It was Sofia.
Chapter 8
Quite the Crowd
Shocked to see her, Tick stood up and fully turned around, facing the stairs, his eyes riveted on one of his best friends. He could almost forget he had the most dangerous woman in the Realities standing behind him.
“Sofia?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“Is she down there?” she responded in a whisper, gesturing with a nod.
Tick was completely baffled. “How do you . . .” He didn’t know how to finish or what to ask first. What was going on?
“Is she down there?” Sofia repeated, her emphasis leaving no doubt who she meant.
Tick jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Yes!” he snapped in a loud rasp. “She’s standing right behind me!”
“Bring them down,” Mistress Jane said. “They’re late.”
Tick wilted, hoping against hope that maybe the woman would have gone away when she realized they had company. How had she gotten to Tick’s house in the first place? Only inanimate objects should be winkable to his house and its relatively low amounts of Chi’karda. And what happened to that pulsing thing? He felt completely unsettled, like the old dream where he walked into class at school dressed in nothing but his underwear.
At the top of the stairs, Sofia leaned back out the door and seemed to be talking to someone. Then she popped back in and started down the steps, each footstep a thump. To Tick’s complete surprise, others followed her.
Master George, dressed in his fine, dark suit, red-faced and dry-skinned as usual, as if he’d been standing in a windy desert for hours. Behind him came Paul, an inexplicable grin on his face. Next was Tick’s dad, then Tick’s mom, both of them looking bleary-eyed and disheveled as if they’d just been awakened.
Tick could only stare, his mind trying to convince himself he must be dreaming. When Sofia reached the bottom step, he absently moved aside and let her pass, then Master George and Paul, both of whom patted him on the shoulder as they walked by. No one said a word, and it was impossible to read anything from the look in their eyes. There was fear there, but only a little.
His dad stopped beside him, then his mom. They both put their arms around him as Tick turned toward the middle of the basement. Everyone stood in a semicircle, facing Mistress Jane in her yellow robe and red mask, which was now empty of expression, neither angry nor happy. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Tick felt relief that his sisters had gone to Seattle for the weekend.
The whole situation was just too bizarre, and he finally found his voice.
“What’s going on here?” he asked to no one in particular. He felt like he was on one of those hidden-camera TV shows where they play pranks on people. He half-expected a cameraman to step out of the shadows any second.
“Ask her,” Sofia said almost viciously as she pointed at Jane.
“Yes, my good friend,” Master George added. “Ask our host.”
Tick looked at Jane, surprised. She’d arranged this?
Jane didn’t move as silence settled in the room, anticipation palpable in the air. Tick stared at the shiny surface of her red mask, trying to understand what was happening. He stood huddled with his parents in his basement, next to his two best friends and the leader of the Realitants, staring at a woman in a robe and mask, who could probably kill them all without breaking a sweat.
Time stretched as they waited for Jane to speak, to give an explanation. Tick wanted to scream, wanted to—
“I sent my waterkelts as a little opening exercise to our meeting,” Jane finally said, her voice scratchy but calm and cool. “Though I’m very disappointed they didn’t kill at least one of your parents, Atticus.”
Tick said nothing, fighting the urge to run at her.
“Anyway,” Jane said, “you’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you all here.”
No one replied, but Tick’s thoughts ran wild. She’d brought them all to his basement?
The face of Jane’s mask remained expressionless. “I knew Atticus would have the hardest time getting permission to leave due to his . . . unusual gift. That’s why we’re here. That’s why I sent you the note this morning, George. I’m glad to see you’re still capable of performing simple tasks. Though I wanted the boy Sato here as well.”
Tick glanced at Master George, who was visibly struggling to contain his contempt for this woman. “The boy is on a mission at the moment,” the old man spurted, unable to sound composed. “Be glad we came at all. I’ll have you speak your mind and be done with it. Remember, you’ve given your word this will be a diplomatic meeting. A peaceful meeting.”
Jane’s mask grinned, though the lips never parted. “Frightened, George? Scared of what your old pupil may do? You can thank the boy”—she nodded at Tick—“for making your fears relevant. You should definitely be afraid.”
“What is this nonsense?” Master George demanded.
“How did you get here?” Jane asked him.
Master George shifted on his feet. “What do you mean?”
Jane’s smile vanished almost instantly, the mask frowning. “George, don’t make me repeat questions a child could understand. How did you get here?”
“What does it matter? I fetched Paul and Sofia, then we winked to the forest a mile or so from here and walked the rest of the way. Why?”
“The forest?” Jane repeated. “Ah, yes, the forest. I sensed a pool of Chi’karda there. Perhaps an old cemetery, its wooden grave markers long turned to dust. I hope you walked briskly—good exercise I’m sure. Looks like you need it.”
“What is your point?” Master George snapped.
For the first time, Jane pulled her hands from out of the folds of the robe where she’d had them hidden. No one in the room could hold back a small gasp at the sight of them, especially Tick. He felt his mom’s arm tighten around his shoulders.
Jane’s hands were hideously red and flaky, covered with scars. Small shards and slivers of golden metal seemed fused to her skin. She folded her fingers together delicately, then rested her hands on her midsection. When Tick finally tore his eyes away from the terrible sight and looked at her face, he saw a horrific grimace of pain. Intense, aching pain. But then it was gone, replaced once again by the expressionless mask.
Jane must have noticed Tick’s own look of horror. “See something disturbing, Atticus? What, you don’t like my hands? You don’t think they’re pretty? Wouldn’t like to hold them, go for a stroll?”