“Are we under house arrest?” Ariel asks.
“More like jail,” Felix says, looking around.
He’s right. Our surroundings are more reminiscent of a dank dungeon than a house.
As he usually does, Stanislav walks as far away from everyone as he can—since we still don’t know if he’s infected and all. “At least we get a reprieve from the constant presence of zombies,” he says, perching on a chair in the corner.
“And there’s normal furniture,” Itzel says, plopping on an ancient-looking chair.
Valerian sweeps away cobwebs and dust from another chair, hygieias it, then gestures for me to sit.
Gratefully nodding, I do so.
“I guess we wait,” Ariel says to no one in particular.
So we wait again in a tense silence.
And wait.
And wait some more.
At some point, I have to use what passes for the bathroom in this house—and experience another bout of gratitude for Valerian’s hygieia device.
After about four hours, I’m both thirsty and hungry. An hour after that, I start complaining, and soon after, I have to explain to Felix that I’d rather die of thirst than drink the water of questionable potability that comes out of the faucet in the grimy bathroom.
Two hours after that, Valerian captures some of said water, waves the hygieia device over it, and convinces me to drink.
Four hours later, I haven’t developed dysentery, but I’m hungry enough to gnaw on my own arm.
“Should I break a door or a window?” Fabian asks, yawning.
“Let’s play nice for a while longer,” Valerian says. “There are millions of zombies outside. We don’t really stand a chance.”
And the interminable waiting continues, with more yawns coming in, followed by naps.
“You should also sleep if you can,” Valerian says to me. “I’ll make a clean surface for you.”
He does, and I drift off—luckily without a visit from the Nutcracker.
When I wake up, our situation is unchanged, my hunger is stronger than ever, and the question of breaking out is at the top of everyone’s agenda.
Just as Fabian walks over to test the strength of the door, the lock clicks.
We all leap to our feet, eyes glued to the door as it opens.
The person who walks in isn’t Nulen. It’s a good-looking young woman with heavy eyeshadow and a black line drawn horizontally across her face below the eyes. Her leather outfit has a worn look to it, as though she got it from a necromancer thrift store. Half of her hair is jet black, while the other half is bleached white, and it’s all held back by a pair of goggles on her head—an accessory that wouldn’t look out of place at a steampunk convention.
“You’re not Nulen,” Dylan says to her, forgetting to switch to Necronian.
“Amazing powers of observation,” the woman says in unaccented American English. “Anyone want to say something even more obvious?”
“Who are you?” I blurt.
“Where’s Nulen?” Valerian says at the same time.
“My name is Rowan,” the newcomer says. “Nulen is dead.”
“Dead?” we exclaim in unison.
“Well, yeah,” she says. “I figured you’d know, seeing as how the Parliament are convinced it was your evil schemes that killed him.”
Chapter Nineteen
Everybody starts shouting at once, with Dylan babbling in Necronian.
Rowan frowns at her. “Did you not hear me speak your language a second ago?”
Dylan winces. “Sorry. All the stress is getting to me.”
Stepping up to her, Fabian places a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Rowan scratches the bleached side of her head. “Stress sucks. I heard that when an octopus is overstressed, she’ll eat herself, and sadly, not in a dirty way.”
“That’s not actually accurate,” Dylan mutters under her breath while I grin internally. The necromancer seems to share my often-inappropriate sense of humor.
“I have a question of my own,” Rowan says, ignoring Dylan. “What’s with the masks? Are you all gnomes?”
“I’m the only gnome,” Itzel says. “With the others, it’s a long story, which will have to wait until you’ve answered some of our questions.”
“Right, about that.” Rowan shifts from one booted foot to the other. “I don’t have many answers for you. I’m only here because I speak your language—and because the Parliament wouldn’t be too sad if you killed me.” She looks us all over. “With that in mind, how about you don’t kill me? Please?”
Everyone continues to shower her with questions, but they speak too fast for anyone to understand anything, plus Stanislav and Fabian might actually be speaking their native tongues.
Rowan loudly clears her throat, and silence finally falls. “I wouldn’t recommend you make the Parliament wait.”
“They want to speak with us?” Dylan asks.
“Right. I think I’ll call you Ms. State-the-Obvious.” Rowan glances at Fabian, then at Dylan. “Or is it Mrs. State-the-Obvious?”
“Why does the Parliament want to talk to us?” I ask. “Or is that also obvious?”
Rowan’s expression turns more serious. “From what I’ve been told, Nulen died in the process of explaining your visit to them. They questioned his corpse afterward as well. I wasn’t given any details; it’s not as if I need to know who you are to bring you to them. Or how much danger I’m in. Or—”