A Study in Honor by Claire O'Dell

Author:Claire O'Dell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-07-30T16:00:00+00:00

12

“Wake up, my love. Rise and show the world your glorious face.”

Holmes grabbed my shoulder and yanked me onto my back. In the seconds before I recognized her, the old panic overtook me, and I swung a wild punch. Holmes stopped the blow and shoved the windup clock in my face. Only then did I realize the alarm was buzzing. Loudly. “You have thirty minutes to dress and make yourself human,” she informed me. “Our appointment is at nine, remember.”

Her eyes were red rimmed, and she had a strange manic air. I sucked down my breath, convinced she would kill me if I said a wrong word.

“Afraid?” she said softly.

“Give me one reason not to be.”

“Ah,” she said. “That I can’t do.”

She released her hold on me and hurled the alarm clock at the floor. It bounced down the lane between our beds and crashed against the door. The buzzing hiccupped once, then started again, louder than before. Someone in the next room thumped the wall. “Shut that fucking thing up!”

Holmes’s gaze flicked toward the voice. She scooped up her gun from her bed and exited the room, slamming the door behind her.

There was one more burst of pounding on the wall, then abrupt silence.

I froze, and waited for the gunshot.

None came.

Very slowly I eased myself from bed. I located the alarm clock and pressed its buttons until it stopped buzzing. The room stank of whiskey and sweat, and the damp air seemed to stick to my skin. It was almost impossible to remember the cool of midnight and the sense of our being wrapped in a bubble of companionship.

Thirty minutes, Sara had said.

My duffel bag was still at the foot of my bed with my device draped over it. I dumped the bag and the device onto my bed, fished out my soap and the oil for my hair, and headed into the bathroom.

The shower was a tiny stall edged in black mold that produced a lukewarm spray. The setup reminded me of the showers at camp. I had just enough time to lather myself thoroughly before the hot water died completely. I rinsed off in cold water and reached for the nearest towel.

Through the drip, drop of water I heard a click and the brief influx of noise from the outside world. Sara, back from her adventures. Had she left a trail of dead bodies behind her? Did I really want to know?

I toweled myself dry and wrapped one around myself before I opened the door.

Our bedroom was empty, but Sara had left behind evidence of her visit. A metal carafe, placed in the center of our tiny bedside table. Next to it, a stack of paper cups, a container of yogurt, and what appeared to be a genuine French baguette. On the bed was a complete set of clothes.

One cup of coffee, bitter and strong, got me through tending to my stump. Sara had not arranged my supplies, so there was more awkwardness as I fumbled through powdering my stump, then reattaching my arm over its new sock.

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