Shiver

9

After dinner Wendy and Jeffrey crossed Pico Boulevard, jaywalking at his insistence, and entered the Westside Pavilion, a cavernous postmodern shopping mall echoing with footsteps and the blare of Muzak from trendy little stores. They rode the escalators from floor to floor, people-watching and window-shopping, stopping once to purchase two strawberry frozen-yogurt cones. They ended up at the multiplex theater facility on the top floor, where they debated seeing a movie-or, rather, Jeffrey knocked around the pros and cons of the idea while Wendy listened impassively. There was no shortage of first-run films to choose from, but none of them really appealed to Jeffrey, so he concluded that they didn’t want to go to a movie after all. Wendy agreed.

“Well,” Jeffrey said, which was what he always said when they reached the terminal point in one of their dates.

“Well,” she echoed foolishly.

“You’ve got yogurt on your nose,” he informed her.

She wiped it off. “Thanks.”

“So I guess we’ve had our fun for tonight, huh?”

“I guess so.”

He walked her back to her Honda. They stood on the curb watching random cars whiz past, headlights tracing white comet tails in the darkness. The dry wind was stronger than before; trees rustled ominously, and scraps of newspaper cartwheeled like tumbleweeds down the street.

“There’s still some yogurt on you,” Jeffrey said.

“Where?”

He kissed her mouth gently. “There.”

“Gone now?”

“Not quite.”

He kissed her again. His lips lingered. Her sudden awareness of his body, so close to her own, was frightening. Nervously she pulled away; then, to compensate for breaking contact so abruptly, she smiled.

“Thanks for dinner.”

He nodded, showing nothing in his face. “I’ll call you.”

Quickly she got into her car, turned the key in the ignition, switched on the headlights. She pulled away from the curb and left Jeffrey standing there, alone on the sidewalk, his hand lifted in a wave.

She’d been planning to drive straight home, but on impulse she took a detour into Westwood Village, where the sidewalks were always crowded, even on a Tuesday night. She cruised past movie theaters dressed in neon radiance, bars and restaurants throbbing with the electronic pulse of amplified music, storefront windows framing pyramids of record albums and platoons of T-shirts gliding on automated racks. A sudden inexplicable urge seized her, the urge to get out of her car, join the crowds, become part of that cheerful chaos just beyond her windshield, just out of reach.

The feeling passed. After she’d circled the Village a few times, crawling at five miles an hour in the sluggish traffic, she had no urge to do anything except go home and climb into bed.

She took Wilshire Boulevard east to Beverly Glen, cut south to Pico, and pulled into her parking space at nine-thirty. She got out of the car, carrying the shopping bag from the jewelry store, which now contained only an empty box; she stuffed the bag in the trash dumpster at the side of the building.

As she passed Jennifer Kutzlow’s apartment on the ground floor, she noted with relief that the lights were out, the place silent. Then she remembered having seen Jennifer leave this morning. Off to Seattle, she’d said, swinging her overnight bag. Well, there would be no rock and roll tonight, thank God.

Wendy checked her mail and found nothing but the usual assortment of bills and advertising circulars. She climbed the outside staircase, walked along the second-floor gallery, and unlocked her door. Stepping inside, she flipped up the wall switch; light flooded the living room. Automatically she glanced around to see if the place had been burglarized; it hadn’t.

She hung up her coat in the hall closet, then went into the bathroom to pour a glass of water. Her reflection in the mirror over the sink caught her eye. She stared at herself. The necklace sparkled like spilled wine. It really was beautiful. Beautiful-but wasted. Wasted on her. Because nobody would ever look twice at her, necklace or not.

“It was better off in the display case,” she whispered. Quick tears stung her eyes. “Shouldn’t have bought the thing.” Her fingers fumbled at the clasp. “Waste of money, is what it is. Goddamn waste.”

She yanked off the necklace and flung it to the floor. Then she sat on the closed lid of the toilet, shoulders slumping, and lowered her head, not quite crying but wishing she could.

