Page 94 of Fang Fiction

Octavia’s blood ran cold.

Who is this? she typed back.

The burner phone was cheap, not even a smartphone—there was no way to see if the person on the other end was responding. But a few seconds later, another text appeared:

It doesn’t matter who I am. It matters who you are, Octavia.

“Fuck!” Octavia yelped. Her phone buzzed again:

If you want Joni to live, come to the townhouse.

Her heart was pounding, and she could feel cold sweat forming along her hairline. She couldn’t believe how naïve they’d been, blithely believing the private address of a world-famous recluse had dropped into their laps at the exact moment they needed it as a matter of pure good luck. There was no such fucking thing as good luck—there were only cleverly laid traps, and people stupid enough to walk into them.

But why did they want her to come to the townhouse? If they knew who she was, why weren’t they already here at the hotel? She was more or less powerless to fight back, and until sunset, she had no way to escape.

They must not know I’m here, Octavia thought, feeling a surge of affection for Joni—she hadn’t told whoever had her captive where Octavia was. Which meant Octavia still had a chance to run.

She didn’t want to leave Joni behind, of course. But she had to be reasonable: If Octavia took off now, she could be somewhere new by tomorrow. She’d steal cash from somewhere, buy a fake ID off…someone. It wouldn’t be easy without her powers or anyone to help her, but she’d figure it out; she always did. And as for the threat against Joni’s life, Octavia didn’t believe it. Joni had friends and family, people who would notice she was gone and fight to find out what happened to her. There was no reason to take the risk. And on the other hand…if they were the kind of people who would kill Joni, wouldn’t they do it anyway when Octavia showed up? What good would it do for both of them to die?

Octavia started throwing clothes into her bag. The sun was almost down, and her best bet was to get as far away from this place as she could. She didn’t have much to pack, just the clothes she’d stolen from Bergdorf’s: some separates, some negligees, the gown she’d worn to the Met.

Octavia picked up the dress and ran the fabric between her fingers, remembering how excited Joni had been, the pride on her face when she’d announced she’d met Lirio’s agent’s assistant—the same person who currently had Joni, whoever they were. The hungry look in Joni’s eyes when Octavia kissed her on the dance floor…

“Goddamn it, Joni,” Octavia muttered under her breath. She found the piece of paper where Joni had scrawled the address of the townhouse yesterday and marched down to the lobby.

—

Octavia was no stranger to obscene wealth, but even she was impressed that August Lirio had snagged one of the last remaining single-family townhomes on Gramercy Park.

Not Lirio, she reminded herself. Who the hell knew who that Fern person really was—all Octavia could assume was that she was extremely dangerous.

The streets around Gramercy Park were mostly empty, and this time of year, the buildings were too—the residents would all be in Southampton or Nantucket or Provence until Labor Day (as Octavia would prefer to be herself—and would be, as soon as she got her powers back). But the townhouse in question was all lit up, and Octavia could see from the street that it was filled with people milling about, maybe for some sort of party. Shit. There was a large group here, and she was alone with no powers—should she have tried to buy a gun or something?! Ugh, the last time she had to fire a gun it was really more of a musket, and she hated it even then. Octavia wasn’t used to needing a weapon. She was used to being a weapon.

Octavia crept down the narrow alleyway beside the building and saw it had a large rear veranda—that was good. It meant there was a crawl space underneath where Octavia could hide, and quite possibly a window where she could wriggle into the basement. Octavia got as near to the windows as she could without leaving the cover of the shadows in the alleyway. As best as she could tell, all the people gathered inside were women, but she didn’t see anyone who looked like Joni. She looked up to the second floor—only a couple of rooms were lit up there, and none at all on the third floor. But there was a light on all the way in the slanted attic—Octavia couldn’t know for sure that Joni was up there, but it’s certainly where Octavia would stow a prisoner. The basement would have multiple routes of egress, but the attic? Getting someone out of there unnoticed would be no easy task.

“Fucking great,” Octavia muttered. She looked up as she heard noises inside—the women were gathering around the dining room table, and someone was banging a gavel. Were they having a meeting of some kind? If they were about to quiet down, Octavia needed to move right now.

She sprinted down the rest of the alley, staying as low as she could, until she reached the veranda. There was a little door built in beneath it that she hoped would lead her somewhere useful. The door wasn’t locked, but it was pretty well stuck shut; Octavia gave it a good shove, and it creaked loudly as it gave way. Octavia paused, waiting to see if anyone had noticed the sound, but chairs were still scuffling loudly in the house above her. She eased her body through the small space and under the veranda, where everything was, as she’d suspected, absolutely disgusting—filled with cobwebs and who knew what creepy New York creatures, squelchy with mud from the rain the day before.

“The things you do for love,” Octavia muttered—then stopped herself. She didn’t love Joni, she just owed the girl for all her help. That was plenty good reason to crawl under a porch and risk her life and muck up a perfectly lovely black yoga outfit.

It was difficult to see, but up ahead there was a dim light source coming from the house—yes! It was a window into the basement. Octavia crawled toward it as quietly as she could—it was a double-hung window, cracked slightly open, which meant Octavia could use it to get inside. She marveled at her luck and how easy this had been so far, then reminded herself that there was still an entire group of (potentially deadly) women between her and Joni.

“One step at a time,” she told herself as she pushed the window open and slithered through.

The basement was dim and musty, filled with shelves of jars and cans that looked like they’d been there for decades. There was one lit lightbulb near the window, but as Octavia moved deeper into the space, it got much darker. She moved toward the sound of voices coming from the floor above her, slowly taking each step so as not to put too much weight on a creaky floorboard—or, god forbid, jostle the shelves full of metal and glass. Come to think of it, glass might make a good weapon in a pinch—she picked up a wine bottle and held it by its neck, feeling slightly buoyed by the knowledge that she could smash it over someone’s head, then slash someone else’s throat. She was a vampire, after all. If they saw her feed on someone, if they were terrified enough, she might have a chance.

But the best-case scenario was that none of these women would know she had been here until she was already long gone. So when she found the stairwell up to the first floor, her movements were almost painfully slow, terrified she might make a single sound.

As she neared the top of the stairs, she could hear the voices more clearly—they were still down a hallway, but Octavia could make out what they were saying.

“Something is going on with the portal energy—we’ve all felt it,” came one voice, an older woman with a haughty tone.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a rip in the fabric of the shadow dimension,” argued a younger woman.

“But it’s definitely a problem that they blew up the crystal bridge,” a third woman said angrily. “That’s a clear act of aggression against us.”

Octavia’s eyes went wide—they were talking about the Isle! Someone blew up the crystal bridge?! No wonder Tess hadn’t come back.