Her feet were faster than reason.
I threw myself backward just in time, her fingers slicing through the air where my throat had been. The couch flipped as I vaulted over it, the springs squealing like outraged mice. Elliot scrambled out of her path, ducking behind a lamp far too thin to stop any real threat.
But real threats, you see, didn't always wear the shape of demons.
Sometimes, they looked like young women in hospital gowns with hair askew and eyes full of nightmares.
"Really now!" I cackled, springing into a crouch with a flourish. "We've scarce shared a 'top o' the mornin',' and already you're lungin' for ol' Jester's neck! How terribly rude—most folk at least offer a spot of tea before the murder!"
She didn't respond. Her breath was ragged, the whites of her eyes too wide, too unblinking. The leftover cuts across her knuckles gleamed red under the flickering light.
"Ah-ah!" I chided, whipping a curtain from the window and twirling it 'round like a grand, silken cape. "Tut-tut, dear guest—we do not lunge at our hosts! It's dreadfully impolite... and honestly, quite draining. Manners first, murder later!"
I tossed the fabric toward her as a distraction and spun to the side. She tore through it like wet tissue, her shoulder crashing into the wall behind me.
She stumbled, and I swept in—wrapping one arm around her waist and another behind her knees. Up she went.
"Intermission!" I cried, hoisting her off the ground and practically waltzing toward the bathroom.
She thrashed, a flurry of elbows and snarls, but I'd carried burning steel beams heavier than this. I slammed the bathroom door open with a kick, twirled, and tossed her inside.
She hit the tiled floor with a grunt—graceful as a sack of bricks—and I yanked the door shut, holding it closed with my back.
There was a thud. Then another. Then silence.
Elliot peeked out from behind his decorative lamp-turned-shield, eyebrows somewhere near his hairline.
"What," he said, very slowly, "was that?"
"That," I wheezed dramatically, dusting off my coat with theatrical offense, "was a lady in shock—bless her twitching soul. And perhaps in dire need of chamomile tea... and, oh, I don't know, a full-body exorcism."
"She screamed the second she woke up," he said, voice trembling.
I raised an eyebrow. "Did she now?"
"Loud. Like something out of a horror movie. And she punched the wall so hard I think there's a dent."
"But of course she did," I patted the bathroom door like it was an unruly dog. "She's undergoing what the wise old scroll-flippers call 'a full-tilt psychological nosedive.' Quite natural, really! Happens to yours truly at least thrice a year—usually around tax season!"
I sighed and tilted my head dramatically. "Ohhh come now, dear Elliot. Haven't you ever awoken in a strange room, screamed like a banshee, found yourself dressed like the ghost of a misplaced medical chart, and stared down a suspiciously handsome stranger in a coat far too dashing for the forecast?"
Before I could continue my riveting monologue, a voice—quiet, shaken, but no longer murderous—rose through the thin door.
I, of course, adjusted my collar.
The voice came again, firmer this time: "Please. Where am I?"
I gave the door a few polite little raps—tap-tap-tap—like knocking on the shell of a shy snail."You're in a rented flat in a city whose name has most rudely escaped me," I announced brightly. "Whisked here by your gallant, dashingly underfed rescuers—one of whom is currently pondering toast. No need for thanks. A standing ovation will do nicely!"
"Indeed. You were in the company of certain individuals who lacked proper manners, lighting, and basic hygiene. We retrieved you."
A pause. Then, cautiously: "Who are you?"
I opened my mouth, but Elliot cut in. "I'm Elliot. That one's... Mr. Jester."
I turned and beamed at him. "Oh, thank you, Elliot. You introduced me with flair!"
There was a sound like someone shifting against tile.
"...Mr. Jester?" she repeated, the syllables stretched with distaste—subtle, but not subtle enough to escape my notice.
She continued, voice steadier now: "My name's Anika. Anika Lindsey."
"Well, Miss Lindsey," I declared, straightening my spine with all the pomp of a courtier announcing dinner, "you are presently safe—if mildly disappointed by the wallpaper—and graced by the company of a boy genius and a man shrouded in delicious mystery." I held up a finger, solemn as a priest with a punchline. "Now, before you launch any further insults... or furniture... allow me one humble, harmless little question."
There was silence. I took that as permission.
"What's the last thing you remember before waking up?"
I held my breath. If I played my cards right, if her memory hadn't been scrambled too far, I might learn something... anything... about Evelyn.
Anika hesitated, then began slowly.
"I remember... a van. There were people—lots of us. We were taken somewhere. No one was chained or beaten or anything, but it was clear we couldn't leave. Some of them were crying. Some were silent. But we were all chosen."
She nodded. "They told us something special was going to happen. That we'd been picked. It didn't seem to matter who you were—men, women, all different backgrounds. But we had something in common. I just... don't know what."
"There was a building. We were separated into rooms. I stayed in mine for... days, I think. Hard to tell. Then I woke up here."
My voice dropped low. "Did you see a woman? Blonde. Thin glasses. Might've looked like she was planning your funeral with every breath."
She blinked. Then slowly, she nodded. "Yeah. I remember her. She was... different. Calm. Like none of this touched her. Like she was waiting for something."
"Do you know where she is now?" I asked, barely breathing.
"They dropped me off first," Anika said. "She was still there when I left."
I leaned against the wall, mind spinning. A van. A drop-off. Randomly selected people. Calmness. Evelyn wasn't bait. She wasn't collateral. She was still in it.
But also meant she was still with them.
I didn't let the silence linger too long. That would tip the mood.
With a dramatic groan, I straightened, clapped my hands, and proclaimed: "Well! I'm positively famished. Elliot, be a darling and fetch breakfast, won't you? Eggs, bread, and something that screams 'we're still alive.'"
Elliot stared. "You're sending me out now?"
"Yes, I'm giving you money." I tossed him a few bills. "And responsibility. Which, frankly, is the more valuable of the two."
He hesitated, then snatched the money and headed for the door. "If she kills you while I'm gone, I'm not doing CPR."
"Love you too!" I called after him, then turned back to the bathroom.
I stepped forward, my voice dropping its color, the jester stripped away like paint in the rain.
"Whatever I say next stays between us."