Chapter Four

{This chapter is for ponystoriesandothers, along with my thanks ~Undiscovered}

The boy didn't know how long he stayed on the roof (hours, surely), scrambling for any sort of patchwork plan that might help him save his skin. He had to think in short sentences, or else his thoughts would run away with him and he would be left a babbling idiot with no more clue how to survive than how to grow wings and dig with them. Where were the phones? He answered his own silent question; the only phones that he had discovered after his many years at the Institute belonged to the Mistress and the guards. What was more dangerous, he queried next. Getting a cell phone from a guard would mean that he could run with it and hide, if the need came, but there was only one hateful old woman as opposed to her legion of titanic Neanderthals. He had to create a distraction that would keep her from her room, or find a way to take down a guard.

The Mistress's chatter drifted through the window and met his ears, and from the way she was carrying on about the price of spa visits (it would take a lot more than a spa to put a dent in the witch, the boy thought angrily), it wasn't likely that she was going to leave any time soon.

So be it.

The boy crept backward to his window, as descending was much safer if he went feet-first, and eased himself back inside. Mo was sitting on the bed, absently turning the pages of a picture book. His glazed eyes were too dulled with boredom to even bother reading the words printed next to the colorful illustrations.

A full-frontal assault might be better in this case. The boy walked across the floor, shoulders back and head high in as authoritative a posture as he could adapt. He was aware of Mo's gaze flicking up to follow his path, but he forced himself not to look back. He strode from the dormitory and through the hallways.

"You there!" A guard barked from the end of a corridor. The boy turned, swearing to himself. He had made it halfway to the kitchen—not quite the estimate he had allowed himself when stitching together his plan.

He turned, arranging his features into as lofty and disinterested a mask as he could. "Yes?"

"Where are you going? It's past curfew!"

"So it is," the boy said, feigning surprise as he looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist. "Well, you've caught me. I suppose I'll go back to my dormitory and leave the Mistress's errand undone. I'll be sure to mention you in my report to her."

"She chose you to do something for her?" The guard scoffed at him, but the boy knew from the nervous shifting of his weight and eyes that the hulking man had lost the upper ground. "That's a load of bullshit if I've ever heard one!"

"I'll tell her that, and I'll be sure to quote you." The boy raised his eyebrows politely. "What's your name?"

The guard looked around for a second time. "What's this errand?"

"She wanted me to get chamomile tea from the kitchen," the boy said, executing Stage Two of his plan. "Her joints are acting up and she asked for it to help her sleep."

"But why you?" The guard still wasn't entirely convinced.

"I'm sure that you're familiar with my reputation around here," the boy said casually, turning to walk on, the movement silently commanding the guard to follow him. "Surely such an...educated man as yourself can guess that I've learned the hard way not to steal food, especially if accompanied by someone twice my size. I'm no match for you." At least not when it comes to sheer brute strength...

The guard considered this, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. "All right," he said gruffly. "I'll walk you to the kitchens and back."

"Wonderful," the boy said agreeably. He led the way by barely a step, establishing a sort of unspoken trust by allowing the guard to see his unprotected back, strengthening that by not once glancing over his shoulder.

The plan was so nearly disrupted; one hallway away from the kitchen they ran into another guard—the one who had slapped the boy in the car. His meaty hand flew to the baton on his belt but by some stroke of luck the first guard held up a hand to stop him. "It's okay, Tom. Mistress's orders."

Tom's forehead furrowed in doubt and confusion, but he let them pass unhindered.

The boy let out a silent sigh of relief, his heart slowing from where it had jackrabbited inside his chest to a painful speed. Not far now, he told himself. Not far now.

He opened the door to the kitchen, knowing from past excursions that it was never locked until midnight. The cook was nowhere to be found—on the same prior quests for food, the boy had learned that the cook took a fifteen minute cigarette break at a quarter past eleven. He glanced at the cheap plastic clock on the wall. Seven minutes left.

"I did forget to ask," the boy said, turning to the guard. "Do you know where the tea is?"

The guard rubbed the back of his head, desire to stay on the Mistress's good side overcoming his mistrust of the boy. "When I was a kid, my mother always kept the tea in a small cupboard above the stove," he remembered aloud. "I suppose that's as good a place to start as any."

"Splendid idea. Would you like to check that side of the kitchen? It'll go faster if we split up."

"I think it's best if I keep an eye on you," the guard said, narrowing his eyes at the boy.

You're playing right into my hands. "Very well." The boy took the lead again, once more presenting his unprotected back to the broad-shouldered guard. Give him cause for added suspicion, the boy told himself. "Do you see a kettle anywhere?"

The guard turned his head away from the boy for a second, and that was all he needed. Lunging, he snatched a dirty pan off the washing cart and gripped the handle, swinging the pan like a baseball bat and putting all his strength into the blow. It struck the man's skull with a sickening, clanging crunch and the man hit the floor like a falling tree. Blood oozed thickly through his professional comb-over but the boy hit him again for good measure, cracking the pan squarely down across the man's face and smashing his nose to smithereens. The boy waited, making sure that the guard didn't move, before reaching down and yanking the cell phone from his belt. Flipping it open, he punched in Leng's number with more force than necessary and jammed the phone up against his ear. One ring...two.

"Pick up, damn you," the boy hissed, glancing toward the door with his stomach jumping in anticipation. Three rings, four. "Dammit, you motherless bastard! Pick up the phone!"

"I hope I'm not this 'motherless bastard' you're looking for," Leng commented through a yawn, finally answering. "It's late—very late. Is everything okay, young man?"

"You need to come. Now. And you need to get me away from here. Tell your employer that I'll work for him or whatever he wants," the boy babbled into the phone, watching a rivulet of blood seep slowly toward his foot.

"What's going on?" Leng asked, small thumps and clatters coming from the other end, as though he were scrambling for keys and the like.

"I think the Mistress wants to kill me," the boy said shortly, looking toward the door again. "You just need to get here, and fast. I wouldn't call if I didn't mean it."

"I know you wouldn't," Leng said seriously. "I'm on my way. Will you be okay for ten minutes?"

The boy nodded, then realized that Leng couldn't see him through the phone. "Yes, I should be," he said, deciding in an instant not to mention that he had possibly just murdered a man with a skillet. "But only ten minutes."

"I'm leaving now," Leng said, and the boy heard a car purr smoothly to life. "Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?"

The boy considered. "Yes, but don't talk unless I say something first."

"Is...is someone hunting you?"

Hunting. The word sent chills rushing down the boy's spine.

"If there isn't now, there will be soon."