The Collectors' Society 01 (5 page)

“O
UR APOLOGIES.” A HAT is tugged off the head of one of the men, tossed onto the table before he runs a hand through his dark yet impeccably styled hair. He is tall and thin and quite good looking. “We’d have been here sooner, but unfortunately ran into a bit of trouble during transition just prior to editing.”

Wendy’s immediately alarmed. “What kind of trouble?”

As the now hatless man sits down, his companion quietly rounds the table and chooses himself a seat, too. I’m struck by how tired he looks, as if he could fall asleep at any second. Dark, purplish smudges color the skin beneath his eyes and his hair, shortish and golden brown, has probably seen better days.

These must be the aforementioned duo of Victor and Finn.

“My pen glitched,” the first man is saying. He’s also British, and his accent is even softer than Mary’s. It’s then I notice there is a small streak of dried blood across the white of his collar. He’s dressed in a sharp suit with a long coat and smart tie, and it saddens me that the contrast of sophistication and horror no longer shocks me. “It took some finesse to get it in proper working order again.”

When Van Brunt asks, “Were you successful?” in the same mild voice he’s used throughout the entirety of the day, I can’t help but wonder what in his past has made him so guarded with his emotions.

“Yes. We ran into the A.D. upon arrival, so the catalyst is with the Librarian right now or will be shortly.”

I discreetly crane my neck so I can glance down the length of the table at the man whose quiet words were just spoken. For appearing so tired, his tone is firm and steady. He’s American. It’s quite a mix they have here, isn’t it?

“Good.” Van Brunt leans back in his chair. “Ms. Darling, you may continue.”

But before she can, the well-dressed man exclaims, “I’ll be damned! You found her after all.”

All eyes rotate back toward me. Tiny hairs stiffen on the back of my neck, but I resist the impulse to do anything other than coolly meet his curious gaze.

Mary sighs deeply, muttering something beneath her breath. He isn’t paying attention to her, though. He’s still staring at me like I’m the most fascinating, shiny object in the room.

It makes me want to slap the impertinence right out of him.

“You do go by Alice, right?”

I loathe that he knows my name but I don’t know his.

“You look a bit different from what I expected.” A hand thoughtfully strokes his smooth chin. “Not nearly as blonde as you’re made out to be. And much older too, aren’t you?”

Mary’s latest sigh could probably be heard outside the walls, it’s so loud. “Tact,” she mutters. “Try using it for once in your life.”

As for me, I say evenly, “Do I disappoint?”

He blinks once, twice at my quiet words before laughing. For a moment I’m sucked back into the past, during a time the Hatter and I stood on a table in the garden, soaked to the bone as we laughed and screamed maniacally up into the void. Stripped naked and covered in melting paint and frosting, the others carved deep grooves in the mud around us as they ran laps, chortling until they were hoarse.

“Do you hear that, Alice?” The Hatter’s arms were thrown wide, his head tilting so far back that his hat had disappeared behind us. “Do you feel it?”

I had, unfortunately. All too well.

A tiny spasm twitches underneath my left eye as I contemplate if I ought to climb upon this table and charge him. But no—I’ve left that all behind. My blade is elsewhere, too far out of reach.

The man he walked in with says, “Victor, listen to Mary for once, will you?”

Which must means he’s Finn.

“Sorry, it’s just, how fascinating is it how she looks nothing like how she’s portrayed?” Victor leans against the table, his head cocked to the side, as his eyes run up and down the visible length of me.

The urge to bring him down to size is strong, but stronger still is a memory of sitting upon a mushroom while being reminded that those whose words are stingier are those who survive. So I ask lightly, “Exactly who is portraying me?”

His eyes go wide; before he breaks Van Brunt says, “Enough. As 1605CER-DQ has just been deleted, I’m afraid the opportunity to fully debrief Ms. Reeve has not yet arisen. Let her be until I can talk in private with her.”

That wipes the mirth right off this Victor’s face. His whisper is strangled. “1605CERT-DQ is gone? Nobody told us. When did this happen?”

“We are in the midst of hearing the details just now,” Mary snaps.

Bleakness fills Victor’s once-amused eyes.

Van Brunt turns to the woman standing next to him. “Ms. Darling? Please continue.”

