There was something else now,something at the back of her neck—another pain—a hand, gripping her tightly,with no thought for the delicate skin. Elara dimly tried to struggle free,wanting the pain to stop, but the hand gripped her more tightly, the achecoming to her from some distant place far away. Like another planet, maybe,shrouded by distance and the light from other stars. She was moving—beingmoved, by the back of her neck—being taken somewhere, her legs dragginghelplessly on the ground.
Elara fought to get her feet underher, to stop them from skidding and bouncing on the smooth floor, but nothingseemed to be working properly, and the music was so loud and the lights were sobright, and something hot was falling down her forehead and getting in her eye.She found herself looking down into something round, metal, the light bouncingand reflecting off something glinting and moving inside—off water—and then—
The cold water was a shock to hersystem, making her gasp out loud, the one action she had managed to fulfill withclarity since the projector turned on. It was unfortunate that it was also theone action that, in this case, was inappropriate: she inhaled only water, notair, feeling it rush into her mouth and down her throat with a panic thatovercame the confusion and pain in her head. She only knew that she had to getout, to get away, to haul herself back to the surface and the air again.
Elara struggled, latching herhands onto the sides of the metal bucket, feeling it move under her in asickening lurch, but somehow she went with it. There was something over hershoulders, pressing down on her, stopping her from raising her head up out ofthe water. She felt her vision darkening, black spots appearing in front of hereyes, dancing along with the flecks of light that reached down into the water,playing off the bubbles all around her as she thrashed desperately to raise herhead.
Elara tried with one last effortto simply fall backward, to tip the bucket and the water away, but her throatwas convulsing and her vision failing, and she knew she had nothing left. Apainful contraction in her chest forced her to try to suck in one last breath,but she found none, and then there was a blackness so absolute that there wasnothing—not even the glimmers of stars millions of light years away, dying inanother galaxy, perhaps already dead.
CHAPTER THREE
Zoe had to pause twice as shecrossed the kitchen to hold her head in her hands and groan. Rehydration waswhat was required. But turning toward the front of the room, and the windows,she immediately regretted it. She had never closed any of her curtains lastnight, and now the late morning sun was streaming in through the glass, dousingher room with a bright glare that sent pain ricocheting through her skull.
The hangover was just insult toinjury. She had consumed around fifty-six grams of alcohol last night, whichmeant that her body should have been able to break down the alcohol withinseven hours. The only thing was that she had gone to bed late last night, stillwearing her shoes, and there was a definite possibility that she had drunk moreunits after coming home without remembering it. At any rate, her head waspounding, and she wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep.
The pain was probably about a sixon her personal scale. Worse than that was the noise: Zoe hated the city duringthe day. Even with the windows closed, shut away inside her apartment, shecould hear it. The steady stream of tires and engines on the asphalt below,telling her the average speed of the traffic on the nearest roads today. Thewoman in the apartment above walking across her floor with a heavy stomp thattold Zoe she was walking to the fridge, because the layouts of their apartmentswere the same and she had made seven steps southward. And then back again,seven steps north.
There were birds, calling out toone another and somehow living whole lives in this city, even though thereweren’t as many trees as they must have preferred. They called out in a rhythmthat itched inside Zoe’s head: one call with three trills, one call with threetrills, one call with three trills. Always the same. Then silence for a whilebefore they started up again. The only variation was when one of the birds wasa little hoarse on one of the trills, and then it was gone and the rhythmreturned.
“Shut up, birds,” Zoe said outloud, covering her face with her hands. A soft mewl over by the door made hercrack open her eyes to see Pythagoras, her Burmese, watching her with areproving look.
Zoe groaned. At least her lifehadn’t totally lost all meaning and routine. There was still the cats, and theystill needed feeding, no matter what. She grabbed their food out of thecupboard and shook the packet until the rattling noise allowed her to estimatethat she had shaken out a hundred twenty individual pieces of the dry cat food.Pythagoras and Euler came running immediately, and she watched them attacktheir bowls as she took a painkiller with a glass of water.
Zoe forced herself to drink therest of the glass of water down, then refilled it immediately. Another three ofthese, and she estimated that the headache would be gone. She already feltbetter.
That didn’t help, however, whenthe loud knock battered at the door, making her start so much that a large dropfrom her glass splashed down to the floor.
Not now, Dr. Applewhite,Zoe thought, but something about the knock made her reconsider. Actually, itsounded as though there was more weight behind it. It was firmer than Dr.Applewhite’s knock, and the pattern was off. Rat-tat-tat, no fourth tap, andonly once. Probably a man, Zoe guessed, which was odd.
Maybe the FBI had sent anythingshe’d left in the J. Edgar Hoover Building back to her in a parcel, and sheneeded to sign for it. That was a thought. Maybe
