Page 33 of Misadventures with a Duke

I get it then, that she’s ordering me to focus on something besides the nervous jiggle of my left leg. Up, up, up and to the right, to be exact—at the updated news feed that ripples along the front of the media building, via that artistic electronic strip.

At first I only scowl, thinking she’s merely strapped on her rough and relentless side because of the marketing blurb on a massive billboard above the electric display.

KNOWLEDGE

IS NEVER

A MISTAKE

“Okay, okay. I got it, all right? Shit, D. What on earth are you getting—”

Only now, when the huge video screen is switched from an eyeshadow ad to a breaking-news feature, do I understand that she wants me to be reading the headline ticker that’s thrown in between stock market and weather updates. The words that justify why we’re looking at choppy footage from someone’s cell phone instead of professional camerawork. The sound bite that’s really not. The click bait that’s even worse. The only intention of this line is to stop people in their tracks. Literally.

And one for all? Half-naked lunatic breaks into NYC French Consulate with a broadsword…

“Holy crap.”

I rasp it while watching my worst nightmare take life on a digital plateau over my head. Not a bulb of the supersign shows me mercy, in much the same way a pair of guards treats Bastien on the marble floor of the consulate’s rotunda. I cover my mouth, ordering myself not to get sick while viewing his sweat and blood slicked across the ornate surface.

“Oh my God.” I gasp it into my palm as the video feed is split in half.

The right side still displays the live events, with at least three people keeping Bastien pinned to the floor. On the left, they’re replaying a clip that’s timestamped from ten minutes ago. It looks like the videographer, likely a consulate employee, turned on their camera after Bastien burst in past the building’s 5th Avenue entrance.

Bastien’s tumbling hair and Conan-like shoulders are exaggerated by the light pouring in from behind him, even with the mansion’s awning in place. But not in the shot? The broadsword that’s so giddily noted in the ticker description. More cheap click bait, at the expense of a human I already care intensely about.

I’m well into an incensed growl about the injustice, only to choke on it after Bastien seems to exchange shouts with an aggressive security guard. As soon as the officer charges forward, Bastien swings to the right and yanks the weapon from a mannequin in a display beyond a velvet rope. Without a doubt he does the sword more justice than the statue, not that I have time to overly appreciate how spectacularly he gets his Conan on.

I can only groan harder, awash in new dread, as he swings out the blade with expert precision. But he’s so good that he only shaves the top of the guy’s hair—not that the guard notices that his life’s been deliberately spared. He keeps charging forward, invigorated when a couple of buddies back him up.

Another gasp clouds the air. I can’t deny it’s mine, since Drue is already in Eeyore mode down to the last sardonic speck. “Please tell me that’s not really him,” she mutters from beneath her rain cloud.

I don’t bother offering a virtual umbrella. We’re not going to be standing still that long.

“No time to lie about that right now.” I don’t wait for her comeback. I’m already turning and heading down 44th, barely refraining from breaking into a full run. “I’ve got to help him.”

“You mean we’ve got to.”

Eeyore vibes or not, the woman keeps perfect pace enough to give me a shoulder bump of encouragement.

While returning the gesture, I add, “You’re getting a full hug for this when I don’t have to dread telling Max that his brother’s been thrown into Manhattan Detention.”

“Not going to happen,” she volleys.

“The hug or the Max convo?”

“Both.” She barely pauses as we hook a left onto 6th. “Good call, taking it this way. Cutting through the park won’t be pretty today.”

I give only a fast nod. Depending on the day, Central Park can be either a sanity restorer or stripper. On a sunny Sunday like this, it’s likely to be the latter—and I’m currently needing every shred of lucidity I have left. Yes, even the parts of it that make me face valid fears.

Even if we sprint, the consulate is over a mile away. Waiting on a train, or even calling for a ride, will equate to the same amount of travel time.

What if we get there and they’ve already taken Bastien away?

And what if they get him to prison and ask him about his identity? His birthdate? His next of kin?

What if he decides that his jailors in this century are no better than those of his last?

If he’s even come to accept that he’s not in that time anymore…