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“I agree, let her go up against Leon. She won’t last five minutes,” Eight says, rolling her eyes and hooking her arm through Four’s. They turn on their feet, apparently no longer interested.
Good. They can fuck off.
Six steps forward. I feel her empathy, her kindness, and on any other day I might’ve appreciated it. She opens her mouth to speak but I shake my head. “No!”
“Don’t be rash,” she says, ignoring me. “Whatever you’re feeling, it will pass. We can talk this through. Come with us.Please, Christy.”
A few of the numbers draw in a surprised breath because of her use of my real name, and it only seems to rile me up further. “That’s my name. You all have names. Don’t let them take your identity!”
“You know that for us it isn’t like that,” Six replies gently, holding out her hand. For the briefest of moments I consider taking it, then I push the thought aside.No.
“Where will I find him?”
Thirteen shakes her head, warning Six and the rest of the Numbers not to answer me.
“I’ll find him with or without your help,” I say.
“Truly, you don’t want to do this,” Three insists, her sweet voice sincere. “Seven tried once too. It didn’t go well.”
Seven wraps his arm around Three and pulls her into his side. “She’s right, it didn’t. Luckily for me Three persuaded The Masks to give me one more chance. I’m glad of it. This is my home now. The Numbers are my family. The Masks… my Masters.”
I shake my head, my hair whipping around as I look between them all. “This is wrong! Why don’t you fight back?!”
“Because we don’t want to,” one of the triplets says. I don’t know which one, but it doesn’t really matter, given her sisters are agreeing with her. “This is our home and you’re ruining it!”
“I—”
“You’ll find him in the West Wing, beyond the library,” One says quickly, cutting my rant off and drawing my attention back to her. “There’s a door in the back of the library that leads to a gym where he trains—”
“One, what are you doing?” Five snaps, her concerned gaze falling on me. “Hewillkill her.” I notice how she reaches for one of her knives strapped to her chest. I’m not sure if she’s threatening One, or it’s a nervous reaction. I’m assuming the latter when One raises a brow at Five, then turns back to face me.
“Take the stairs at the end of this hall and follow the corridor on the ground floor until you reach the courtyard with The Weeping Tree. The entrance to the West Wing is beyond the red door. You’ll find the library soon enough,” One continues, stepping aside.
I run, ignoring the calls for me to come back.
By the time I reach the library, I’m covered in a sheen of sweat. The kaftan that Thirteen—or should I say, Cyn—loaned me is sticking to my back. My chest is heaving from the exertion but violence floods my system, giving me the fuel to go on, to see this through. Pushing open the door, I step into a narrow, dimly lit hallway and follow the sound of trap music, it’s angry beat the perfect accompaniment to my rage. When I enter the gym, Leon is in the far corner with his back to me, beating the shit out of a boxing dummy. As far as I can tell he isn’t wearing a mask which seems out of character, given what I know. Then again, I’m certain none of the other Numbers would be brave enough to enter here without his permission.
Just as well I’m not like them then.
He’s bare except for a pair of shorts, his corded muscles glistening with sweat as he moves, showing off his tattoos of black reeds that cover his entire body. They reach up from his ankles, climbing his calves and thighs before disappearing beneath the hem of his shorts only to reappear again at his waist, climbing his back and shoulders.
As I stand here watching him work out, the significance of his tattoos suddenly hits me.
The fire.
The pond.
He saved me.
He killed my mother.
Glancing around the room, I look for something I can use to hit him with and see a broom leaning against the wall to my right. Grabbing it, I stride over to him, my footsteps and angry breaths are drowned out by the music and the grunts he makes whilst working out.
Lifting the handle of the broom, I imagine my mother’s agony, and with a roar, I bring it down as hard as I can on the back of his knees.
The way he falls to the floor, grunting in surprise and pain, fuels me on. I don’t hesitate. I hit him again, as hard as I can. The wood crashes against his back and he lets out a loud cry, falling forward onto his hands. The smack of the wood against his bare skin is satisfying in a way I shouldn’t enjoy, but do.
They say in times of great stress or blind rage people are capable of things they wouldn’t ordinarily be able to do. A man could lift a car off his trapped child. A lover could murder the person they love through jealousy.
