Indexing: Reflections (Kindle Serials) (Indexing Series Book 2) (28 page)

# # #

Adrianna moved surprisingly fast for someone who was wearing a body that didn’t belong to her. Had she
ever
suffered a period of disorientation? I thought she might have, but that could easily have been hindsight, which was always twenty-twenty, trying to make me second-guess myself. I had known from the beginning that
something
was wrong. I was just trying to make it bigger than it had really been.

Sometimes the subtle signs are the truest. The switch of a story from apples to snow, for example. Or the brush of a thorn against my skin as I pressed myself hard against the hedge wall, sticking to the shadows. Adrianna was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t still out there, or make her any less dangerous.

Would she kill me? That was the real question. She had seemed determined to recruit me to her cause, but that could have been a matter of convenience. When you had access to a potential ally who had in some cases literally written the book on Bureau response, why wouldn’t you try to lure them over to your side? I had been an asset until I had shown her, conclusively, that I was no such thing. Now I was an enemy, and if she let me find my way out of this maze, I could blow her cover with everyone else.

Where
was
everyone else? A chill ran down my spine as I considered the all-too-plausible fact that she could have tried the same recruitment pitch with Jeffrey, only to be shot down even harder. I, at least, had been prepared to play along until I knew what I needed. Jeffrey loved Henry. Jeffrey had been by this woman’s side since she woke up in his lover’s stolen body—and if he had never realized that anything was wrong, he was going to hate himself. That was one more crime to lay at Adrianna’s feet. True love’s kiss hadn’t worked on Henry’s body because Henry hadn’t been there. Now it might not work because Adrianna had slipped in and slit love’s throat.

I’d just have to kill her extra slow.

Footsteps echoed softly through the maze. Adrianna was coming my way. I crouched further, tightening my grip on my borrowed machete. The smell of wet cat still clung to the air around me, although it was fading; the Marquis de Carabas was dead, poor story-struck soul that he had been, and while I was enough for the story to batten on to for a little while, I couldn’t sustain it. I wasn’t equipped to step into his role.

But what if I
was
? The thought was startling. Adrianna had been talking about changing my story, and I knew Elise had managed it—that was what had made her so damn dangerous. What if the answer was doing exactly what I was doing now, but forcing myself into the lead role, instead of taking up the sidekick’s part? Kill a princess to become a princess, in other words.

It was a terrible thing to contemplate. It might well be the only thing that would let me out of the maze of endless years in which I had been so long marooned.

Thorns prickled against my back as I plastered myself more firmly against the hedge wall, waiting for Adrianna to come around the corner. Maybe I couldn’t kill her while she was in Henry’s body, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t hurt her a little. All I needed was to get the drop on her. She might be evil, while the jury was still out on me. She might be cunning.

I was a pissed-off wicked stepsister with a machete, and I would stack that up against anything else the story had to sling at me.

Adrianna stepped into view. I lunged for her, machete raised, moving with feline speed. She smirked and stepped to the side, as casual as anything. I tried to adjust and discovered that I couldn’t; my legs were slow and felt too thick, like they had been standing in cold water for hours. Momentum carried me right past her and sent me crashing to the ground.

“We have so many things to talk about, you and I,” she said, crouching to take the machete from my hands. I struggled to hold it, but she plucked it away from me as easily as pulling an apple from a tree. “That little stunt of yours—I don’t know how you did it, and I want to. If you can share stories, instead of changing them, that will change everything.
Everything
. I’m sorry, dear, but you don’t have a choice anymore about whether you come with me.”

I tried to speak. I couldn’t. I glared daggers at her instead, hoping that her ego would force her to keep talking. Her ego, and the story, which so often demanded that the villains explain their plans for the hidden heroes to hear.

But there were no heroes hiding here. Any member of my team would have stepped in to save me by now, even Ciara. We were alone, me and her, in the maze, and I couldn’t move.

“Don’t worry, Amity. The poison Elise put on those thorns will wear off soon, and you’ll be fine.” She tossed the machete aside and stooped, trying to scoop me off the ground. She stopped trying a moment later and straightened, grimacing. “Did my niece never lift anything heavier than her badge? This weak, useless body is going to need some serious improvement. No matter. Wait here.”

She walked away. I struggled to move.