After a few minutes she collected herself, then knelt and picked up the necklace. As far as she could tell, it was undamaged. She stroked it gently, almost tenderly, as if seeking to apologize for having been so rough with it.

In her bedroom, she opened the jewelry box in the top drawer of her mahogany dresser and laid the necklace inside. She pulled off her tan suit, then changed into white satin pajamas and a blue terry-cloth robe. Groping on the floor of her closet, she found a pair of cushioned Deerfoams and slipped them on her feet. She unclipped her hair and let it fall loosely around her shoulders.

Then she left the bedroom to fix herself a snack. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but an apple might be nice. In the kitchen, in the shadowless light of the overhead fluorescents, she cored and sliced a red Delicious. She switched on the portable TV for the company of a human voice. The ten o’clock news was already under way.

“… search continues for the Gryphon. Thirteen days have passed since the body of Elizabeth Osborn was found…”

Wendy snapped off the TV, letting silence settle over the apartment once more.

She put the apple on a plate, poured a glass of skim milk, and sat at the dining table in her usual chair, facing the two corner windows. Chewing slowly, not noticing the taste, she stared out at the leafy branches of the fig tree swaying and creaking in the wind.

She thought about Jeffrey and the games he played with her, the mind games, the power games. He was wrong to act like that, but she was equally wrong to let him get away with it. Why hadn’t she simply asked him straight out, “How do you like my new necklace?” Why had she been afraid to solicit a compliment from him? But she supposed she knew the answer. She remembered how, as a little girl, she’d dressed up for her parents, hoping to hear words of approval, only to be criticized for being a showoff.

A sigh escaped her lips like a hiss of air from a punctured tire, the weary sound of something shrinking, flattening, losing shape and firmness, a sound that matched the way she felt inside. No longer hungry, but determined to finish her snack, she picked up the second-to-last wedge of the apple and raised it to her mouth, and then from somewhere in the room at her back, she heard a noise.

The noise was faint, so faint as to be nearly inaudible, yet she had no difficulty identifying it in an automatic, almost instinctual way. It was the sound a joint makes when cartilage snap-crackle-pops. The crick of a spine, perhaps, or… or the creak of a knee.

A human sound.

Somebody is in here, she thought in slow, creeping horror. Somebody is… in the apartment… with me.

But that was crazy. Insane. There was no way anyone could have gotten in. The door had been locked. There’d been no sign of forced entry. She had to get hold of herself.

Her hand closed over the cold glass of milk. She took a sip, tried to swallow, couldn’t.

Because she was thinking that, yes, the door had been locked when she’d left and locked when she returned-but locks could be picked, couldn’t they? A man could get in and shut the door behind him, and she would never know. Not until she heard the crackle of bones in the stillness of her living room.

Holding the glass in one hand, she sat motionless in her chair, listening. She heard no further sound. Which, of course, proved nothing. Nothing at all.

Suppose, she thought, now just suppose for the sake of argument that somebody really is in the apartment with me. Hiding. Crouching down, say, his knees getting stiff. Where would he be? In the hall closet? No. Closer than that. Somewhere in this room.

She tried to visualize the layout of the room at her back, but it was difficult; her mind seemed to have gone blank. She’d moved into this apartment five years ago, bought every stick of furniture in the place, spent nearly all of her free time here-yet at this moment she had no idea what the room looked like.

Of course she could see for herself, simply by turning in her chair. But she didn’t want to do that. Because all of a sudden she had the feeling that as long as she didn’t see whatever was there, it couldn’t hurt her. She was a child again, pulling the covers over her head so the monsters wouldn’t be real.

All right, Wendy, she ordered herself. Get it together.

She shut her eyes. She forced herself to construct a mental picture of her apartment.

