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“A nap. You’re going to take a nap?”
Einar nodded and went around the counter—taking the long way so he wouldn’t come into stabbing range—and headed for the stairs. “We have an appointment later. Well, you do. You’ll want to be rested, too.”
Taylor couldn’t rest. Now that the effects of the tranquilizer had worn off, she felt too energetic. Instead, she explored Einar’s Icelandic hideaway.
For all his movies and books and expensive gadgets, the first thing Taylor noticed was that the place lacked a computer. Maybe there was a laptop or something up in his bedroom, but Taylor suspected that wasn’t the case. Just like the Academy regulated their internet use, so did this shadowy Foundation.
After a little poking around, Taylor went to the front door. Her hand hesitated over the handle. Was she allowed outside? She figured there would be a hydraulic lock like the one on her bedroom if the outdoors was off-limits. Taylor tested the knob. The door opened easily.
Cold air rushed in. After a few months in California, Taylor wasn’t used to the chill. And she was still wearing the flannel pajamas she’d woken up in. She opened a nearby coat closet and found a pair of fur-lined moccasins and a heavy leather jacket. They were Einar’s. She could smell his sandalwood cologne on the coat and it almost changed her mind about going outside. She took a breath, shrugged on the coat and stepped into the bracing air.
Oddly, the seclusion reminded Taylor of home. She looked around the rocky landscape as she stepped away from Einar’s cabin—not another house in sight. There was a dark blue hatchback parked along the side of the house. She could make that her getaway vehicle if worse came to worst.
Taylor laughed bitterly. Wasn’t this already the worst? When she developed her powers, she couldn’t have imagined a more bizarre fate. She’d resented having to go to the Academy, but at least she was settling in there. The instructors were kind, she had friends, she was learning about herself. This . . . this Foundation situation, it was on a whole different level of strange and disturbing.
She heard footsteps crunch behind her. Little Freyja had followed her outside, snuggled up in a blanket.
A dark part of Taylor’s mind reminded her that she hardly knew this girl. She could make a run for it. If she could live with Freyja on her conscience . . .
No. She couldn’t. She would never be able to live with herself. Taylor glanced once more at the car. There wouldn’t be any escape. Not if she couldn’t figure out how to save the kid, too.
Taylor looked up at what she thought was Einar’s window. She wondered how the Foundation had convinced him to join them. Did he have a Freyja, too? He was so cold, it seemed unlikely.
“Thank you,” Freyja said quietly, arriving at her side. “For healing me.”
“You’re welcome,” Taylor replied. “I’m sorry that you have to go through this.”
“Me too,” Freyja said. “Do you know when I’ll get to go home?”
“No, I don’t.”
“When you give them what they want, right?”
“I guess so.”
“Will that be soon?”
“I don’t know.”
The two lapsed into a melancholy silence. Taylor trudged towards the crystalline lake, Freyja following a few steps behind her. A chill wind swept in over the water, bobbing the chunks of vivid blue ice that floated on the surface. She could hear the ice crackling and shifting as the blocks bumped against each other.
“It’s beautiful here, at least,” Taylor said.
Freyja said nothing. Taylor looked over at her, saw that she was worming her index finger under the choker.
“It’s cold on my skin,” Freyja said with a sigh.
“Do you remember what happened before?” Taylor asked. “When you fell down the stairs?”
“This . . . this shocked me,” Freyja said, dropping her hand away from the collar as if she were scared it would happen again. “I fainted.”
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Taylor. “This is demented.”
Taylor turned away from the frozen lake and headed around the side of the house. She wanted to see the place from every angle.
“What’re you doing?” Freyja asked, dutifully following behind her.
“Just looking around.”
“For what?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
On the back of the house, Taylor found a small wooden sunporch, the reddish timber coated in a thin layer of frost. The porch overlooked a rock garden. Polished stones were stacked atop of each other, some of them decorated with hardy vines. A small fountain stood in the middle of it all, although it was turned off at the moment.
