But an inch is enough.
I see the flash of silver peeking out from underneath before he reaches up and straightens the lapels.
Instantly my stomach clenches.
My locket. He’s wearing it. He must have mended the chain while I was unconscious. It makes sense for him to keep it on him. He must think that’s the safest place for it.
He’s wrong.
I’m already formulating my best plan of attack, calculating the perfect time to pounce. It has to be when he least expects it. When he’s, perhaps, momentarily distracted. I’ll ambush him at full speed, faster than he can comprehend, and rip the chain from his neck. Then I’ll stun him with a jab to the throat and a kick to the groin, giving me time to get away, open the locket, and transesse out of here. Wherever here is.
All I need is the right distraction.
Patience, I tell myself, even though my heart is pounding at the anticipation of my escape and the thought of seeing Zen again. Soon I’ll be back at his side. Soon I’ll be able to save him.
Kaelen is still answering my question, seemingly oblivious to the abrupt change in the balance of power.
“Although we don’t quite know for sure what the memories reference, our intelligence suggests that they contain a map.”
My attention is instantly diverted. Did he just say a map?
“To what?” I can’t help asking, even though it doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone in less than a few minutes.
“I cannot divulge that information either,” he says in the same robotic drone that’s really starting to annoy me.
I attempt to bring back the memory. The old man inviting me into his blue door. Into his world.
I can’t imagine how that could possibly be construed as a map.
Unless the map is somehow inside the door.
Well, whatever it is, I’m not waiting around here to find out. I eye the tray that Kaelen placed down on the table at the foot of the bed. “Is that for me?” I ask.
He nods. “I thought you might be hungry. There is much to do and you need your strength.”
I almost laugh at the irony of his statement. I have all the strength I need to take him down right here. Right now.
“Thanks,” I say, attempting to sound grateful. “I’m starving.”
He nods again, a cold, perfunctory motion, and bends down to pick up the tray. This is it. My one and only chance. While his eyes are diverted and his hands are occupied.
NOW!
In less than a second, I’m behind him, one arm wrapped around his neck. I grab a fistful of his hair in my other hand and yank his head back, forcing him into a vulnerable position.
The tray goes clattering to the floor, spilling a bowl of hot soup across the pristine carpet, leaving an unsightly yellowish-brown stain.
I let go of his hair long enough to make a grab for the necklace. My fingers make contact with the chain. I close them tightly and begin to pull. But before I can break it free, I’m suddenly lifted off the ground, my feet uselessly paddling the air, gaining no purchase. In one graceful, effortless motion, I’m thrown over his shoulder, flying and flipping and rotating bottom over top until I land hard on my stomach.
He’s stronger than the agents who came before him. That much I can see now. Alixter must have taken inventory of his failures and recruited a better crop of soldiers this time around.
Still, he should be no match for my speed. My maneuverability. My reaction time.
Not to mention the countless hours of training, preparing for this very scenario.
I leap to my feet and charge toward him, planting a powerful high kick to his rib cage, then follow it up with a solid left hook to his cheek. I’m about to continue the assault with a devastating strike to his kneecaps but I’m momentarily caught off guard by his reaction. Or rather his lack of reaction.
I should hear cracking. I should hear tearing. Bones breaking. Skin splitting. Blood dripping. And moaning. Lots and lots of moaning. These are painful blows I’m delivering.
And yet he barely moves.
His expression hardly changes. He doesn’t look injured, or even faintly uncomfortable. He simply stands there, straight and tall and impervious as ever, staring at me with an almost impatient look on his face. As if to say, Are you finished yet?
And his cheek—which just sustained a very unfriendly encounter with my fist—doesn’t show any signs of affliction. There’s only a dim patch of red that is already fading. I may as well have smacked him with a sparrow feather.
Irritated, I come at him again, but apparently he’s had enough because this time, he fights back. Every punch I throw is blocked. Every kick I cast is ducked. Until eventually, he bestows one of his own. A mighty strike of his hand that smacks my head, sending the room into a dizzying spin, my vision into a disconcerting sputter, and me soaring high through the air, across the room, smashing into the sole lamp in the corner, and landing, this time, on my back with a clangorous thud.