She started with the front door. To the left of the door there was the doorway to the hall that led to the bathroom and bedroom. To the right, there was the kitchen, divided from the living room by a chest-high counter. Near the entrance to the kitchen was the table where she was now seated. Directly behind her, perhaps five yards from where she sat, was the sofa she’d gotten at Sears. It was flush with the wall; no way for anyone to hide behind it. In front of the sofa was a glass coffee table; it, too, was useless as a hiding place. And at the far end of the sofa, near the doorway to the hall, was her little reading nook: a floor lamp, the fake schefflera tree, and that big old armchair and ottoman she’d picked up at a garage sale and reupholstered…

She drew a sharp breath.

Those two things-the potted plant and the chair-formed a kind of bracket, didn’t they? A man could conceal himself there, screened from view by the bulk of the chair and by the schefflera’s polyester leaves. Couldn’t he? Couldn’t he?

Wendy shivered.

No, the hard, stolid voice of reason insisted. It’s absurd. And you’re going to prove to yourself just how nonsensical it is. Right now.

She put down the glass of milk with a loud, oddly reassuring clunk. Slowly, deliberately, she turned in her chair and stared at the other end of the room.

Nothing stirred. No one was there. No one she could see, anyway.

She considered getting up and looking behind the easy chair, then dismissed the idea. If somebody were there, why would he still be hiding? He would come out and get her, wouldn’t he? The whole thing made no sense. She was just overtired. She hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night.

Calm once more, mildly amused at herself, she ate the last of her apple, then washed it down with the milk. She was still thinking about how silly she’d been to overreact that way when she heard the noise again.

Crick.

Her lower lip began to tremble. She bit down on it, hard.

Old wood, she told herself. Old wood settling in for the night. That’s all it is. That’s all. Please. Let that be all it is.

As casually as possible, Wendy shifted her position in her chair, turning her head just enough to catch a glimpse of the other side of the room.

Her heart froze.

Because for a split second she’d seen something behind the armchair-a wisp of curly brown hair-the top of somebody’s head ducking quickly out of sight.

Oh, my God.

She turned back to the windows, trembling.

He is there, she told herself as panic rippled over her. He must have been there the whole time, ever since I got home. He’s been watching me, watching from behind the chair. For Jesus Christ’s sake, there’s a strange man in my living room and he’s hiding behind the fucking chair!

Okay, girl. Don’t lose it now. Don’t lose it.

With effort she stayed in control. Just barely.

She tried to determine her options. She could attempt to get into her bedroom and lock the door, then call the police. But suppose he heard her making the call and came after her. The bedroom door was only cheap plywood; anyone could break it down. Response time in this neighborhood was eight or nine minutes at least. Too long.

All right, then. She would make a run for it. Yes, even though she was wearing only pajamas and a robe. She would get out the front door and run, run like hell.

But she had to be smart about it. Had to act natural, con him into thinking she suspected nothing. In order to reach the front door she’d have to cross the living room, which meant she would pass right by the chair; if she betrayed any hint of what she knew, the man would pounce on her and bring her down, and then God only knew what he would do.

But if she could make it past the chair, then the front door would be less than five feet away. That would be the time to break into a run. All she’d have to do was get to the door, down the stairs, into the street. And scream. Scream for help. Yes. That was all.

But it sure was enough.

She took a breath. With studied nonchalance, she picked up her plate and her glass, carried them into the kitchen, and put them in the sink. To her astonishment she realized she was humming a melody-that old song, “Full Moon and Empty Arms,” which had been taken from the theme of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto, hadn’t it? Now why would a tune like that have chosen this particular moment to pop into her head? The human mind sure was an amazing thing, yes, indeedy. Simply remarkable, what the old cerebral cortex could come up with to amuse itself in moments of extreme stress.

Nausea burned in her stomach. The back of her neck was icy; her forehead, feverish. She had the absurd impression that her heart had leaped out of her chest into her skull and was beating there; she could feel its hard steady rhythm against her temples, her jaw, the crown of her head, each beat a separate knock, shaking her body.

