The Collectors' Society 01 (17 page)

F
OR MUCH OF THE rest of the next few days, I am Wendy’s captive pupil as she drags out machine after machine in an effort to, and I quote, “better prepare for situations that might arise during assignments.” I neglect to inform her that I handled myself quite well with only a fireplace poker, but that is neither here nor there. I’m given a laptop computer, a cell phone of my own for what she calls
everyday use
, a secondary cell phone for
emergencies
, a tablet for
research
, an email for
internal communication
, something called login codes for
Internet access
, and two white key cards to access various doors within the Institute. She goes over each item at a rapid speed, and more than once, I fear the tools of the Twenty-First Century will get the better of me.

Automatons and machinery have officially taken over the world.

“Keep your phone on you at all times,” she says. “In addition to letting other members call or text you, it also has a GPS that will prove handy if we need to track you. I’ve had to work around satellites and towers to ensure that, even in different Timelines that bear different technology, you’ll still be able to track your partner if needed.”

Goodness knows what GPS is.

“I’ve had your phone pre-programmed alphabetically with all current Society members’ numbers.” She slides her finger across the screen and presses random buttons that don’t actually exist. “Don’t worry about having to memorize any.”

Thank goodness for that, because I’m wondering how I’m going to remember any of the rest of the things she’s just taught me.

Hours are spent programming me into the Institute’s security system. My iris is scanned into a computer, my fingerprints and multiple vials of my blood collected, and my voice is recorded. I’m given codes to memorize. And then I’m sent to Victor for a physical (during which I give up more blood) before finally ending up on the tenth floor with a stoic man named Kip who smacks strongly of Viking heritage.

“I’m told you can fight.”

I glance around the spacious room we’re in. There are mats on the floors and weapons of all shapes, sizes, and kinds lining the walls. “I can hold my own,” I tell him. Did Finn tell him this? Or Van Brunt?

Speaking of . . . I haven’t seen much of my partner over the last few days. At night, I’ll listen for sounds of life in the flat next to me, but they’re few and far between, and then when I realize what I’m doing, I berate myself for hours for my continued stupidity.

One would think I’d be pleased with the distance. It’s a desire I ought to embrace. And yet, when Finn and I do talk, the ease I felt with him for those first few days comes flaring back into existence. It’s maddening, because it shouldn’t exist.

How could it?

“Toxicity is such a nasty thing to possess, isn’t it?”

“What do you prefer?”

Grateful for a distraction, I muse, as I lean in to examine a battle axe that is much more pitiful than the one I’m familiar with, how that’s a more tasteful question than:
How do you like to kill or maim people?
“I suppose swords and daggers, but it’s been my experience that most objects can become weapons when necessary.”

“What about guns?”

I lightly touch the silver head of a mace, desperate to block out the memory of a rather large one used by a certain Lion to bludgeon heads like they were grapes. “I’ve never used them. Do Society members run around with maces often?”

He does not smile, and frankly, I wonder if he even knows how to. “Maces can be handy.” He pulls out a tablet much like the one Wendy assigned me hours before and taps on it. “A schedule for shooting lessons will be sent to you before the night is over.”

A tiny, blackened spot of dried blood on a quarterstaff catches my eye. “Is it optional?”

He doesn’t even bother looking up at me as he taps away. “Society policy states that active members be trained in a variety of weapons for a variety of different situations. People gravitate toward what they like best, obviously, but it’s good to have choices.”

I do my best to ignore the pang that plagues me when I consider what has served me best in the past.

“Do most of the Society’s assignments require weapons?”

He’s blunt. “No. But some do, and it’s always better to be prepared than be caught unable to protect yourself.”

My eyes gravitate back to that speck of blood. What a quaint collection of weapons. “Do you go on these assignments?”

“No. Members are also required to come in for sparring practice three times a week when they are in residence,” he continues. “You’ll also be expected to work out in the gym for a minimum of an hour a day. We have treadmills, if running’s your thing, but there’s also an indoor track you can use, too. You’ll scan in your hours with one of your key cards, so we can keep track of your progress.”

Gyms. GPS. Tablets. DNA. Retinal scanning. Speed dating. Key cards.

The Queen of Hearts needn’t have worried about taking my head, as it’s obvious it’ll explode right off of my body without her having to lift one of her pudgy fingers.

“Are you from a book?”

I’m finally given his attention as he tucks the tablet away. “No. I’ll be your personal trainer, and I’m also a licensed nutritionist in case we need to fine tune your diet to maximize potential.”

Is this truly an Institute? Perhaps it’s more along the lines of a prison?

Kip pulls out a folder and flips through it before slipping out a few sheets of paper. “You have homework tonight. I want you to list your favorite weapons so we can find the right match for you on assignments. I know you said you like swords, but those are a bit harder to hide in public spaces. You may want to consider daggers or even sais.”

I’m considering crumpling the sheets he passes me and depositing them into the nearest waste bin. Homework, indeed.

“Any questions?”

None for his ears, that’s for sure.

When I’m at the door, he calls out, “Oh, and you might want to ease up on biscuits and dessert at mealtime.” He smacks his bottom meaningfully.

I am unable to resist the urge to snatch a throwing star off a nearby wall. It is sent sailing, barely nicking the cartilage of his ear.

He leaps about a foot into the air, his hand going to his hardly bleeding ear. “Shit! What was that for?”

I tell him, tapping on my own behind, “You ease up on the biscuits and dessert.”

For a moment, he simply stares at me. But then he says stupidly, “You missed.”

I smirk when I leave, because I most certainly did not miss.

