Page 10 of Into Darkness (Night Prowler 6)
Liesel sighed, and pushed back another flyaway strand of hair from her face. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.”
Liesel began to flatten the kneaded dough into a thin layer with a wooden roller, and Lu followed her lead, realizing with a shiver that she didn’t want to find out, either.
Unfortunately, she had a dark, gnawing feeling that she would.
By the time the caravan of sleek black vehicles bearing the Grand Minister and his entourage pulled into the loading dock behind the Hospice on silent wheels, Lu’s nerves were as shredded as the red cabbage she’d prepared for the sauerbraten.
Like a nest of tumors, tension had been growing in her stomach for hours.
She’d dropped a tray of dumplings, burned her hand on one of the racks in the oven, and snapped at poor Mr. Kirchmann when he’d asked her to read to him during her rounds. She made it up to him by giving him a girly magazine—purloined from her nemesis Cushing’s extensive personal collection, which he’d compiled over years of searching the luggage of new arrivals—but she still felt guilty. It wasn’t his fault she couldn’t get her act together.
It wasn’t his fault she had a target on her back.
She wasn’t the only one suffering from nerves, though. The entire staff was on edge. To the Hospice guests, a visit from such an infamous character as the Grand Minister was a welcome distraction from their banal daily routine, but fear ran rampant through the kitchen, the laundry, and the administration offices. Fear that if an Aberrant was exposed within the ranks, everyone might be held accountable for harboring the enemy. Two fights had already broken out so far, minor skirmishes where one party accused the other of either being the culprit or having knowledge of who it actually was, and the feeling of hostile scrutiny increased to the point that Lu felt as if she were walking around under a giant, unblinking eye.
That feeling would pale in comparison to the first moment she locked gazes with the Grand Minister.
Cushing saw him first. The orderly had been on lookout since the start of his shift, moving through the halls at double his normal snail’s pace, his thick arms swinging by his sides while his eyes darted to and fro, scanning faces and windows with equal intensity. Lu had been avoiding him as she always did, but the moment she heard his shout from near the loading dock doors, she bolted, anxious to get a glimpse of the infamous GM before he entered the building.
Among a chorus of aggravated protests, Lu pushed to the front of the small crowd that had gathered at the wide double doors that led from the interior hallway of the Hospice to the outside dock area where the delivery trucks unloaded their goods. Through the round scratched windows, she saw a group of men in simple, severe black suits garnished with white armbands emblazoned with the IF’s sun symbol huddled around the rear of a van that had its back doors open. The men seemed to be trying to remove something from the van, but Lu couldn’t make out what it was. She stepped to one side to get a better look, and as she did, found herself staring into a face so familiar she was momentarily paralyzed by déjà vu.
But it couldn’t be. She’d never seen this man before in her life.
He, too, wore a simple black suit. More correctly, he wore a jacket and trousers that had been altered to accommodate his two missing legs and one missing arm. He was missing an eye as well—the hole was covered by a black patch, lending him a sinister, villainous air—and he was being carefully lowered by his companions into a waiting wheelchair. He was frail, with wispy white hair and a shrunken chest, the one hand like a skeleton’s, yet there was nothing frail about his energy. He looked up and caught sight of her, and Lu took an involuntary step back.
His one eye—blue and cold as an arctic sky—fixed on her with the ferocity of a hungry lion.
She felt pinned in place. She felt, for a moment, that the earth had stopped spinning beneath her feet and she might at any moment shirk the bounds of gravity altogether and go shooting out into space.
Because in that fleeting look, she saw recognition.
Recognition, and rage.
Gasping in shock, Lu spun and flattened her back against the door. She was quickly pushed aside as others surged forward, but her knees wouldn’t stop trembling, and she had trouble regaining her balance as she fled back into the kitchen. She looked wildly around for someplace to hide, quickly realizing the stupidity of that plan. The only thing to do, the only possibility for getting out of this situation alive, was to remain calm. Panicking wouldn’t help. And if she ran, her father . . .
She wouldn’t think about what would happen to her father if she ran.
So she leaned against the stainless steel sink with her eyes squeezed shut until she could breathe again.
Lars pounded down the hallway outside, cursing in German at the staff to get back to their posts. He burst into the kitchen, flailing his arms and shouting.
“Lumina! Lumina, where in the hell—”
He stopped short as he caught sight of her. “Oh. There you are. Where’s Liesel?”
Mute, she shook her head, eliciting a dramatic moan from Lars. He thrust his hands into his hair. “Well, find out! I’ve got to finish the sauerbraten—”
“Forget the sauerbraten!” snapped a female voice. Lu and Lars turned to find the Administrator, grim faced and tense, standing stiffly near the six-burner stove. Mathilda Gruenborn was tall and bone thin, with a schoolmarm’s fashion style and a sense of humor that could only be described as missing. At the moment, her pinched face was the exact color as her lumpy sweater: gray
.
“You know the protocol: Assemble in the main hall and wait for me there. I’m going to greet the Grand Minister—”
“But the sauerbraten!” Lars cried. “If I don’t time it just right, the meat will be—”
The Administrator shrieked his name, her face flushing a deep berry red. Lars snapped his mouth shut, lifted his chin, and without another word, marched out of the kitchen. The Administrator breathed loudly for a few seconds, then nodded at Lu, her jaw tight. She spoke through clenched teeth. “You, too, Bohn. Don’t make me ask twice.”
The itch in Lu’s palms, so irritating before, grew now into a hot, throbbing imperative. In an attempt to relieve it, she smoothed her hands down the front of her jacket, a motion which the Administrator mistook as an attempt to straighten any stray wrinkles in the fabric of her coat. She nodded, pleased, then turned and left without another word, leaving Lu to stare after her.