Still humming softly, she ran cold tapwater in the sink, banged her breakfast dishes around in a noisy pretense of washing and drying them, and shoved them into the kitchen cabinets. Then, prompted by a sudden thought, she picked up the knife she’d used to core and slice the apple, and hid it in the pocket of her robe.

Now for the hard part.

She tried to estimate how far it was to the front door. A good fifteen paces, she figured. All she had to do was cover that much distance, and she would be home free.

Heart pounding, she left the kitchen, keeping her face averted from the armchair and potted plant up ahead on her left. She could feel his eyes on her. Could sense his closeness, the closeness of a camouflaged jungle animal poised to spring for the kill.

She padded through the living room, still humming the tune, which in her ears had segued from a cheerful melody into a series of stifled screams. She was aware with preternatural alertness of every object she passed. The coffee table, its glass surface scattered with copies of Elle magazine. The sofa, still bearing the plastic slipcovers that had come with it. The end tables where ceramic lamps glowed, casting cones of yellow light over the bare white wall.

She wished she were not wearing her pajamas and robe. The bedtime clothes made her feel even more vulnerable, almost naked. Naked before him, exposed to his staring eyes.

The door was only six feet away. But closer still, there loomed the armchair. She wanted to veer around it, but if she did, he would know something was up. She forced herself to walk right by the chair, passing so close that the hem of her robe brushed its legs. Abruptly something cold and smooth touched the bare skin of her neck, and she was sure it was his hand reaching out for her-but no; it was only one of the schefflera’s plastic leaves. She hummed louder. The noise was maddening in her ears; it throbbed in time with the pulse of roaring blood.

Then-hallelujah-she’d gotten past the chair. The hallway was coming up on her left. He would expect her to turn down that hall. When she didn’t, he would know she was on to him, and he would strike.

She took a step toward the hall, and then with a burst of speed she raced for the front door.

Behind her she caught a flash of motion, and without even looking back she knew he’d sprung to his feet, bobbing up from behind the chair like a jack-in-the-box. She reached the door. Her hand fisted over the knob. She jerked it savagely. The door didn’t open. The dead bolt-oh, God-she must have thrown the dead bolt.

Behind her, footsteps. Closing in. Fast.

She drew the bolt and tried the knob again.

This time the door opened. She was going to make it. Going to make it-

At the edge of her vision, a blurred white shape. A sneaker lashing out in a kick. Thump of impact, rubber on wood. The door slammed shut.

Wendy grabbed the knob again, trying to turn it, to pull open the door and escape into the night just beyond her reach, and then suddenly two gloved hands flew past the sides of her face like brown bats, leather-winged and blood-spotted, and something threadlike and viciously sharp was looped around her neck, cutting into the tender skin, drawing blood.

“Let go of the door. Miss Wendy Alden,” a male voice whispered in her left ear, “and don’t make a sound.”

My name, she thought in cold shock. How does he know my name?

Slowly she released her grip on the doorknob. She let both hands fall to her sides, fingers splayed. She was unnaturally aware of the position of her body, her slippered feet planted wide apart on the floor, her back arched, her head leaning back under the pull of the sharp slender cord-a loop of wire, she realized-lashed around her throat.

The man was directly behind her. She could smell the stale greasy odor of his sweat, could feel his breath hot on her cheek. But she couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see anything except the black specks pinwheeling crazily before her eyes.

“If you cry for help,” he said softly, his voice so low she could barely hear it over the staccato beating of her heart, “if you try anything foolish, I’ll kill you.”

His last words echoed in her mind: I’ll kill you, kill you, kill you. No, he couldn’t have said that. But he had. She’d heard him. She was sure of it. He’d said he would kill her. But that was crazy. She couldn’t… die. Could she?

“Your lovely neck,” he went on quietly, “is now encircled by a foot and a half of stainless-steel wire. A garrote, you see.”

Garrote. Like in The Godfather.

