I huffed in irritation.
"Waiting for a trick or something? Better get used to disappointment." I crossed my arms against the power of his grin, so strong, so right on his face, and pinched the underside of my arm every time I wanted to smile back.
I needed a plan, the objective being to get home in one piece. Execution of Plan A was still debatable.
But hey, in dreams anything is possible, right?
The kitchen had only a single doorway, no door, behind me. No windows, a disconcerting common theme. A table with four chairs nestled into a corner, an empty flower vase positioned in the corner. On his side of the breakfast bar was a mystery but behind him was a sink and a counter covered with spice racks, jars of utensils, a toaster, and a block of knives next to the stove.
Knives that might come in handy.
I was formulating a plan to slip a knife from its home on the counter when the word vomit kicked in. My old friend and near-constant companion, the word vomit. "Are you going to ignore me all night? Because I'm not that kind of girl, I don't get off when a boy ignores me. And, honestly, have you ever kidnapped anyone before? I don't think this is quite right. I sort of imagined a lot of evil laughing and monologues."
Yes, that's right, Autumn; insult the man who can rip open the earth at whim. Smart move.
Countless teachers and friends liked to remind me that my inability to keep my mouth shut would be my undoing. Sarah, who has possessed the patience of a saint for the past twelve years, did not let a day go by without informing me just how annoying I could be. So annoying she could die, in fact. Unfortunately my brain and my mouth didn't communicate well when stressedâor at allâand while the former was calculating the logistics of knife-play, the latter never stopped running.
Really, it was a miracle I'd been able to keep it quiet for this long.
"Is this a wrong-place-wrong-time sort of deal? Because you can trade me in for a better model, I won't be offended." But then I remembered what he'd said on the street and I sat up a little straighter, the wariness that should never have left my body evidently present once again. "No, you knew my name. So you were looking for me."
Color me suspicious. My guard would stay in the proverbial "up" position.
He said, You belong to me. Like a prize. Like the baby in the Rumpelstiltskin story, he just came to collect a few years too late. I would have to guess his name to defeat him and all my guesses were used up.
With every passing moment the world around me seemed less and less like dreamland. I took six impulsive steps fueled by fear; my hand reached out for the nearest handle protruding from the knife block.
I ripped the knife from the wood block and whipped around to face him, blade pointed at his back.
"Put that down, you'll only end up hurting yourself." He sounded bored with me, little laughter left in his voice. Mysterio didn't look up from the bowls and plates on the kitchen island, didn't pause in his task. A normal person would fend off the threat but he made no move to protect the vulnerable expanse of his back. Perhaps we both knew I wasn't brave enough to use the knife I clutched so tightly.
"This is ridiculous. I just want to go home. I don't really care about getting answers anymore. Just open up the ceiling and spit me back out onto the street." Thankfully when my voice shook this time I knew it was in anger rather than fear. I didn't belong to anyone, especially not him. "This is not a date. I'm not staying here, Mysterio."
"'I'm just someone who likes cooking and for whom sharing food is a form of expression'. You would understand if I had found you sooner."
I wish he'd never found me at all. "You brought me here so you could express yourself?" Incredulity poured out of my mouth.
"You misunderstand; I was quoting Maya Angelou. I think she was on to something. Sharing food can be a way to celebrate, apologize, heal. Put down the knife."
My grip on the handle tightened, unsure of my next move but certain that I didn't want to relinquish my only weapon. I opened my mouth to make more demands but before any sound came out, Mysterio spun out to the right and away from my blade, abandoning his work. With hands impossibly fast he caught my wrist as he turned to face me, twisting it outwards but simultaneously wrenching me forward until we were toe to toe. His fingers pressed against the veins at the base of my wrist, forcing my grip to grow slack and the knife clattered to the floor as useless as it had been in my hand. I curled my free hand into a fist and drew back my arm but he stopped me mid-strike.
"Don't even think about it." His words were light, not unpleasant, and his brown eyes shone with mild delight rather than anger; I had attempted to literally stab him in the back and he didn't even look the least bit surprised. He released my wrist and I frowned at him, pulling my arm to my chest to soothe the imaginary pain. I cuddled it, rubbing the spot where his fingers touched me. Once again we stood with so little room between us.
Disappointment ran through me; he wasn't the only one doing some underestimating in the kitchen; how could anyone move that way, fluidly and impossibly fast? I had to fight the urge to stick my tongue out at him; he might try to twist that off, too.
No, he committed a more despicable crime, looking at me with my frown and my wounded pride: he laughed at me. Loud and jovial, his laughter felt like warmth and home miraculously rolled into a sound. If I hadn't already decided to hate him for the rest of my life, I would have noticed how his eyes flashed when his laugh reached them, how genuinely happy he looked, and how handsome that happiness made him.
"If you're done trying to stab me, I'll answer some of your questions. Follow me; we'll talk while we eat." Gordon picked up a single plate from the kitchen island and started away from me, towards a doorway across the room that I hadn't noticed before.
I didn't know how kidnappings usually worked but somehow I knew this wasn't it. Shouldn't there be torture? Was I even supposed to live this long? Was he going to fatten me up for Thanksgiving dinner?
Maybe he was too hungry to wait for November; maybe the single plate was a side dish, to help the pieces of me go down easier.
A thought occurred to me: I was having a Hansel and Gretel dream. The only way to beat my subconscious was to stuff this man in the oven and run away. My eyes darted around the room to discover that this dream kitchen lacked one thing my home had: an oven.
No more horror movies, it's time to quit cold turkey. Of course he's not going to eat you.
Logic or no logicâand there was very little logic in my life at that momentâI didn't feel any safer.
"What makes you think I'm going to be eating with you? What makes you think I'd be willing to do anything with you?" I didn't realize I was shouting until I stopped to take a breath. Mysterio didn't acknowledge my questions, surprise, surprise. "People are going to miss me, you know."
That wasn't entirely true. Nobody knew I had snuck out for a run; Mom wouldn't be missing me until after school tomorrow and the school barely cared about seniors' attendance in the week leading up to graduation. Sarah and Tony were used to my unexplained absences, especially since senioritis kicked in two months ago. I could hardly tell them that I needed the job more than I needed to go to the remaining few pointless classes of high school.
Nobody was going to miss me for at least twenty-four hours; not even my boss, because irony of ironies, I had the day off was planning on actually going to school tomorrow. Panic raced through me at the thought that no one was coming to save meâand that I needed saving in the first place. A rescue was not in my near future and I knew it.
Not that I particularly wanted to need rescuing; I like to think of myself as the hero of my own story. But as my knife-fighting skills needed obvious work, maybe a little rescuing would be helpful.
My top priority was to get home. Kidnapping and cracks in the earth aside, I'd been with him for ten minutes and I'd already pulled a knife on my host. Just think of what an hour alone with him would make me do.
I still had no earth-shattering plan, no escape route. World's Greatest Strategist, I am not.
But as I followed him through the door and into another room fit for a king I put on a confident face, a sure face, the face one wears when she knows she will win. Even when she's not so sure.
Mysterio, or whatever his name actually was, placed the single plate on an expansive dining room table. I raised one eyebrow. "So you're going to express yourself through food while I, what, sit here and watch?"
He smiled at me, gracing my field of vision with his self-assured smile yet again. It was the same one he wore when we landed in this unknown place and the one he favored when he laughed at me. It looked just right on his face, lighting up his eyes in all the right places.
"You're not asking the right questions. This," he gestured to the plate and pulled the chair out in invitation, "is for you, Autumn; gods don't need to eat."
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