I’m supposed to find Mary to go over modern-day clothing and the like, as she’s disappointed I’ve yet to order anything from the catalogues left, but instead I find myself a nice bench in an empty corridor and tug out the phone Wendy gave me. If I have to go through one more lesson, one more lecture, one more reason to acclimate myself to the Twenty-First Century, I might very well go ballistic and that would do none of us any good. And then, because I am clearly a fool, I spend the next few minutes searching for the list of numbers she claimed were pre-programmed in, and then another few minutes trying to remember how to actually use the one I want.

I barely know him, and yet, I want to hear his voice. I’m craving that connection, that ease I thought, hoped even, that I’d never experience again.

Loud, unfamiliar ringing fills my ears; I’m left wincing. When Finn answers, he says, “Look at who’s finally using her phone.”

“Do people not greet one another in this day and age?”

He’s silent for several seconds. “Hello, Alice.”

A smile fights its way out of me. “Hello, Finn.”

“I’m not one for phones, to be honest,” he tells me. “I’ve always been better at face time.”

And what a face it is.

I’ve done a lot of things in my life. I’ve faced plenty of daunting situations that required nerves of steel. So, it’s frustrating I’m forced to muster courage to say the following. “It has occurred to me that I’ve spent nearly a week in New York City and have yet to actually exit a building—not counting our ill-fated trip to England. And even then, I was outside for mere minutes.”

I fear I’ve stunned him, because he doesn’t respond. So I plow forth with, “I’m used to enjoying a bit of fresh air every day.”

Continued, lingering silence follows. I add, more resolutely, “I’m told that there are many things I ought to see here in the Twenty-First Century, but so far, outside of this building, I’m not even positive they exist.”

“You’re not a prisoner here, you know. You’re free to walk out the door any time you wish.”

Oh, Lord. He’s taken it the wrong way.

“I’m assuming you’d want to come back because of room and board,” he continues, “but nobody has a gun to your head saying you have to.”

Bloody, insufferable man. Now he’s simply teasing me.

I drop the phone at the same time I drop my head into my hands. I scramble to pick it up, but when I do, I shake it with both fists wrapped around the small machine.

A faint voice says, “Alice? You still there?”

I lift the phone back up to my ear. “Yes, sorry. I dropped this blasted thing. Why does it have to be so tiny?”

“Where are you right now?”

“Tenth floor, avoiding more technology lessons and lectures. Furthermore, I just had some nitwit assign me homework and tell me to lay off the desserts because I apparently have a fat arse or something. I have to tell you, Finn, I’m displeased at the lack of decorum and manners that this century has brought about.”

For a tense moment, I wonder if he’s going to chastise me again for maligning yet another colleague. But then he says, “Kip, right?”

“The very one,” I mutter.

“He’s an asshole. And he tells that shit to everybody, so . . . I know it’s hard, but don’t take it personally. It’s meaningless. He might as well be telling you that the sky is green and grass is red.”

The thing is, though, I’ve seen both of those things before. “Have you been informed your arse is fat?”

“Actually,” Finn says solemnly, “I have. On multiple occasions.”

I laugh then, genuinely laugh until my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. “Perhaps you oughtn’t be called the Collectors’ Society, then. Perhaps it should be the Fat Arse Brigade instead.”

“We
are the Collectors’ Society,” he corrects, “and speak for yourself. My ass is just fine, thank you very much.”

It is, actually. I’ve had many an inappropriate peek at it in the last couple days.

I get up off the bench and wander over to a window. The sky is gray and peppered with heavy clouds, but rain isn’t a bother to me. Not anymore, at least. “I can just leave, any time I like?”

“You’ll need door cards and ID to get back in, but yes.” And then, more gently, “I’m sorry if you felt like you’d been trapped here. Had I know . . .”

“Don’t be silly. Not trapped. Just . . . confused.” In so many more ways than one.

“I get it,” he tells me. “Believe me. I’ve been where you are before.”

I press a hand against the pane. It is cool to the touch, and my fingers leave behind impressions in the condensation from my body heat. “I got those cards you were mentioning during yet another one of Wendy’s attempts to drain my brain of any functionality.” He chuckles then, soft yet rich, the sound curling around me even though it’s coming from a tiny machine held to my ear. “But I suppose that means I’m a proper member now, even though I haven’t been through any initiation rites. I’m sorely disappointed in that, too, Finn. One would think a secretive group such as yourselves would at least have some mystical ceremony to solidify new members. You ought to speak to your father about that.”

“What kind of initiation would you like? Black robes, candles, chalices, that kind of thing?”

My smile grows larger at his amusement. “Maybe. Solemn vows, rites of passage. Perhaps choral music in the background. Gregorian chant would be nice.”

“My fraternity in college did that sort of shit. It was . . .” He searches for the proper word. “Comical, actually. They took themselves so seriously, like it was a great honor for anybody to join, and for what? Keggers, mostly.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “What, pray tell, is a kegger?”

“College parties during which people get drunk off their asses and do stupid things.”

Some things never change. “My father works at a university, you know. Oxford.”

“Does he?” He sounds surprised at my admission.

I think I’m surprised by it, too. “Did he do so in my book?”

Finn clears his throat. “No. At least . . . No. But, the real, um . . . the person who it’s said Lewis Carroll based your story off of? Her father worked at a university, too.”

My mouth goes dry. “There’s a real Alice?”

“That came out wrong.
You’re
the real Alice,” he says firmly. “The one on the pages was a representation of
you.”

“But there’s a woman out there, who looks like me? Has—had my life? My father? Was her name Alice, too?”

“She’s been dead for a long time, but—”

“What was her surname?”

It takes him a good few seconds before he says, “Liddell.”