Wendy clears her throat. “We’ve been scanning various databases to see if anyone has claimed responsibility, but, like with the last two deletions, all is quiet. My department isn’t giving up hope, though. There might still be some clues we’ve yet to uncover.”

Mary’s incensed. “It’s maddening that whoever this is isn’t behaving properly.”

“And how should a proper villain act?” One of Van Brunt’s dark eyebrows arches upward. “Should he announce himself to the world with a soliloquy? Perhaps write a note about his intentions?” What in definition is a smile appears anything but. “Come now, Ms. Lennox. You of all people should know about the injustices of stereotypes. Unfortunately, this is no story with an easily guessed-at plot we’re reading. We have no ability to flip to the last page in order to assure ourselves of certainty.”

Splotches grow on Mary’s cheeks. Farther down the table, Victor calls out, “I think what Mary was saying was—”

Van Brunt holds a hand up. “I know exactly what she was saying. I was merely reminding Ms. Lennox that this particular story is not as familiar as those we hold close to our hearts. We cannot simply expect that whomever is doing this will offer up an announcement that could easily bring about their apprehension. If that had been the case, we would have done so before.”

Mollified (or perhaps mortified), Victor nods once before slumping back into his seat. The woman next to him leans over and says, “Dr. Frankenstein? Can I talk to you after the meeting?”

It’s interesting that he winces when he hears the name. She immediately apologizes, her cheeks ruddy and splotched.

“What can be said is that the current pattern of attacks has a deletion at approximately every three to four months,” Wendy is saying. “And that the last three targets have been substantial Timelines.”

“Any common denominators between them?” someone on the other side of the table asks.

“Other than popularity?” Wendy shakes her head. “None that I can see yet. One was French, one was British, and another was Russian.”

“All European,” Holgrave murmurs.

“And yet, the one before that was American,” Wendy argues.

Van Brunt extracts a small white and silver rectangle out of his pocket. “Nonetheless, I want your department scouring the Internet once more to see if a pattern does exist, Ms. Darling.” He taps on the box of metal and glass. “Perhaps there are hints found in forums or the like. As for the rest of you, Mr. Dawkins will send out assignments within the hour.”

The box that held the moving pictures snaps shut and is tucked into Wendy’s arms. The rest of the audience rises when she does, and there is much murmuring as they file toward the exit. The object in Van Brunt’s hands beeps, but he tucks it into a pocket. He turns to me, just a hint of an apologetic smile on his rugged face. “This must be much to take in all at once.”

Unfortunately, it is. But before the first question I have passes my lips, he calls out, “Finn? A moment?”

Mary touches my elbow, and I start. I didn’t even see her round the table.

“I need to go debrief with Victor, but I’ll catch up with you in a little bit. Okay?”

She says this like we’re old friends, ones who have reunited after years of life lived out between us. My spine stiffens, even though I know she means well.

Her fingers curl around my forearm and squeeze gently before she gifts me with a smile. Across the room, Victor shouts her name. “We need to go! I’m starving. The food was shite there!”

Once she’s gone, she’s replaced with the man who came in with Victor in the middle of the meeting. For a moment, the breath in my chest stills as I take him in.

He’s beautiful. Handsome is probably a more dignified term, but the golden-brown hair, light blue-gray eyes, and tanned skin really do come across as more beautiful than anything else. He’s tired, yes, but that does nothing to detract from his allure.

My fingernails curl inward into my palm, digging deep. I pull air in through my nose and then slowly out through my barely parted lips. But this small action, which normally focuses me, leaves me even more confused because rather than gifting me clarity, I just got a whole noseful of his scent. It’s a bit warm, a bit minty, with hints of sweat and soap.

Oh, bloody hell. I do not need this.

Just as the door shuts behind Victor and Mary, Van Brunt asks, “Is there anything I need to know about?”

The man runs his fingers through his short hair; itty bitty chunks stand on end in unorganized, careless ways. “You mean, why are we so late?”

I’m now the awkward third stool leg. I take a discreet step back, pretending my focus is on the vista beyond the wide glass windows.

Van Brunt coughs. Says carefully, “I’m not accustomed to you being anything less than prompt.”

Finn shrugs. “Shit happens, unfortunately. I wish we could predict how every mission goes, but you know we can’t.”

