Sixty-eight

When I emerge into the loft, I have my answer when I find all of my things strewn all over the floor, the cupboard doors are open, and the drawers to my makeshift bedside table are torn apart.

With dismay, I realise that I've lost my only trump card.

I have no way of gaining entrance to Zareen but I know someone who has, and that person is Eric. Even if he is not in his office he will have what I need in his office.

Ask forgiveness later, I tell myself as I rush through the grounds and finally notice that there is no one around. Not a soul in sight. Not a sound. Not even birds.

At this point is irrelevant. Things have gone too far, and whoever is behind this is any ahead of the game.

Gerald's words come to the forefront of my mind, and somehow I find some comfort in that phrase. More than I expected.

A fraction of a second can indeed make a difference. I need to keep myself level-headed and not allow myself to be thrown off by the element of surprise. My mystery nemesis is banking heavily on it, by the looks of it.

I climb the stairs at a madman's pace, my throat is dry, my limbs ache and burn, and my lungs expand to a capacity they haven't been pushed past yet.

When I reach the top floor, I head straight for Eric's office, barge in like I own the place and begin to rummage through his drawers like a mad woman.

His kitschy dust collectors catch the emerging sunlight and my attention. For a man so staunch, and cold-hearted those glass figurines have no place in his office. They look out of place, and strange. Like they belong there but at the same they don't. It's a strange antithesis of the man that I know as Eric Garouche.

I pick one at a time, all looking like various marine creatures, and birds of all sorts. When I come empty I return to turning his drawers inside out. When that doesn't yield any results, I take a step back and analyse the ransacked office.

Where would he hide something that he hates so much but yet can't quite let go? My eyes go to the portrait on the wall belonging to Peter, and I figure it's worth a shot. I turned everything inside out, nothing short of pulling out the floorboards.

When I take the portrait off the wall, it reveals a great big nothing. I throw the painting on the floor, it clatters and then the glass shatters. Spider web cracks stare back at me along with something else. The shimmer of Petrers hair is not something that portrait painters have a custom to add. Plus, judging by the grave look dear ol' Pete is wearing, he doesn't strike me as a man who liked sparkles, rainbows, and unicorns.

Lifting the painting off the floor, I dispose of the glass shards and swipe a finger over the shimmering paint. It comes off on my finger, easily but it doesn't slip off the canvas itself.

I take the painting as it is in its frame, afraid that if I take it out of the frame, I'll destroy my only chance of entering Zareen.

It takes me forever to make it to the entry but when I do, I can't help the little victory squeal that leaves my lips as I stand in front of the wall and follow the steps I've memorised in great detail.

It takes me longer than any of them to reproduce the pattern, but when the scribbles on the wall light up, I tuck the painting under my arm and wait for the double doors to reveal themselves.

All I have to defend myself is a painting. I just hope that I don't have to use it and my mind is simply taking me for a spin in the land of crazy.

I push through the door with the tact of an enraged bull, the door bangs against the walls, a sound that echoes several times in the empty corridor and grates against my nerves like nothing ever has in my life.

I take to the corridor, in my search for something, anything that may lead me towards the missing people. This is all I have to go on, for now.

Hopefully, Zaren will provide me with some clues.

I roam the corridors, I check the teardrop room, and the bedrooms, all empty.

The last place I head to check is one level down under Zareem. The training room where Mason and I spent a considerable amount of time.

When I reach the end of the corridor, I find the entry sealed shut. I know there is a mechanism in the wall that will open it, but all of a sudden all the hair on the back of my neck stands to attention.

I'm well acquainted with that feeling. Someone is watching. I feel a tad like a lab rat. In more ways than one, I'm a lab rat. Following a prestablished path, that would lead me to a predetermined point. Only that there will be no treatment at the end of it, only death.

Worse comes to worse, the trap was set to lure me in. They've only got caught in the net because they needed bait.

I know for a fact that they are down there.

This is an exchange, of my life for theirs. As that thought crosses my mind so do my legs, close the distance between myself and the wall.

I press the mechanism and the door concealing the entry to the training room, slides open.

The familiar set of stairs comes into view, and don't wait until it's fully opened before I slide down through the narrow gap, dragging the painting after me.

I'm greeted by poor lighting, and my eyes have a hard time adjusting to it, but once I reach the indenting entrance to the training room, I forget about all my tribulations.