here.”

Ms. Hand’s cool composure fell away and she raised her glowing hands. “Mr. Two!” she yelled, her eyes angry slits. “Mr. Five! Come to me!”

But the hall was empty.

Greta turned the hatchet in her hand and brought the blunt end down hard on the keypad. The face popped off its housing and dangled from a bunch of sparking wires.

“You will no
t
—
”
Ms. Hand began to say, but by that point we were on the other side of the door and pulling it closed behind us. The lock clicked into place, and Greta repeated her move on the outside keypad until it, too, was a mess of broken hardware.

The lights were off in the hall. The only illumination came from a flickering, buzzing light somewhere around the corner.

“Just to be clear,” Greta whispered while we waited for our eyes to adjust to the dark, “I am not cutting
anything
off of
anyone
.”

“
I
know that,” I said. “I’m just glad
she
didn’t.”

Behind us, the door shuddered in its frame. Ms. Hand sang something, and the metal of the door slowly began to buckle outward with a deep groan.

“We should get out of here,” Greta said.

“I wonder where those other two guys are,” I said.

She eyeballed the metal chair I was still holding. “What are you going to do with that? Invite them to have a seat?”

I hefted it up. “What else have I got?”

Greta looked ready to say something more, then held a finger to her lips. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered.

I held my breath and could hear light footsteps in the corridor. The ratchet of a cell door being opened, then eased shut. Footsteps again, coming closer. Another cell door opened. Periodically a spot of light would dance along the wal
l
—
a
flashlight beam.

“Maybe they caught more prisoners?” I whispered, thinking of my mom and dad.

Greta’s eyebrows rose. Pushing her hair behind her ears, she raised the hatchet u
p
—
s
till backward, blunt end first.

“No,” I said, raising the chair over my right shoulder. “I’ll hit them with this and knock ’em down. And then we can go for their weapons.”

I quietly edged along the wall toward the corner.

The flashlight’s beam grew brighter. We could hear whoever it was breathing as he shut the last door and walked toward the end of the hall.

Behind us, Ms. Hand let loose on the door with another spell of some sor
t
—
t
he metal that had buckled outward now shimmered and bent inward. But the door still held.

The footsteps paused, then started again, but more quietly. Whoever it was had heard her and changed his gait.

“Now!” Greta hissed.

We stepped around the corner, and I swung the chair as hard as I could.

It connected with a muffled clan
g
—
t
he sound of a steel chair thudding into a human torso.

“Ow!” someone said, falling back in a heap. The flashlight clattered to the floor and rolled away. “What the dickens did you hit me with?”

I brandished the chair at the shadowy figure on the floor and said, “Don’t even think of getting up.”

“I’ve got a hatchet,” Greta added, “and I know how to use it.” With her left hand, she felt along the wall until she found the light switch, then flipped it on.

Lying on the floor was Jack Dawkins.