I was still struggling to move when she returned, pulling a wagon shaped from a giant pumpkin and accompanied by four of Elise’s mouse-men. Together, they loaded me into the wagon and pulled me away. I couldn’t fight them. I couldn’t even sit up by myself. All I could do was stare at the crows perching atop the hedge maze, and wonder what was going to happen when my team learned that I was gone.

Adrianna had changed my story after all. She had made me a prisoner.

It was up to me to find a way to escape.

Memetic incursion in progress: tale type 709 (“Snow White”)

Status: ACTIVE

No one had come rushing in to see what was going on: My new body must have been here for a while. Long enough for the nurses to stop watching for changes in her condition and resign her to long-term care. It was good care, at least. The body had sufficient muscle tone for me to move around on my own, even if my legs were weak and shaky, and when I pulled the hair back from my face and secured it with a twist tie I’d found on the floor, my fingers responded without complaint. I could function. I might not be happy about it, but I could do it. That was what mattered right now.

I finished peeling the sensors off my skin, probably triggering a bunch of alarms somewhere, and left the room with the quick, furtive steps of a fugitive. I didn’t want the hospital staff to find me, shove me back into the bed, and start contacting the family of the body I was wearing. This was a temporary stop on my way back to getting myself back. I would be as careful with her as I could. Even if the original owner didn’t want it back, this body wasn’t mine, and it deserved to be returned in mint condition, or as close to it as was possible.

Every step seemed to highlight another difference between this body and my own. My vision was crisper than I expected it to be, sharper around the edges, until it felt like everything had been magnified. Maybe it was time to look into getting contact lenses when I was myself again. Being several inches shorter than I expected to be was a lot more disorienting, as was the fact that I was substantially curvier than I’d ever been in my life. I needed to find a bra, and soon, or this was going to be a painful adventure.

Breaking out of a hospital turned out to be easier than it sounded, especially when breaking out of the coma ward. The staff was no doubt dedicated, committed to their jobs, and genuinely invested in the well-being of their patients. They were also accustomed to those patients remaining perfectly still for months, if not years, at a time. “She got up and walked away” wasn’t a normal concern. I found a locker room, no doubt reserved for use by the nurses, and rummaged through the open lockers until I had assembled something that almost resembled a reasonable outfit: sweatpants, a loose hoodie, socks, and heavy-soled brown shoes that almost fit. I probably looked like a college student on laundry day. I didn’t particularly care.

One of the nurses had left her wallet in her locker. I felt bad about taking the eighty dollars in cash that she had on her, but not bad enough to leave it behind. At the moment, I needed it more than she did.

“Sorry,” I murmured, making the money disappear into my pocket. “The Bureau will reimburse you.”

I closed the locker, turned, and walked away. There would probably be a taxi stand outside the hospital, somewhere. I should get moving. I didn’t have a choice.

# # #

My feet were aching and the sweatshirt was starting to chafe in places I didn’t like to think about by the time the cab dropped me off in front of the unlabeled, unremarkable building that served as Bureau headquarters. My new body had been sleeping off her story in my own hometown, which was a blessing, and also a terrifying reminder that we’d never known as much as we thought we did. How many stories like her were scattered around like little narrative grenades, waiting for the moment when their pins would be pulled and their fairy tales would explode into terrible life?

The fare was a little over sixty dollars. I told the driver to keep the change. Maybe tipping well would keep him from telling the hospital he’d seen me if they asked—and since I’d jumped into a body with coloring identical to my own, it wasn’t like he was going to forget me any time soon. The skin as white as snow alone would be pretty memorable.

It had been years since I’d approached the Bureau via the front door. That was for visitors and people from other branches of the government, not for agents. Right now, my status was unclear. Did oaths of service travel with the mind, or with the flesh? Was I a part of the organization, or was I one more target?

We’d find out. I stepped inside, inhaling the stale, faintly artificial lobby air, and proceeded toward the desk. The receptionist on duty didn’t look up from whatever game she was playing on her phone. Her hair was long, dark, and wet-looking, like she’d just dredged herself up from the bottom of a forgotten pond in the middle of an isolated moor.

I cleared my throat. She didn’t look up.

Right: we were going to have to do this the direct way. “Agent Henrietta Marchen to see Deputy Director Brewer,” I said. My voice was too high; I sounded chirpy and bright, even when I was trying to be serious and dour. Just my luck. I had to jump into a soprano.

