Page 62 of Backwoods
Raven pushed Nick. Nick broke into a run.
He looked over his shoulder. Behind them, Tank was getting to his feet again.
It was yet another incredible incident in a growing collection of improbabilities, and if Nick survived this ordeal, he knew he would never view the world the same way again.
Raven bolted ahead of him, to the doorway. The doors had been pulled shut, for which Nick thought they might be grateful. It might have muffled the sound of the shotgun.
They strained to pull the heavy doors open. Nick heard Tank coming, the man’s furious footsteps increasing in speed.
They hustled through the doorway, into the darkening day. Nick slammed the hasp into place, dug into his pocket, and fumbled out the padlock.
He slipped the lock into the hasp just as Tank rammed against the doors like a caged bull. The doors buckled, wood groaning. The lock rattled, but held. Hands shaking, Nick engaged the padlock.
Roaring, Tank slammed against the doors again.
“All that noise is going to draw someone out here soon,” Raven said, looking around them. “We better get somewhere safe.”
41
Stuck in the same bedroom where she had dressed earlier, Amiya watched out the cracked second-floor window as the last rays of sunshine bled out of the day.
All dressed up and nowhere to go, she thought. She put her fist to her mouth to suppress a manic giggle.
She had heard so much about what would happen next—the master would see her at dinner; the master would “romance” her before taking her to his chamber; the plantation itself transformed radically at nightfall; the Overseer would mark her only after her date with the master—but she hadn’t a clue about what might actually happen. It was as if everyone there were privy to some great secret, excluding her.
She was still inclined to believe that every one of them had been systematically programmed and were living under a mass delusion. All of them were truly captives. Some of them, such as Miss Lula, had been there so long they no longer desired to leave. Others, such as her new ally, Ossie, still had enough of a connection to his former life to want to escape.
She wanted to help Ossie and anyone else trustworthy who wanted to come with her, but first, she needed to help herself. Her number one priority was safely getting out of the house.
Miss Lula had brought her to the bedroom and left Amiya there, unattended, as if she no longer considered her a threat.
“You’ll wait here until I come to collect you later,” Miss Lula had said. She had shut the door behind her, but it didn’t sound as if she had locked it.
Amiya still had the steak knife she had stolen from the dining room. It wouldn’t be enough to take down Miss Lula—that woman looked strong enough to sustain a point-blank blast from a cannon—but used at the right moment, it could give her an advantage.
Amiya tested the doorknob. The brass was scorched, but it yielded to her hand. She pulled the door open, tensed, expecting Miss Lula to be waiting on the other side ready to yell at her, but the woman was out of sight. The corridor was empty, lit only by a single wavering candle.
Ossie had warned her against an escape attempt, had cautioned her to bide her time until she encountered the master. She was inclined to accept his advice, yet she needed a better understanding of her environment.
She slipped off the high heels and left them inside the bedroom. Barefoot, she stepped into the hallway, the dark wood cool underneath her soles, the dress sweeping around her legs.
The mansion was as large as a boutique hotel. Once, she had traveled with her family to Paris and they had lodged in an establishment in the Le Marais historic district. The wide hardwood corridors, high-ceilinged rooms, crown molding, and general air of tainted decadence reminded her of that place, which, thanks to her mother, had been one of the worst vacations of her life.
The room in which she had been placed was near the midpoint of the hallway. The canted spiral staircase stood slightly ahead; it twisted ever upward, leading to an even higher floor of the estate. The balustrade looked ready to collapse, the wood half-eaten by flames. Weak light filtered to the stairs, possibly from a skylight.
She padded to the foot of the steps and peered upward. She saw only patches of light and shadow. The fading light came in through a damaged section of the ceiling up there.
She glanced over the railing at the spiral beneath her, saw no one watching. Lips pressed together, she took to the ascending section of the staircase, taking care to avoid the warped steps and the debris left behind from the old fire.
On the third floor, the air was thick and warm, and immediately wrung perspiration from her pores. The landing emptied into a wide open space, which brought to mind a spacious loft. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, boards buckled as if warped out of shape by giant hands. Several windows, old but intact, were spaced throughout the chamber.
Across the room, someone was staring out one of those windows.
It looked like an elderly woman. She wore a tattered white housedress, and her gray hair fanned across her narrow shoulders. She was perched at the window like a child gazing outdoors waiting on a beloved parent to arrive.
“This is my favorite part of the day,” the woman said, in a brittle voice that crackled with excitement. Without looking over her shoulder at Amiya, she waved her over with a liver-spotted hand. “Come lookie, dear.”
She punctuated her invitation with a giggle. The sound of her laughter raised the hackles at the back of Amiya’s neck. Instead of approaching her, Amiya stepped to a nearby window that faced the same direction.