“Did the pen truly malfunction?”

I’m surprised by the distrust in Van Brunt’s voice—and that he would say such things in my presence.

“Yeah, it did,” Finn says. He’s annoyed, I think. “It fell out of his pocket during our exit. Let’s just say that pens and cars don’t go well together.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his head tilt toward me, like he knows I’m listening.

Van Brunt grunts. “Ensure that he gets it fixed. I don’t want it used until we can ascertain it is in working order. Where was yours?”

“Wendy has been working on it, remember?”

Outside the window, birds swoop by. And for a moment, the crazed yet beautiful face flashes in the pane before me, sour judgment darkening its eyes.

I did the right thing. I did the right thing.

I did the right thing.

I did.

Don’t do this. We will find a way.

I resist the childish urge to cover my ears with my hands.

“Ms. Reeve?”

I blink before turning around. Both men are regarding me as if I’ve done something crazy. And the sad thing is, I very well might have.

A cold sweat settles at the base of my hairline. Like they had for the first month and a half back in England, my fingers twitch so strongly I’m forced to lace them together. “My apologies. Did you ask something?”

The corners of Van Brunt’s mouth tug downward, and Finn’s eyes widen ever so slightly. Son of a jabberwocky. I
did
do something crazy, didn’t I? But then Van Brunt says smoothly, “I would like to introduce you to one of your colleagues here at the Society, as you’ll be working together. Ms. Reeve, this is Huckleberry Finn. Finn, this is Alice Reeve.”

My knuckles turn white as my fingers tighten around one another. I force a polite smile on my face. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

I’m unsurprised yet unnerved when he sticks his hand out. My fingers reluctantly disentangle from other another so I can proffer mine as well. When our skin touches, I realize my palm is damp.

Frabjous.

Thankfully, the connection lasts only a few seconds. I wait for him to discreetly wipe his hand across his pants, but he doesn’t. There’s a genuine yet surprised interest in his eyes as his lips gently curve upward. “The pleasure is all mine.”

The sensation of his skin pressed against mine continues to linger.

Something trills in Van Brunt’s pocket. He sighs deeply and extracts the small white and silver rectangle from before. “I’ve got to take this. Finn, will you stay with Ms. Reeve?”

When Finn nods, Van Brunt brings the box up to his ear. “Please tell me you have some good news.”

As Finn doesn’t answer, I open my mouth to offer something—anything, but Van Brunt turns on his heels and stalks out of the room. I nearly jump when the door slams shut, and then once more when an unseen Van Brunt bellows angrily in the distance, “That is not acceptable!”

“Are you okay?”

Discomfort crawls along my limbs as I stare up at the man who just asked me this question. He’s got a good nose and full lips. I hate that I notice these things. My heels dig in and I clamor for control.
Little details
, the Caterpillar used to tell me,
make all the difference. Focus on them when everything else is wild
. “Huckleberry is an interesting name. A bit unconventional, no?”

That knocks the smile right off his face. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

How puzzling. “It is a family name?”

He lets out an annoyed puff that smacks strongly of bitter humor. “I tend to go by Finn.”

My hands lace together once more, the knots tighter than ever. I focus on the blue and red plaid of his shirt, and on how his sleeves are rolled up to just below his elbows. While I have seen many a man in a shirt, I’ve never quite seen one like this. And his pants. Goodness, do they fit him well. “Tell me, Mr. Finn—”

“Just Finn,” he corrects. “It’s more like a first name than anything else nowadays. Besides, I’m not as into as the whole formality bit as Brom is. Actually—nobody is. It’s just one of his quirks.”

“Mr. Van Brunt indicated earlier that we are in New York City.”

Faint lines appear in his forehead. “That’s correct.”

“But he said I ought to be focused more on the when rather than the where. Would you perhaps clarify his statement?”

Finn’s eyelids shut briefly as he shakes his head, but then roll toward the ceiling once open. And I’m a bit more certain I should not have left Dr. Featheringstone’s office today—or even gotten out of bed for that matter.

“What has Brom told you so far?”

I’m annoyed everyone seems to have this same reaction. “He claimed I am required to help save Wonderland. But before he could tell me more, a situation arose that required his attention.”