Chapter 32 - Kidnapped

Picture by Ian Froome from Unsplash

The paper fallen silent, the Vestal's last moments, so real a few instants ago, were once more a memory locked in time. One that left a bitter aftertaste on Ike's tongue and a blacksmith's convention pounding away in her head. More of the buggers were joining, hammers and anvils at the ready. Unless she wanted to spend the whole evening and afternoon prostrate in her hotel room, with a killer of a migraine, she needed the cure.

Now.

First the story she had dived into. Well, it wasn't much of a story, more a report, but that didn't matter: The rubbing had been the destination for a successful dive, and she needed to feel the blasted thing close to her beating heart. With the stiff paper crackling in her trembly fingers, she placed Graziano's copy on her chest. She didn't dare to press as hard as she would have done for a hardback novel, the colour might come off or, worse even, she might tear the paper. Once finished, she waited for the healing surge, the soothing warmth to placate the turmoil in her body.

It didn't happen.

The blacksmiths banged on, unfazed, and the nausea tickling the back of her throat drowned in an acid wave that surged upwards and escaped on a massive belch.

Uh oh, it only seems to work with novels.

Ike fumbled through the fog billowing through her brain. Only the second part of the cure left, and that came at the price of insomnia. If it worked, that was. If it didn't, she would be in deep doodoo.

Did she have a choice? Ike decided she did not, lifted the paper aside and tried to home in on the thermos flask with coffee that kept wobbling in and out of focus. A ringing exploded in her ears as she bent over to fumble for the bottle that waited on the nightstand—only to push it over. With a solid whomph, it landed on the floor. Fortunately, the thing was made of plastic, and the cap was still screwed on.

So was her head, but any minute now that might change. The blacksmiths increased their banging as she lifted the flask, fought a battle with the cap, stopped herself from raising the bottle to her mouth, instead flooded the mug and downed a load of the scalding liquid.

And a second.

And a third.

Then she sank into the downy embrace of her pillows, praying for the mercy of the blacksmiths and hoping the volcano growling in her stomach would go dormant again.

Poles shifted. Stars died.

Aeons later, Ike's body conceded to call off the mutiny and settle for a mere protest. She raised her arm to her eyes and squinted at a blurry watch. Only a quarter of an hour had passed since she prepared for the dive. How much of that had she spent down in the tomb, how much for recovery?

No idea.

She had neither the energy nor sufficient brain power to work out the miracle that was her gift.

Instead, she poured herself another coffee.

Somebody knocked on the door. A restrained rap, almost polite.

Housekeeping, most likely.

"I'm fine," Ike croaked, mendaciously. She cleared her throat and raised her voice. "I'm fine."

Another knock, more determined.

From somewhere, her body mustered the strength to be irritated.

If that were Ben, she would give him a severe bollocking.

Once she was feeling better.

Rap, rap.

"Go away!"

Rap, rap, RAP!

Not so polite now.

With a groan, she slipped from the sofa and staggered towards the door.

Peeped through the keyhole.

Not Ben. A woman. Tall and thin with fey blond hair that, at her age, could only come from a bottle. The cut, likely owed to the hands of an expert and expensive, was growing out, the bangs dangling into her sharp eyes. More grey than blue they were set in a starburst of crow's feet that matched the thin lines around her mouth. The old girl must have been sucking on lemons for decades. Movement at her side made Ike guess the woman might not be alone.

Ike's brain wasn't firing on all cylinders and ticked over so slow, she could almost hear the levers clonking into place. Synapses sparked the same moment the sour-faced woman spoke for the first time.

"Open, please. We know you are in there. We need to talk." Crisp and nasal, her upper-class vowels could have cut glass.

The Englishwoman from the catacombs. No doubt accompanied by her friends.

Three against one.

No Boris to protect her.

Gary and Brigitte gone.

Not even Jon around to help.

Ike turned away from the door and the room span into a dizzying whirl. She dug the nails into her palms, using the pain to anchor herself. Then she staggered towards the window and ripped open the curtains. Behind her, a fist pounded against the wooden panel.

She opened the door that led onto the wraparound porch running along the whole garden side of the hotel. No separators between the space allotted to each room, instead terracotta pots with oleander plants marked the boundaries. Ike's temporary home was on the far left; if she slipped towards the other end, she would reach the staircase that led towards the lawn and could escape.

Had she been fitter, she might even have considered using the emergency exit as an entrance, to sneak up at ladies from behind. Unfortunately, stealth was out of the question while her world still wobbled like jelly during an earthquake.

