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And then she remembered, saw it all again, and—no, no.
Gil was dead, lying on the kitchen floor, dead, dead, dead, and that obviously insane Laurence Bruce had murdered him and struck her down.
She couldn’t accept it, simply couldn’t, but there was blood, so much blood, and Gil was on his back, his beautiful eyes staring unseeing up at her. His throat, something was wrong. So much blood. And Bruce had struck her. She vaguely remembered the jostle and rumble of a car. The smell of gas and asphalt and—
“You’re awake.”
She jerked her head toward his voice. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. A gag, she was gagged. She was tied down and gagged.
“Don’t struggle. If you fight, he won’t like it. He might punish you.”
The man who’d spoken came into focus. Who might punish her? Dr. Bruce? Yes, of course. But who was this? He stood by the door, hair long and unwashed, his jeans and black T-shirt rumpled and stained. His skin was pale, and he was thin. The words coming from his mouth were no language she’d ever heard aloud, strange garbled sounds that held no meaning, only they did. She realized, somehow, she understood them.
She began twisting and fighting, but the man didn’t move to untie her. He stared as if she were a butterfly pinned to a board. She shuddered. She knew she was as good as dead. As Gil was. Her brain shied away from him lying so still, and all the blood. No, no. She didn’t want to see it again. Was this strange man, his face so pale he was nearly translucent, here to kill her? She swallowed tears, looked away from him, up, at the ceiling. Tall, at least twelve feet, timber beams running across it. Everything was white: the walls, the ceiling, the man’s skin. He still stood silently, watching her twist and turn.
“I was looking at your face. You can understand me.”
She began shaking her head. She could smell him, from that far away. Garlic, cedar, patchouli cologne. And blood. He smelled of blood.
Where was Dr. Bruce? What was happening? Panic rose, and she fought it, hard. She needed to stay in control, or she’d die—like Gil. No, Gil, no.
The man moved even closer until he stood next to her, looking down at her. “How is it you can speak our language?”
Of course she understood him, but she shook her head, felt tears burning her eyes, swallowed. She was gagged, so how could she explain he was speaking Voynichese, the language of the Voynich manuscript?
She hadn’t heard it since her twin sister had caught a flu virus and died, so small, shrunken in the hospital bed, covered with white sheets. She shouldn’t have died, the hospital had said, she shouldn’t have, we did everything we could. But their words were meaningless. Kristiana was dead.
He leaned down and took off her gag. “Speak to me.”
She looked up into that pale, intense face. She knew instinctively there wasn’t something quite right about him. She said, “I was a twin.” A special twin, she thought, but didn’t say it aloud, because, quite simply, she didn’t know what it meant. To him. “Of course I understand you.”
He looked pleased. “And your mother and father were Romanian. Roman was right, perhaps you are the one.”
The one what? Isabella heard a flurry of movement in the hall, and she turned quickly and shrank back.
It wasn’t Dr. Laurence Bruce—no, wait, she recognized the dark intense eyes, before hidden behind the thick lenses he’d worn. No brown beard and hair now. His hair was black, and he was straight and tall. And perched on his wrist sat a small raptor bird. He wore a leather glove that covered his wrist and arm up to his elbow, and the bird was wearing a matching leather hood, with a small plume on top. He gave Isabella a long look, then turned to the pale man who held her gag in one hand and spoke in the same guttural language, twin talk. She knew these might be the last moments of her life, yet she listened as he spoke.
“Look at her, Radu, the one who had our pages. She did not find them by accident. My question is, why did she make such a big production of it at her press conference? What do you think?”
“I spoke to her, Roman. We were talking. She understands me.”
Radu? Roman?
“That’s good, very good. Radu, I need to speak to her now, alone. Please leave us for a moment, all right?”
“But, Roman—”
“Please, Radu, it is important.” He said nothing more until the pale thin man called Radu left the room.
“Now, let’s see.” She watched him take the hood off the falcon and say, in an almost offhand manner, “This is Arlington. She’s a particular favorite of mine.”
Isabella heard him give a whispered command—in Voynichese. The bird spread her wings wide, turned her head, a yellow eye fixed on Isabella. He threw something on her stomach. Then the bird hit Isabella’s belly, a flurry of wings and claws. Sharp talons raked her through her slacks, ripped up her belly. She screamed, tried to pull away, but she was tied too tightly.
He watched her as a scientist would watch an experiment, with only mild interest. He tossed another piece of meat on Isabella’s chest. Arlington was more delicate about it this time, but Isabella still got a full face of feathers. The strange, smoky scent of the bird and the tang of the raw meat made her gag.
The bird stood heavy on her chest, staring at her with its head cocked, and Isabella fought down bile, fought against the fear.
With another scrape of talons, the bird launched herself into the air and landed gracefully back on his gloved arm.
