Nada's Escape

25- Visitor.

I'm not sure what Finley's father cooked up with the wardens but the sliding door remains unopened, despite my flappings at the sensor and camera. So I huff and pace for a moment, processing the discovery that the Huntsmen leader is Finley's father. His reactions to me were so melodramatic; does he really think I'm some fey creature? And more importantly, have I really become immune to enthralment?

The book of Tales by the wall calls to me, like a rope tugging insistently on my belly. I give in to the urge and the cover opens with a groan like a polite old lady. Before Seven I used to tear through books like they were sustenance so the texture of the page and its whisper against the next is familiar. Like coming home, but not really.

Who were your parents? Where did you live? How were you captured? The words of Finley's father echo in my mind. All very poignant questions.

My parents were human, like me, like my sister. We lived in a suburban sit-com bubble where the worst dramas were homework, boys and missed buses. There had been a fire in the school hall, where I got trapped inside, likely the Huntsmen covering their tracks, and the next thing I had known I was in the big hall in Seven, staring sullenly at a tabletop. These are the pillars holding up the basic truth: I was kidnapped.

The clicking of the door to the outside brings me back from my thoughts and I position my hands under the open book, ready to fling it in a nasty visitor's face. Blonde hair slides into view and I let Darcell think he has the element of surprise. That my hands are gripping the book tightly because I'm too absorbed in reading to hear his entry.

"You like fairy tales, huh?" I jerk, slamming the book shut and fix my eyes on Darcell as he leans down upon the waiting room table. I glare at him. Chips of green jade shine in his eyes surprising me enough to remember to glare at his chin instead. Maybe I'm immune to enthralment but let's not take any chances. It's so much harder to be angry at someone's chin though.

"I have a fairy tale or two that you might be interested in actually." He says with an amiable grin.

"I'm not." I snap, and he leans back from the table, folding his arms.

He waves off my protest distractedly and spreads a manila folder on the table before us. I sigh, curling and uncurling my fingers underneath the cover of the book.

"Look. You're a leader. You need intelligence on which to base your choices. And I know that you'll want to hear this. But first... Your file, now that I've managed to pinch it, is suspiciously blank. I'm going to need you to fill in some of this." He runs a finger down the single typed page, frowning.

Despite myself I lean over and glance at the paper. Two faded red stamps, one after the other are all I can read. Weeper. Fighter. I halt my brain as it starts dredging up my early memories of Seven, trying to stay nonchalant.

"You don't take no for an answer, do you?" I ask dryly.

He half chuckles, way back in his throat and replies flippantly, "Of course not. Brick walls, locked doors, other people saying "no": that's all just a way of saying find another way."

"That sounds like a fighter's mantra. Huntsmen are supposed to be all 'obey oaths, kill things, obey oaths, kidnap children'." To be honest I'm not paying attention to what I'm saying, and it shows.

This time he chuckles audibly, "See, we do see eye-to-eye. Care to help me out here?" He points to the empty date of birth field on the sheet.

"What happened to our deal?" I cross my arms. "Where's my map out of Seven?" Bracing his hands on the table, Darcell rolls his shoulders and glances up at me with barely a shadow of a smile.

"Easy," he whispers and slides a flyer across the table towards me. "This is what I've got for you today. Second date, I'll find something more specific."

I take the thick card, observing the Huntsmen's preferred looping title script. Seven Falls, it says, holistic education of the finest quality, tailored child by child. Pictures of young teens doing fun things like horse riding and archery or studiously mixing coloured water in test tubes greet my gaze. Other boorish script tries to convince me how great the school is but I don't take it in.

"So this is where you go to school." I say deadpan and uninterested.

Darcell snorts, "Why would I need 'the finest and most personalised education in this country' when I have the local Hunt academy right at my doorstep?" I roll my eyes but he continues with a more sober expression.

"No, this is for humans. Like a boarding school, I guess," he clarifies.

I raise my eyebrows, injecting my own brand of vicious sarcasm into my next remark. "So putting another hat on kidnapping, I see."

"Kidnapping? That's strong." Darrell says, taken aback. I give him a glare icy enough to convince him to move on.

"So when were you born?" He asks, taking a seat and folding his hands under his chin. My lips harden in the silence. He doesn't deserve anything for showing me a fancy school flyer. Darcell rocks his head from side to side trying to catch my eye.

"Well?" he asks in a voice striated with playful annoyance. He reaches one hand across the table towards me and I lean back slowly, noticing my heart beating louder in my ears.

"I'm sixteen." I blurt. "And that's all you need to know." For some reason this amuses him. He stretches his arm further over the table. Not really trying to reach me because I'm now too far away but maybe pretending to? Chewing on a smile he stretches the whole of his lean torso flat across the table, twisting his face up to inspect me. Why does everyone want to know about my past all of a sudden? Is there something I'm missing?

"You're a bit uptight about your past aren't you? Did something happen?" His analysing, laughing eyes seem to fill up the room, though I try to focus on something else.

"Oh something happened yeah." I have a whole dialogue to pressing on my lips to be realised but I bite my tongue to keep it in. It's my story and nobody else's. I recite the only truths I allow myself; parents, sister, school, fire, kidnapped. Dwelling on the past turns you into a weeper.

His eyebrows lift in surprise at my conviction, but he lets it go, reeling his body back across the table again.