Ike circumnavigated the cast-iron table and two chairs on her balcony and brushed past the oleander plant towards the next room. And the one after that. The staircase, shaded by three large palms towering over a cluster of leafy trees, came into view. She only would have to repeat the exercise a few more times then she could—

A door opened to her right. A woman stepped out. Short and chubby, she had thick, straight hair that brushed her shoulders. Black eyes glittered in a swarthy face marked by old acne scars. The black-framed glasses, thick as bottle-bottoms, might have made her appear nerdy if it hadn't been for the murderous expression in that woman's face.

"Oh no, you don't," she said and, with panic squeezing her heart, Ike recognised who she might be.

She had made a fatal mistake, was facing the Indian lady from the catacombs.

Two of the women had lurked outside her door. One had lain in wait, and Ike had swum into her trap like a befuddled trout.

"Leave me alone," Ike said. It sounded weak even to her own ears.

"No," her antagonist snapped, reached into the pockets of her voluminous jeans skirt that billowed around her ankles and retrieved a silver container. Ike turned to flee, but the other woman shot towards her and the next moment Ike sensed a wet cloud shrouding her face. Acrid and sweetish all at once, the vapour struck so fast, Ike had no time to hold her breath.

Ike's vision blurred in tears, her face stung as if attacked by a hornet. Her legs wobbled. The world faded to grey before it vanished altogether.

###

She was awake. Almost lightheaded with gratitude at her continued existence, Ike opened one eye. Her surroundings were surprisingly soothing. Golden sunshine marbled the shadows of leaves onto the ceiling of the room she found herself in, in the background she heard the clinking of glasses and the soft whispering of voices.

Something heavy pressed on her chest, but it didn't feel like a burden. Instead, a reassuring warmth spread from the weight, and with surprise, Ike realised that the blacksmiths and nausea had buggered off. Where was she? And who had—

Her memory jumped centre-stage.

The sour-faced woman at her door.

The attempt to escape.

Foiled by the Indian lady who had used some sort of knock-out spray.

Had she now been kidnapped? Where was she?

Somehow the ceiling seemed familiar. Creamy white, with a fire-alarm sitting in one corner. A flattish bowl of a lamp made of an aubergine glass stuck to the plaster. Not long ago, she had stared at a similar arrangement. Back in her room. Okay, the colour of the lamp was different, more peachy orange, but that didn't matter. Even the smells were familiar, Ike recognised the lime and peppermint ambience spray used by the housekeepers of the Stella di Monte.

Conclusion: She was still in the hotel.

She rolled over and winced as heavy bricks tumbled from her chest and something pointy dug into her arm.

"You'd better leave those books in place." Cut-glass vowels, a pronunciation so sharp, his lordship would have been proud of her. The lemon-faced Brit.

A sinewy hand pulled at her shoulders with astounding gentleness and rolled her onto her back. Then, the weight returned, pressing down on her chest, but easing her mind.

Ike noticed her strength returning and with it, her brain functions.

"Books?"

She raised her head and peeped at the stack on her chest. Books indeed. Old ones as well, to judge from their ribbed spines, and bent, greasy-looking pages. The familiar vanilla and almond scent tickled her nostrils. It got stronger, got overwhelming and with an explosive sneeze Ike shot upright, almost catapulting herself from the cramped sofa she was lying on. The tomes got tossed aside in the cataclysm.

"Whoa, be careful." Another familiar voice, this one laced by a heavy Spanish accent. The third lady, the one who had been hovering in the corridor, next to the lemon.

"I think Gandhi's memoirs and the Mahabharata are simply too heavy," the Indian lady said from somewhere behind Ike. "May I have them back before you sit on them?"

Ike fished for the two massive tomes pressing into her legs.

"Gandhi's memoirs?"

"Yes, well." Lemon face spoke with a note of disapproval. "You were in a rather bad shape. No idea what you have been up to recently. It certainly didn't do you any good."

"Getting knocked-out with pepper spray isn't good at the best of times I would say."

"Harmless but effective," the Indian lady said, rubbing the dust off the bigger of the two tomes. "Old family recipe."

Lemon face compressed her tight lips until they looked like a steel trap for unsuspecting citrus fruit. "Yes, well. I don't think it was only Jhanvi's funny potion that did you in. You must have been seeking beforehand, she saw it in your eyes. That's why we used the antidote. We didn't want you to eh—shuffle the mortal coil, old girl."

Old girl? That bat had at least twenty years on Ike if not more. Then the words registered.

Antidote? This odd girl gang used old books as remedies? Icy fingers trained down Ike's spine. They couldn't be in on the secret. Nowhere had she found references to book divers. Not in the encyclopaedias, nor on the Internet. It wasn't done. Didn't exist anywhere else on this planet. Not in the past, not now.

Ike was an oddball. The only of her kind.

Was she really?

"What made you think you could treat my—condition by piling old editions on my chest? It's a bit of an odd cure for fainting fits?"

Lemon-face wrinkled her nose and delivered the uppercut. "Not for a Sibyl."

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.