They'd pumped me full of drugs, then asked, Do you understand why you must reject your grandmother's teachings? Those mental ward docs had done a number on my head, but I'd thought I'd shaken off most of their "therapy."
Yet I'd failed to recall vital events from the past. No, the situation was worse than that: I hadn't even realized the memories were missing in the first place. "I have . . . gaps in my memory." My brain felt like Swiss cheese at this point. Apparently, the gaps even predated the deprogramming.
If Gran was telling the truth about all this . . .
So why did I sense she was lying to me--about something? "I remember the day you were arrested. You talked to me about the cards."
"I'd been talking to you about them all your life, always telling you stories." Almost to herself, she said, "I knew Karen hated my beliefs. Didn't know how much though."
"Maybe reading will trigger some recollection." Would I recognize these pages from my childhood? Why would she ever lie about this?
But I hesitated to open the book. It gave me chills. Even Gran gave me chills. "This was passed down?"
"From my mother, and then her mother before her."
Mom had told me the whole line was disturbed. I supposed I was merely the latest in a long line. "How far back do these chronicles go?"
"There are detailed entries from the last two games, but the games before that are summarized." She waved me on. "Open it, then."
If this book was the gateway to transforming permanently into the red witch, would I be tempting fate just to read it?
With a shaking hand, I cracked open the weathered leather. The scent of old parchment swirled up. An orderly script filled the page. It began: What followeth is the trew and sworne chronikles of Our Lady of Thorns, the Emperice of all Arcana, chosen to represent Demeter and Aphrodite, embody'g life, all its cycles, and the myst'ries of love. . . .
"Who was the chronicler here?" I asked. "Who wrote these words?"
"They've been translated by chroniclers over the generations, transcribed and retranscribed. But they were first recorded by the Empress's mother."
"My mother, in that other life. Was Mom reincarnated too? Were you?"
Gran shrugged. "Maybe. We can't know for certain."
"Was this chronicler a Tarasova?"
"Probably. We've been fortunate in our line. Our chroniclers are usually gifted with second sight."
I took a deep breath, bracing myself to read. . . .
At the beginning of the oldest entries, the Empress's mother--possibly Mom in another life--had summarized what they'd gathered about the previous games, all the way to the first one.
In the inaugural game, my allies had been the Fool, Fauna, and the Priestess. My kills: the Star, the Hierophant, and the Hermit.
Though I'd been brimming with power, it hadn't saved me. My death had been at the hand of a trusted friend, the ultimate winner--
The Fool.
My jaw slackened. My stomach roiled. He'd murdered her.
Me.
Matthew, my former best friend, had beheaded me. His ally.
Gran's tone was smug as she said, "Still feel the same way about your friends?"
No. No, I did not. I'd barely cracked open the book before I'd almost puked.
Matthew had won the entire game. And he remembered the past! He knew about his betrayal. My nausea worsened as I gazed at the back of my hand, at my icons.
Did the Fool stare at his hands so much because he missed seeing his own sick icons? The markings must be earned. . . .
25
The Hunter
The second metal cuff finally fell away, revealing my lower leg. I winced. Infected to high hell and back. I told coo-yon, "If you doan have a plan--or an army--to get us out of here, then we need weapons."
Say we could somehow make it topside. I knew of only two ways in or out: one for people, and one for trucks. The first was insanely guarded, the second impossibly guarded.
"No weapons." He stretched my arm over his shoulders, lifting me with surprising ease. But then, I'd lost weight and he'd gained muscle. He'd grown taller too, was my height now.
He started down the mine shaft. Too bad we'd never get to the elevator, much less up.
We passed coughing, bedded-down slaves. Everyone down here seemed to have sickness in the lungs, myself included.
The other men didn't holler to be freed or to join us. 'Cause they all knew this escape attempt was hopeless. I heard some of them muttering: "Dumbasses." "Where do they think they're going?" "We'll be dining on them all week."
Matthew and I neared the elevator. "Coo-yon, I can't see shit. But I know the guards have automatic weapons."
"Yes."
Again, what choice did I have but to trust this boy? When we arrived at the elevator, I frowned. No guards?
Damn my heart for pounding. All it did was make my head swirl and my leg throb some more. And it wasn't like we would get past the dozen or so slavers above anyway.
Matthew shoved the elevator gate aside, helping me in. It took me three tries to push the right switch. We started upward. "If they ain't waiting for us, then get ready to run for the door."
We were about to reach topside! Never thought I'd live to see it again.