“Homemade,” the stranger whispered, “but most effective nonetheless. The wire is threaded through two wooden dowels, which serve as handles. Simply by twisting those handles, I can exert pressure”-the wire tautened slightly for emphasis-“as much pressure as I like. Steel wire is wickedly sharp; it can slice flesh like wax. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Say yes.”

“Yes.” The word a croak. It startled her. Someone else’s voice.

“Good. Very good. Are you afraid of me, Miss Wendy Alden?”

A choked sound was all she could utter.

“Are you?” he inquired more sharply, as once again the garrote tightened almost imperceptibly, but just enough.

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“Of course you are. Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“I am called the Gryphon.”

Dizzying fear. Waves of it. Her knees weakening. Feverish heat in her forehead. Vision doubling. Heart pounding. She fought to keep from passing out.

This wasn’t happening. Not to her. It couldn’t be. The Gryphon-why, that was something she heard about on the news, something that involved other people, something remote and distant, a headline or a few seconds of tape shot by a wobbly camera, scary but not immediate, not a threat, not part of her world.

“Oh. Oh. Oh.” Who was saying that? She was. Funny. Why was she repeating that one word, that empty sound, over and over? She wanted to stop, couldn’t. “Oh. Oh. Oh.” The sounds coming faster now, uncontrollable, like hiccups.

“Shut up.” His voice like a slap.

She shut up. She waited for him to kill her. He would, of course. He always killed his victims. Killed them and… and cut off their heads.

“Now listen to me. Miss Alden. You’ve seen the stories in the news. You know what happened to the other women I’ve encountered. But for you I may make an exception. I may let you live… if you’ll do what I say. Will you?”

An exception. Then there was a chance. A hope. If she would do what he said. Well, of course she would. She would do whatever he wanted. Even let him molest her, rape her. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except staying alive.

Everything was clear, vivid. Terror had sharpened her senses, heightened her awareness, slowed time to a spider crawl. The smallest details around her stood out sharply like photographic close-ups. She saw the light glinting on the brass doorknob a foot away, saw the blurred, contorted, upside-down images of herself and the man behind her cupped in the knob, two indistinct shadowy shapes backlit by the lamps on her end tables. She saw the white pile carpet, and the seam where the carpet met the molding of the wall, and the brownish dust that had collected there, where her vacuum cleaner hadn’t reached; she would have to use the Dustbuster on that mess, uh-huh. She heard the hum of the refrigerator and the buzz of the fluorescent lighting panel in the kitchen. Outside a car rattled past, engine noise fading with distance, leaving an impression of motion and freedom, cruelly tantalizing.

“Will you?” the Gryphon asked again.

She realized she hadn’t answered. Her voice was stuck in her throat. Her tongue was paste. She forced out sound.

“Yes.”

“You’re most cooperative. Miss Alden. I like that. Your chances of surviving this rendezvous are improving all the time.” His lips drifted closer to her ear. She felt the heat of his breath on her earlobe. “Of course, if you saw my face, then I would have no choice but to kill you. You didn’t see my face, did you?”

“I didn’t. I swear.” Oh, God, it was no use, he’d never believe her, even though it was true. “You’ve been behind me the whole time,” she said desperately, pleadingly, “and there was no way I could see you, really, I don’t have any idea-”

“Fine. I only wanted to be sure.”

Did he believe her? Did he really? There was no way she could know. She had to hope, that was all, just hope.

“Now,” he said softly, “here’s what I’d like you to do.”

She waited, praying it wouldn’t be too bad, whatever it was he wanted. Distantly she was aware of the searing pain in her throat where the wire had dug into her skin, and the warm trickle leaking from the wound. She could feel the strength of his arms in the pressure of the garrote around her neck. The garrote that, at any moment, could cinch tight, tear open her throat like a paper bag, slice arteries, stop breath.