At the back of the rock garden stood a high wooden fence. Taylor approached, walking the perimeter of the fence. It was a square, about twenty feet in each direction. On the side nearest the porch was a door with a keypad just like the one on Taylor’s room.
“What’s he got back there?” Taylor wondered aloud.
“I don’t know,” Freyja replied, her teeth chattering.
“If you’re cold, you can go inside,” Taylor said.
Freyja remained stubbornly nearby. Was she afraid that Taylor would try to escape if Freyja let her out of her sight? Taylor couldn’t blame her.
With her telekinesis, Taylor knocked over one of the stone sculptures and floated a good-size block of granite over to the fence. Freyja jumped out of the way.
“What’re you doing?” Freyja asked.
Taylor hopped up onto the stone. If she jumped from there, she could reach the top of the fence. “I want to see what’s in there.”
She leaped up, grasping the wooden barrier with both hands. She pulled herself the rest of the way, managed to swing one leg up so that she was straddling the fence.
Down below, inside the cube of fence, was just another rock.
But not just any rock. This one glittered cobalt blue, but in a shade different from the ice on the lake. The rock made something in Taylor vibrate. It called to her.
Loralite. That was Loralite.
Taylor knew the stories. All she had to do was hop down and touch the alien rock, visualize another stone’s location and the Loralite would teleport her across the world. This must be how Einar brought her here.
Freyja let out a sharp cry. Taylor turned her head in time to see the wide-eyed girl clutch at her choker.
“It—it shocked me!” Freyja yelped.
With a frustrated grumble, Taylor climbed down from the fence. She landed next to Freyja and gently stroked the girl’s shoulder.
“Sorry. Guess whoever’s watching wanted to give me a warning.”
Freyja said nothing. She rubbed her neck and stared sullenly at Taylor.
“Come on,” Taylor said. “Let’s go inside.”
Halfway to the
back porch, both of them stopped in their tracks. They heard the crackle of gravel and the purr of an engine.
Someone was driving up the solitary road.
Without stopping to think, Taylor ran around the side of the house, Freyja a few steps behind her. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, exactly. If this was some random Icelandic police officer or the mailman—she couldn’t very well involve them without risking their life too. Still, she wanted to see who came to this remote location. Maybe it would give her an idea.
Taylor caught sight of the car coming down the road before she fully rounded the cabin’s corner. Something about the vehicle gave her pause. It was a green Jeep, mud-splattered and dented from hard driving, with chains on the wheels. There were four men inside, but from her viewpoint Taylor could make out only the one sitting shotgun. He had reddish-brown hair, a thick beard and bulging neck muscles. Even at this distance, Taylor could see the fat scar that ran from his eye to the corner of his mouth.
These were not friendly neighbors.
The Jeep parked in front of the house. Taylor waited a few seconds, hidden around the corner, curious to see what they would do.
Nothing. The men just sat there. One of them rolled down a window to smoke a cigarette.
Freyja was at her side, one of her hands on Taylor’s arm. “Who is it?” she whispered, then peeked around the corner to see for herself.
The girl nearly tripped over her own feet in her hurry to backpedal away. Freyja’s face had gone ghostly white. She recognized them, Taylor realized. And she was terrified.
“Who are they?” Taylor asked.
“Those are the men,” Freyja replied. “The men who took me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
ISABELA SILVA
OUTSIDE SILVER CITY, NEW MEXICO
IT WAS A FOURTEEN-HOUR DRIVE TO SILVER CITY. They bought a map from the gas station to help navigate.
“We want to stick to back roads, yeah?” said Nigel. “Don’t want to be spotted.”
Isabela drew a random pattern on the Escalade’s tinted window. “No one will spot us. And no one will be looking for this car.”
Caleb traced his finger east across the map. “There aren’t really any back roads, anyway. Or it’s all back roads. I can’t tell.” He held up the map so Nigel, driving, could see. “All the way through the desert.”
