The Gender Plan (The Gender Game #6)

I gently pushed the panel with my fingertip, watching the gap grow wider as it swung out into a dim room. When I heard it bounce off the wall with a little thunk, I froze, my heart skipping a beat, my eyes searching the darkness for signs of Desmond or her entourage. Nothing stirred.

I grabbed the flashlight and swung it around, illuminating the room. The beam of light cut across a door on my right, a shelf with several books and picture frames, a wardrobe, a nightstand, a bed… Gauging from the narrow stature of that particular piece of furniture, I was in the servants’ quarters on the second floor. Carefully, I unfolded my legs and slid out from the elevator, letting my feet land softly on the hard wooden floor. I crouched, and immediately let out a gasp as my legs almost gave out on me. My muscles were deadened from the position I’d been sitting in, pins and needles already jabbing around my feet and shins.

I held on to the frame of the elevator, using my left hand and my right shoulder as a brace to keep from falling, and waited for the numbness to recede. As soon as my legs felt relatively normal again, I straightened my knees and grabbed my bag and the rifle from inside the elevator.

Leaving the grate open, I closed the panel, and then studied it. On one side it was stone, but the side facing the room was covered with wood, with nobs fastened to it—a garment or tie rack, clearly, judging by the row of long strips of fabric in simple navy blues, browns, and blacks that hung from the knobs. Actually, though… The tie on this particular knob had a flashy design with bold geometric patterns and colors shooting through it. Clever.

Secure in the knowledge that I could find my way back to the elevator, I turned and tossed my bag onto the bed, glad to be rid of its heaviness for a moment. I moved toward the door, getting ready to turn my flashlight off, when a picture caught my eye. It was a picture of Jeff—Ashabee’s former manservant. He had his arm thrown around an elderly woman with thick round glasses. They were pressed cheek to cheek, her hand on his other cheek, his arm draped lovingly around her.

The scene was nice. It seemed strange that Jeff had left it in the move. Maybe he’d forgotten it?

Something made me shove the picture into my pocket, and then I put the thread of curiosity aside. I needed to know what was going on. I stuffed the smallest handgun into my waistband, leaving the rest of the backpack on the bed. Then I clicked off the flashlight and moved toward the dim light shining under the door. I opened it gently, trying to mute the click as much as possible. I pulled it open a fraction of an inch, then a bit wider, until I could stick my head out into the corridor beyond. I was alone.

I pressed my head against the door and exhaled in relief. Then I moved, creeping as silently as I could back toward the servants’ stairs at the rear of the house—the ones Ashabee’s secret doorway sat above.

Jeff’s room was very close to the stairs—probably since he was the most called-upon member of Ashabee’s staff—so it took me only a few moments to reach them. I circled the still intact landing carefully, pausing when I heard the distinct sound of Desmond’s voice wafting up from below.

“—again, requesting update on a heloship evacuation route at my position.”

There was a burst of static, and then a nasally voice piped through. “With regrets, ma’am, the queen has ordered all heloships on standby. There is a crisis in the city, and we’re still assessing the risk.”

Desmond spat out a curse. I crept closer to the stairs, testing my weight on each floorboard before I moved onto it. With all the rubble below, I had expected this thing to be a mess. But somehow, it continued to be structurally sound. Ashabee must have brought in a brilliant architect when he had the mansion built. At this point, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

“Thanks for the update, Control,” said another female voice. I bit back a smile—clearly Desmond was tired of talking. I was glad that she was frustrated. It wasn’t much to make up for the horrors she had put us through, but it was a start. I slid farther behind the landing, trying to find the place where I could peer down and see how many guards there were. So far, I’d heard one.

“Keep sifting that rubble out of the way. We need to get down there. Find out if she’s dead or if she’s managed to escape us. Again.”

Desmond’s voice held an angry bark to it, reminding me of a savage dog. I’m not dead, I thought to her, as though she could hear me. And I’m going to make your life a lot harder.

“With respect, ma’am, there are pieces of stone here too big for us to move on our own. We need a full team here to—”

“Haven’t you heard, Warden? There is rioting in the streets, people looting and gone wild over one little propaganda video made by a team of rebels. And not just any rebels, no, but the same one that girl in the basement happens to lead. She’s a criminal, ladies, and dangerous to boot. Not to mention, she is the only suspect in the assassination of Queen Rina. I don’t care how hard it is; we have a duty to Queen Elena to get her and drag her back to Matrus for questioning. So stop arguing with me and dig!”

I finally got an angle by going to my belly, peering around the wraparound stairs. It was hard to see all the guards, but from the little flashes and the softer exchange of voices, I counted three. I waited for a while. Desmond paced the area around the stairs like a wild beast as I watched, and I fantasized about going to get my rifle and just unloading a clip into her. But I knew it would be a rash move. Killing Desmond would only get me killed by the guards. While I’d held stairs like this before, I’d been in better shape then, in a pitched battle with backup if I failed. If they all charged up the stairs at me, I was likely to be able to take most of them out—but what if one came around behind me or ran away? Or what if one hit me, and Tim and Owen were left to fend for themselves in the basement with unknown injuries?

Or I could take them all out at once… I thought about just tossing a grenade down the staircase at them, a brutal parody of what Desmond had done to me and Owen—and, inadvertently, Tim. But down there, the walls were already compromised. Who knew what another concussive blast would do to the structures down in the basement? It could do nothing. Or it could cut off more than the lights in the front part of the basement. I knew the hidden doors needed electricity to run—what if the wires were already damaged? I still had the tiny elevator, but it needed electricity, too. If I had to risk more structural damage to the house, I wanted it to be farther away from the part where my brother was still effectively prisoner.