Ice Shock(32)

I keep very still, listening for Madison. After two or three minutes, I hear footsteps on the path. I duck back inside the chapel ruin, press myself tightly into the shadows. I hear someone take a running jump onto the window ledge and a head pokes through the bars on the window. I hold my breath. He almost certainly can’t see me, but he hesitates. He knows I’m here—I sense it.

The only way into the chapel is the long way around, the way I came. After a minute on the ledge, he jumps down. I hear his footsteps recede, carrying on around the outer wall of the ruin.

I move to the chapel entrance, waiting.

This will be my only chance. I’m going to have to land a staggering blow the first time. I doubt I’d last five seconds in a fight by now. I bounce lightly on my toes, waiting, shivering. My arms and chest are prickly with goosebumps.

I hear Madison’s breathing as he approaches. I try to visualize his hand holding the gun, to picture him walking into the chapel.

His gun will be in his right hand, about a foot in front of his body. He’ll be stepping cautiously.

I don’t even have to think about which move to use. This is it; time to prove myself worthy of my capoeira nickname— Mariposa—the butterfly twist.

I bounce into ginga, preparing—full concentration.

As Madison crosses the threshold, I lunge into the run-up, dip, and flip myself into mariposa—a flying double scissor kick with a twist. As my torso whips through the air, my legs connect with his right arm, catch it between my ankles in a violent, rapid twisting movement.

Almost perfect.

Madison drops the gun, falls to his knees, yelling in agony. While he’s on the ground, I aim a low kick to the back of his head. But he’s too quick; he’s already getting up. My kick lands in his back instead, knocks his head forward against the chapel wall. He slumps to the ground, grunting.

I struggle to hold my position, exhausted, wondering how long he’ll be out of action. Probably not long—he’s still moving groggily and moaning. I crawl on all fours, scrabbling in the damp grass for the gun. When I find it, I think seriously about shooting him in the leg.

But I’ve never used a gun. I’m pretty shaky—what if my aim wobbles and I kill him? Holding the gun already feels horrible, scary. Madison’s right there, helpless. I could kill him, maim him—if I wanted to.

Except that I can’t. I know in that instant—it’s not who I am.

Instinct tells me to get out of there, and fast. So I’m moving again, this time carrying the gun. Back through the looming shadows of the convent, across the footpath, deeper into Port Meadow, now with the river on my left.

I’m hoping that Madison will assume I’d head back to the road and the safety of Godstow Village, or the restaurant. But I need to find a place to hide until Benicio arrives from Ek Naab.

If he arrives from Ek Naab. With my Ek Naab phone lying in pieces back at Ollie’s place, he can’t trace me. Port Meadow is big; the river is long.

I stagger past a river lock. The warm lights of a brick cottage beckon. I find an old woodshed near the cottage. It’s about the same height as me. There’s a door on a latch, and I crawl inside. There are some rotting scraps of old carpet piled over the wood. I pull the chunks of carpet over me. They smell of mold, but they’re mostly dry. I hold the gun between my knees, keep it pointed at the door.

I’m freezing cold, exhausted, terrified—but relieved. I can’t risk letting anyone know I’m here. I can’t go home or be seen. What if I’m turned in to the police and they call Mom?

Without my Ek Naab phone, my best bet is to stay near the river in Port Meadow until four in the morning. And hope Benicio has a way to find me.

The fight with Madison has drained all my strength. I have to make myself stay awake for the next few hours. But I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. I’m shaking violently, on and off. Even my thoughts slow down. It’s as though getting into the shed was the last thing my brain could force my body to do.

And now everything … everything is shutting down.





16


At some point I become aware of a familiar yet eerily displaced sound; it takes me a few minutes to work out that it’s the sound of a Muwan landing. I blink, push open the door, lurch away from the woodshed. Beyond the house, the meadow is thick with early-morning mist. Dawn is still hours away. I can still hear the Muwan. But inside that mist, I can’t see anything.

I walk unsteadily to the riverbank, still wrapped in pieces of carpet, holding the gun. Visibility is no better than ten yards. I shuffle along the bank for several minutes.

A hand grabs my shoulder, spins me around.

“It’s me, Benicio. What happened—where’s your cell phone?”