I stumble backward and run. I run past the Dolby Theatre. Past a Starbucks. Past a knockoff Madame Tussauds wax museum. I run so hard and fast over the stars of Hollywood Boulevard that sweat breaks out in beads on my lip, and my chest burns, and my muscles ache with lactic acid buildup.
The tip of my shoe catches in a crack in the pavement, and I pitch forward. I hold my hands out against my fall, thudding hard against the ground. Shrieks and moans and the clacking of heels draw nearer. I push myself up, gravel stinging my palms, and run for my life. Exhaustion weights my every step, but I don’t dare stop, don’t dare slow my frantic pace. And just when I think I can’t possibly make my legs move anymore, that I’m going to have to find somewhere to hide until I regain energy, I realize that the sounds of pursuit have stopped. I slow to a jog and wheel around. No one is there.
Relief floods me. I did it!
“Spot of tea?”
I yelp and spin around. Frederick is seated at an outdoor bistro table across the street.
Shit, crap, shit.
I dart down the street, across four lanes of halted traffic. Around a car with a driver paused in the action of applying her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Around a black Escalade that must hold a celebrity, based on the sheer number of people pointing cameras outside their car windows at it. I veer onto Las Palmas, careful to stay in the light so that Frederick can’t jump out at me from any more dark corners.
A streetlamp crashes down inches from my face, inches from flattening me. It hammers the earth so hard I jump three feet into the air. A firework of sparks rain down from the exposed cables.
“Just break the spell, Indigo. It’s that easy.” I look up. Frederick sits on a window ledge five stories above me, swinging his legs like a kid in a too-big chair.
I whirl around and bolt in the only direction left: a dark, narrow alley.
One hand on the cool wall and the other clawing the air in front of me, I move into the dark. Moonlight fractures a patch of graffitied stucco and the overflowing Dumpster beneath it, and absolutely nothing else. The reek of garbage and sweat clogging my nostrils would be enough to make me gag if I didn’t have other reasons to want to puke, and a steady, syrupy drip sounds from somewhere just ahead. I slow my steps, despite everything, for fear of what I might smack into in the dark.
Footsteps thud on the pavement behind me, echoing against the walls. My mouth turns dry and parched. What does Frederick have in store for me this time? Rabid dogs? Buildings collapsing onto me, burying me under a ton of brick? I sob, because I know I can’t keep running forever. It’s pointless. This ends when he wants it to end.
Steeling myself with a big breath, I turn to face Frederick. “I’m ready.”
“really, now? And what on earth changed your mind?” He laughs, his sharp nose and open mouth backlit by the streetlights.
I swallow the cry of fear bubbling up inside me. “I-if you take me to the book, I’ll break the spell.”
He stops laughing now and tips his head to the side, as if to judge whether I’m serious. And then he disappears—vanishes before my very eyes.
Before I can even whirl around to look for him, his breath warms my neck as he leans over my shoulder. I scream, but the sound is muffled when his long, cold fingers clamp around my neck.
19
My heels skid along the pavement as Frederick drags me down Hollywood Boulevard. Drags me by the neck, like a little boy might drag a stuffed animal that’s become floppy from overuse. Blood fills my head and my face turns hot, a jackhammer of a pulse pounding in my forehead. I tear uselessly at the hands cutting off my air supply, my breath coming in frantic wheezes, my vision turning black at the edges.
When my feet slide across the cement slabs where stars actually left their hand- and footprints, I know we’re back at the forecourt of the Chinese Theatre. The familiar red pagoda with its copper roof, massive dragon stamped across the front, and two lion-dog statues standing sentinel at the entrance, comes into view, upside down.
Once we’re through the gilded doors of the theater, Frederick tosses me into the lobby. I stumble forward, gasping for air and touching the grooves along my neck where I still feel his fingers.
My throat burns like I’ve swallowed fire, but I can breathe. Once I establish that, I take a look around.
If people I care about weren’t about to die, I might be impressed by what I see on my first time inside the Chinese Theatre. There’s none of the tacky, popcorn-littered carpeting, loud arcade games, and bright track lighting typical of most movie theaters. While there is a concession stand that emits a concentrated popcorn scent, this lobby boasts elaborate Chinese murals, imposing red columns, and a massive, ornate chandelier hanging over the top of a red-and-gold dragon-themed carpet.
But Mom isn’t here, and neither is Bishop. Paige, I can only hope, ran far and fast when Frederick came after me.
I spot dim light seeping under a set of doors at the end of the hall.
“Go on.”
I look over my shoulder. Frederick nods in the direction of the light. “I hear there’s a good show playing.” His lips slide into a grin.
Dread pinches up my stomach, growing stronger with each step I take nearer to the light. I don’t want to know what’s behind the door, but at the same time, I desperately need to know. My mind whirls, my every organ working in overdrive. And suddenly I’m there, my shaking hands pressed against the wood. Holding my breath, I push the double doors open.
The theater is massive. Thousands of bright red seats fill the auditorium, facing a red velvet curtain. Still more Chinese murals stretch across the walls, and dotted along them are intricately carved stone pillars with small lanterns hanging between them. Another colossal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and from the ceiling’s center bursts even more painted dragons.
But still no Mom, still no Bishop.
I get the disturbing feeling that this is a fake-out. But then the curtains draw open, and there they are. At least kind of.
A video of Mom and Bishop is on the screen. They’re in a pitch-black room with only a spotlight shining on them, and they sit side by side, acres of thick rope tying them to wooden chairs, and rags stuffed in their mouths. Mom’s eyes flit around the darkness, sweat tracks shining on her forehead. Only Bishop’s expression, a perfect cross between bored and annoyed, stops me from having a full-on, get-the-paddles heart attack.
I don’t know whether to be horrified by the position they’re in, or relieved that they’re not dead, or upset that they’re not actually in this room so that I can do something to help. A million emotions play tug-of-war with my heart.
Mom looks at me. It’s such a focused look that I wonder if she actually sees me. If maybe there’s some two-way-video thing happening.
Mom screams into the rag in her mouth, squirming frantically in her chair. And I’m sure she’s screaming my name. When I look at Bishop, he’s looking at me too. Yep, they can definitely see me.
“At least they’re not dead.” Frederick’s breath touches my cheek, and I jump high even as I shiver. “You seemed to like them,” he continues, “so I did you a kindness.”
A kindness? I turn his words over, trying to figure out what he means. I look between him and the screen, where Mom rocks hard against her chair, trying to topple it over.
“If you ask me, being inside a movie is the best possible life. Others may disagree.”