The receptionist looked up, thick eyebrows raised under the damp fringe of her hair. “Bullshit,” she said, in a voice that sounded like it was being forced through layer upon layer of thick, waterlogged peat. “I don’t know what you want, kid, but impersonating an agent isn’t the way to get it.”

I took a deep breath and stood up straighter, trying to look imposing despite my perky collegiate form. I had the feeling things were going to get harder from here. “You’re wet, despite having no obvious source of moisture. Your eyes are the color of riverbank mud. They’d be blue or green if you were drawn from a Grecian story. Also, you’ve been playing Candy Crush since I walked in here. Matching obsessions tend to come with the Slavic variations. You’re either a Rusalka, which doesn’t make sense with your hair, or a Berehyni. Did you not like drowning people and existing in an uncertain story? I’m not sure why the narrative keeps manifesting you, since it never knows what to do with you once you’re here.”

The receptionist stared at me, the only sound the water dripping from her long, unbound hair. Finally, warily, she said, “I’m calling the deputy director. Don’t go anywhere.”

“You do that,” I said, with an agreeable nod. “I need to talk to him. It’s important.”

The receptionist didn’t look reassured by that. She picked up her phone and turned half away, using her body to block whatever she was saying. After a few seconds she hung up and looked back to me, saying, “You can have a seat if you want one. The deputy director will be right with you.”

“I’ll stand,” I said. “This body’s been in a coma for a while, and I need to work on my muscle tone if I’m going to be of any use to anyone.”

The receptionist stared at me. Then, shoulders still hunched, she returned her attention to her phone.

Bothering her further wouldn’t have been productive, and more, it would have been cruel. I tucked my hands into my pockets and turned to face the door, waiting for what I knew was about to come. Deputy Director Brewer was a smart man, and he hadn’t managed to stay in charge of the Bureau for as long as he had by walking blindly into bad situations. He wasn’t going to come alone. The only question was who he was going to bring with him.

The door opened. A whipcord-thin man in a black suit that hung around his skeletal frame like an undertaker’s rags stepped through. His hair was bone-blond, slicked back with pomade that smelled of lilies and ashes. I relaxed a little. Agent Piotr Remus might not be my biggest fan at the Bureau, but he was trustworthy and surprisingly open-minded for someone who presented himself as having died twenty or so years before the present day.

Another man followed him through the door, and I tensed again. This guy was built like a walking brick wall, broad-shouldered and straining the seams of his government-issue suit. He was dark-haired and tan skinned, and wearing mirror shades. No one who wears mirror shades has ever intended anything good. It’s just a fact.

Deputy Director Brewer was the third one through the door. He moved into position between the two men, looking me slowly up and down. My coloring couldn’t fail to make an impression, but there are a lot of Snow White stories in the world. More than I’ve ever been happy with.

“Miss, why are you here?” he asked.

“Because I belong here,” I said. His voice even
sounded
different to my new ears, a little softer and with fewer hard edges. Maybe this body had some minor hearing loss. This wasn’t the time to worry about it. I pushed on. “My name is Henrietta Marchen. I am an Agent of the ATI Management Bureau. My body has been taken by a hostile seven-oh-nine, better known as ‘Adrianna.’ My team is in danger. I want my body back. It would really help me out if you gave me a badge, a gun, and directions to where my people are.”

There was a moment of silence, during which Piotr and the deputy director stared at me and the larger man stood silently by. Then the large man reached out, putting a hand on Deputy Director Brewer’s shoulder, and said, “She’s telling the truth.”

“What?” The deputy director turned to look at him. “Agent Névé, I don’t think we can be sure of that. She may believe what she’s saying. That doesn’t make it the truth.”

“I know the difference between someone being mistaken about their situation but believing what they say and someone telling the actual, subjective truth,” said Agent Névé. He sounded bewildered. Given the circumstances, I couldn’t blame him. “This woman either is or completely knows herself to be Agent Henrietta Marchen.”

All three of them turned their attention back to me.

“What did you get me for last year’s Secret Santa?” asked Piotr.

“A bottle of good vodka and a stuffed wolf,” I said. “Also, we don’t call it a ‘Secret Santa.’ There’s no point in borrowing trouble just because we’re feeling the need for a little holiday cheer.”