“I want you to say some words for me,” he told her. “Some very special words. Words that please me and leave me satisfied. I’ll say them first, and you’ll repeat them for me. Do that, and I’ll release you unharmed. Fair enough?”

Fair enough? she thought. Oh, God, yes, more than fair enough. Just saying some words, why, that’s easy, that’s nothing.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s fair. Very fair. Thank you.” She felt ridiculously grateful to this faceless stranger who was giving her a chance, who wanted nothing more from her than a few words. “Thank you very much.”

“Why, you’re most welcome, my dear. And most charmingly polite. All right, repeat after me: Please don’t kill me.”

“Please…” She stumbled. This was harder than she’d thought. Those words were difficult to say. They named her emotions too exactly. They made the danger facing her fully real. “Please don’t kill me,” she said with effort.

“I don’t want to die,” he said.

Suddenly her eyes were burning. Tears threatened. “I… I don’t want to die.”

“I’ll do whatever you wish. Anything at all.”

“I’ll do anything…” No, that was wrong. Dammit, Wendy, get the words right. “I’ll do whatever you want. Wish. Whatever you wish. Anything at all.”

She was messing up. She couldn’t concentrate. The wire testing her throat, it was tight, too tight. Hard to breathe.

“You are far greater and more powerful than I.” He spoke in a slow, measured, ritualistic cadence. “You frighten me. I’ve never been so terribly afraid. You’re the strongest, the most awe-inspiring being I’ve ever conceived of.” His voice was growing sluggish, torpid, the voice of a leech battening itself on blood. “I’m blinded by your radiance, prostrate before you. Overwhelmed, chastened, humbled. Say it.”

It was too much to absorb; she couldn’t retain it all. Her head was spinning.

“You… you’re much greater than I am, much more, uh, powerful. You scare me. I’ve never felt so afraid. You’re the… the strongest and most… most…”

“Awe-inspiring,” he prompted.

“Most awe-inspiring being I’ve ever imagined. I’m blinded by your

…” What was the word? “Radiance. Blinded by your radiance. Blinded and humbled…” No, there was something before that, something about kneeling, but not kneeling, some other word, what was it? She didn’t know, couldn’t think, she’d blown it, oh, God, what a jerk she was. “I’m sorry,” she said helplessly, “I’m all mixed up. Could you repeat the last part? Please?”

“Never mind.” An edge in his voice. A growl. Anger.

He would kill her now. She knew he would. She had to make him give her another chance.

“Oh, come on, tell me again,” she pleaded, hating the tremulous eagerness in her voice. “I’ll say it right this time, I’ll say all of it, I just couldn’t remember…”

He made no reply. She waited for the sudden agonizing bite of the wire.

“Please,” she said again, hoping for some answer, any answer. “Oh, please, I promise I won’t disappoint you. Uh, let’s see. I’m blinded by your radiance, I’m, uh, overwhelmed and humbled…”

“There, there, my dear,” the voice behind her said with surprising kindliness. “It’s all right. No need to go on with this part of the program. You’ve recited enough borrowed words.”

She understood that he was not angry with her after all, that he was not going to tighten the garrote, not yet anyway. Relief weakened her.

“Now,” he said, “I wish to try something a little different. More creative. I want you to tell me exactly why you ought to live. Why your life matters. Why it’s important. I’m not talking about your value to society or to mankind; this isn’t the Miss America pageant we’re running here, in case you hadn’t noticed. Tell me why your life is important to you. What do you love? What are your aspirations? Your dreams? Your prayers? Tell me.”

Dreams? Prayers? She didn’t know. She hadn’t dared to dream in so long. Her mind was blank,

“I… oh. Jeez, I… I’m not sure what to say…”

“Well, you’d better think of something. Miss Wendy Alden.” The garrote tightened again, the razor-keen steel burning. “And you’d better make it good.”