The elevator clanged to a stop. He dragged back the door with a screech, and I tensed to fight. . . .
No one. "I'll be damned." We lurched out into the overseers' quarters, a large area with corrugated metal walls. Low fluorescent lights dangled from the rock ceiling. Beds and chairs were scattered throughout. "Where is everybody?" Maybe the Fool had timed this rescue while the men were away.
"Think," coo-yon said. "Safety starts with you." Huh? He pointed to an old workplace sign that I could barely make out.
"Ouais. Thanks for reading that for me." Below the sign was a weapons cage. I squinted and made out a padlock. "Need inside that cage, me."
He helped me head toward it, rounding some map tables. "Why ain't there a soul . . . ?" I trailed off when something squelched under my bare feet.
Blood? It had congealed in the dirt.
I gazed past the tables. My vision couldn't be right, 'cause I saw hacked-up and bullet-riddled bodies.
Glassy eyes. Jutting tongues. A nearly severed head. Spatter painted the walls.
Who'd done this bloodbath? "You . . . you gotta be working with Gabe? Joules?"
Though Matthew had never locked gazes with me before, he stared me down. In a spine-chilling tone, he said, "Hunts. And campaigns."
"You did this?" He'd never once set out to hurt anyone before. Never even raised his voice, except with fear.
"They did it to themselves. Knives and guns."
Two dead overseers had bloody machetes in hand. Others held rifles. I'd been so far down in the mine I hadn't heard gunshots. "But you somehow made them do it."
"I hunted and campaigned."
Again, I felt like I was with a stranger.
A man's voice sounded from the entrance: "Where the hell is everybody?"
"Putain!" I bit out under my breath. "The next shift must be here. A dozen more men'll be between us and the exit. You got any bright ideas?"
In the space of a heartbeat, he was back to being a nonchalant seventeen-year-old. "Didn't get farther than this. My power ran out."
"Go snatch a gun off the dead!"
Blank look.
"All right, take me to a weapon."
He guided me to a fallen overseer, then helped me dip to grab an automatic rifle. I straightened--
A bullet whizzed past my head.
"Go, go!" I fired blindly over my shoulder. A yell told me I'd hit somebody.
As Matthew started away, more bullets peppered the metal wall beside us.
He was all but carrying me as I hobbled along on one leg, slowing him down. Fucking hated being dead weight! I blindly fired again. Click. Click. Out of ammo!
The slavers stopped shooting their precious bullets, probably 'cause we were headed into the mine
. We'd be trapped. The only other way out was the impossible exit: the vehicle bay.
Coo-yon led me deeper into a maze of corridors. We turned right. Then left. Right again. Unless some allies were back here waiting for us, we were just running toward our doom.
The corridor opened up to a wider area. He dragged me along, then propped me up against something. A six-foot-tall truck wheel? He'd stopped at one of those monster-size haulers.
"Here, Hunter!" He waved toward something.
A set of blurry steps jogged in front of my eyes. Must be ten feet up to the hauler's cab. "Leave me. I can't make those--"
Matthew swooped me up in a fireman's carry and bounded up the stairs. Just like I'd done with him in his flooded basement--the first time I'd saved his ass.
Coo-yon was loading me? Up was down. He dumped me on the floor behind the pilot seat. The world spun. Stay conscious or die. "You doan know how to operate this thing!" I had only a general idea. Back when I'd plotted my escape, I'd studied the drivers and how they handled these loaders down on the slave level. "You've never even driven a car, non? I gotta get behind the wheel, me. Is it automatic?" No way I could use this leg for the clutch.
"Not automatic."
Damn it! "You got any idea how to drive a stick?"
"In theory!"
If I could somehow talk him through this, we might--might--have a shot at breaking out through the vehicle bay. "Battery switches . . . outside in a box. Flip every one." Please doan let the box be locked.
He set off. A minute later, lights in the cab blazed on.
More shouts, still in the distance. They didn't know where we were. For now.
When Matthew climbed behind the wheel, I said, "I'm goan to help you drive this thing." I tried to sit up. Bad move. Definitely about to black out. I collapsed back. But this meant I couldn't see anything above the dash. "Look for an engine ignition."
Coo-yon started pushing every button and yanking every lever. The heavy-duty hauler bed groaned as it chugged higher and lower. Belts hummed. Blinking lights flashed.
"Damn it, you just let 'em know where we're at. You didn't see that coming?"
"Told you. Power. Empty."