“What was your gift?” asked Deputy Director Brewer.

I sighed. “I drew Sloane, who gave me a subscription to the ‘apple of the month’ club. I’ve been donating apples to the local food bank all year. I think she’s planning to do it again, regardless of whether she’s supposed to be getting me anything. This is because Sloane is sometimes horrible. Look, are we going to stand out here and play twenty questions to prove I am who I say I am? Because honestly, I don’t have time for that.” I spread my arms. “I’m wearing a borrowed body, and my team is in danger. I need a gun, I need a badge, I need a
bra
, and I need someone to drive me to their last known location.”

Deputy Director Brewer frowned. “How do you know they’re not in this building?”

“If they were, there’s no way you wouldn’t have brought Andy with you, and even less of a chance that you’d have made it out here without Sloane shoving her way into the mix. She’d have picked up a seven-oh-nine entering the building, and she’d want to know what was going on.” I shook my head. “They aren’t with you. That means they’re not
here
. I need to find them.” I needed to warn them about what they were harboring in their midst, assuming it wasn’t already too late. Time worked differently in the whiteout wood. Maybe Adrianna was just now waking up, and I could still step in and keep her from doing any damage. Or maybe she’d been here for years, and everything was already lost.

Deputy Director Brewer’s frown deepened as he looked me up and down, searching my strange new frame for a sign, however small, that I was telling the truth. He was an ordinary man in a building full of fables, fairy tales, and urban myths, all of them wearing human skins and trying to get through their days with a minimum of trouble. That meant he’d needed to develop a better-than-average awareness of his surroundings, because anything else would have gotten him killed.

“How did your story become active?” he asked.

“I ate an apple to keep Birdie Hubbard from blowing my team to kingdom come. You nearly suspended me from field work over that. You said I should have found a different way. I told you there wasn’t one. To be honest, sir, I still don’t think I could have done anything differently. It was my story or my team, and I chose my team.”

“Your team consisting of . . . ?”

“Sloane Winters, Jeffrey Davis, Andrew Robinson, and Demi Santos. That’s in order of seniority, not in order of value to either the team or the organization.”

“You didn’t mention your sister.”

“Because I don’t have one,
sir
.” I glared at him. I knew what he was doing, and I understood how important it was to establish my identity. That didn’t make me happy about hearing him misgender my brother, even for something like this. “My brother, Gerald March, is a high school teacher and isn’t involved with the Bureau in any capacity that he can possibly avoid. I can do this all day. My team needs me. Please don’t make me do this all day.”

Deputy Director Brewer looked at me. Then, without turning, he asked, “Agent Névé?”

“She’s telling the truth as she knows it,” said the bulky agent. “She’s told no lies at all.”

I turned my attention on the agent. “I don’t know you,” I said. “Why don’t I know you?”

“I recently transferred to the field office from Human Resources,” he said. “I was tired of pushing paper all the time. Thought I could do more good here.”

“What’s your story?”

“Agent Marchen—if that’s who you are—we’re getting off the topic,” said Deputy Director Brewer. I turned my attention back to him. He was starting to look shaken. I was getting through to him, no matter how much he didn’t want to believe me. “It’s clear that whatever your situation is, it falls within the bailiwick of this organization. I’ll get you clothing that fits, and then we will discuss our next steps. If you don’t like this proposal, I’ll be forced to conclude that you’re not who you claim to be.”

“If I
did
like your proposal, that would be a sign that I wasn’t who I claimed to be,” I said. “But I won’t object to it. I need clothes. I need my team to believe me too.” And it was going to be harder for them. They would have Adrianna
right there
, wearing my skin and my smile, while I was going to be the stranger.

I had to try. I had to save them. The deputy director motioned for me to follow him, and I did, even though the sound of the door swinging shut behind me was like a latch closing on a trap.

This was the only way out.

# # #

Piotr and the new guy from HR stood outside the women’s locker room while I changed into the clothing provided for me. It was standard-issue Bureau attire, which meant it was the most comforting thing in the world: I hadn’t voluntarily worn anything but black and white since they’d given me my badge. What’s more, due to the range of standard heights and weights within an organization that included giants and leprechauns, everything fit. I didn’t have to think about dressing for my new body. All I had to do was put things on.