Even though she couldn’t see him, she knew he was smiling; she could feel the slow upward curve of his lips, the feral flash of teeth. She had no choice but to give him what he wanted, if she could find the words. And she had to find them. Just had to.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you. I… I want to live, because

… because…” No words would come. “Because…”

Nothing. Nothing at all. Did she want to live? Did it matter? Did anything matter?

“I’m waiting. Miss Alden.”

Talk, she ordered herself. Say any goddamn thing, will you? Come on, dammit. Come on.

“Santa Barbara,” she said, then rushed on, afraid to stop. “I want to go there. Want to see Santa Barbara. Oh, God, that sounds stupid, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s not that far away, and why didn’t I ever go when I had the chance? But I didn’t. Because I was afraid. Afraid to live. I haven’t lived yet, not really, not ever. Haven’t done anything. And now I’m sorry, so sorry, for all the things I’ve missed.”

“What else?” the voice breathed.

“I want to do something with my life. Get a better job, challenge myself, I don’t know. I’m afraid to die not knowing what I could have done, what I could have been. And I… I want to fall in love. I’ve never been in love, never even known what love is. This probably isn’t good enough, is it? What I’m saying, I mean. I know it’s not. I should have some big exciting plans, when all I’ve got are these stupid little things that don’t mean anything, except they’re what seem to matter most, the things I’ve never done…”

She was crying. Crying for the first time in years, the first time since childhood, and perhaps for the last time ever. She was still afraid, yes, but underlying her fear was sadness, a profound and all-consuming sense of loss. She mourned for herself and for her life. She was an unborn child; she had never really lived; and now she never would. Her brief flame, never bright, would be snuffed out, leaving behind no memory of its burning. She’d spent twenty-nine years on earth, twenty-nine years of days and nights, but out of all those days, how many had she known when she truly felt alive? How many hours? Not enough, not nearly enough. Oh, but if he only would let her go, she would cherish every day, hour, minute, second, every breath of life; never again would she let time go by unappreciated and unused. And she would have time, so much time-years, decades-who ever said life was short?

Please, God, please make him let me go…

“I want to live,” she said, her voice thick. “I do. Really. So much. I never knew before-how much. And if you… kill me, I won’t get the chance to live, to change. If I can change. I don’t know if I can. Maybe I can’t. Maybe nobody can. Maybe we’re all victims, me and you, everyone. Maybe it’s too late… for all of us. But I’m not sure. I have to find out. Please let me find out. I’m not making sense, am I? I know I’m not. I wish, I wish, I wish I knew what to say…”

“Hush now. You’ve done fine, Miss Alden. The Gryphon is well-pleased.”

She hitched in a breath. What did he mean by that? Would he let her go? He’d promised he would, if she satisfied him. She waited, tears standing in her eyes, feeling a desperate hope.

“You’re very innocent,” he breathed in a voice soft as velvet, “aren’t you, my dear? I like that. You’re not at all like the others in this polluted city. You’re so wonderfully untouched, uncorrupted. Your purity makes me ashamed of having lied to you.”

Her heart twisted. “Lied?”

“I do apologize.”

“What… did you… lie about?” But she knew. She knew already.

“Letting you go. Sparing your life. There never was any chance I would do that.”

Her last hope crumbled, crushed under heavy despair. She moaned. Her mind was a bruise slowly turning black-and-blue.

“You’re far too fine a specimen,” he whispered. “You’ll be such a wonderful addition to my collection.”

Specimen? she thought numbly. Collection?

Then she understood. Her head. That was what he meant. He collected heads. The heads he took from his victims. And now he would take hers.

She tried to speak, couldn’t. Her mouth worked, but no sound came. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the world and flee this nightmare, then opened them immediately, afraid of the dark that had fallen behind her eyelids, the dark that was so much like death.

The steel wire was tightening slowly, slowly. She was going to die here, in this room, tonight-die before she’d lived-and there was nothing she could do.

“You’re mine now. Miss Wendy Alden,” the Gryphon breathed, his voice like dust, like death. “Mine forever.”