Throne by Phil Tucker Read Free Book Online Page B

his small, blue eyes. Her throat immediately tightened, stoppered with gelid air. She couldn’t speak! Panicking, dizzy, she shook her head from side to side, her vision began to darken, spots appearing before her eyes, and then, with a sob, she gave up again.
    “Can’t you speak?” Asked Harry.
    Maya looked up at him, mute appeal in her eyes, and slowly, reluctantly, shook her head.
     
    Panic. Cold, mute panic. Maya had pushed past the British couple and rushed down the street, hands clutched to her throat. The world dark and rushing past her, indifferent and alien. Her feet smacking the pavement as she ran, awkward and ungainly, alone and terrified. Finally she crossed the lanes to her right, darting out through traffic to dive back into the city, to leave the East River behind, running in a bent over hunch till she ran out of breath, her lungs heaving and filled with red shards of glass.
    What had happened? What had happened? She had no idea, no idea if it had indeed been a fever dream, something brought upon by the alcohol, but one glass, was that really enough to push her so deeply into something so febrile and hallucinatory? Slowing down, she stopped, leaned against a wall and rubbed at her throat. It was so unfair, so unfair. What had she done to deserve this? Tears stung her eyes and she felt a crushing sense of despair swamp over her.
    Get it together , she thought. Pull yourself up. Don’t fall, don’t fall now because if you do you won’t stop, you’ll fall forever . Maya ran her hands through her hair, pulled it back, away from her face. Straightened her clothing, forced herself to stand up straight. She felt manic, her fear making everything electric, every sound resonating within her head. She felt as if every hair were sensitive to the air currents, more terribly alive than ever.
    Basics. She needed to do something, anything, but she had to get off the streets. Where could she go? Thoughts of bus tickets and freedom were too much, at least for now. So—where? Work. She could lose herself in work for some hours, make some more money. Give herself time to think. She suddenly craved the familiar, the world she understood, no matter how abusive and horrible it was. At least she knew the people at the factory, would not be alone.
    Turning, she took her bearings. She was late, already late enough to earn a serious reprimand, but showing up late was better than nothing, so she began to stride down the street. The air was cold, freezing her wet clothing, but there was nothing she could do about it. Raising her chin, ignoring glances that were probably not even being sent her way, Maya headed toward work. One step at a time , she thought. Keep it together .
    Twenty minutes later she reached the building in which the factory was housed. When she had been told by Mrs. Mercedes that she would be working in a clothing factory, she had imagined a massive building, a warehouse with thousands of women busily sewing and stitching. This was nothing like that. Walking up to the door, she buzzed the intercom and then gave the password. The security door opened and she let herself in. How many times had she slipped in like an illicit shadow? How familiar this dingy hall, the air of bruised smoke and bad perfume. Burnt hair, the most noxious smell she knew.
    Up the stairs, up six flights. Don’t use the elevator, too dangerous, too unreliable. Her feet grew heavier with each step, her legs leaden, her head light. She wouldn’t make it through the night, thought Maya, she wouldn’t survive. Finally, however, she gained the seventh floor, and staggered down the hall to the door behind which she would work for the next six hours. Passed other doors, some bearing name plaques, graphic designers, attorneys, other official sounding names ending in capital letters. Finally hers. A blank door, no sign, no name. No real existence. Just a door, scuffed and bare and unnoticeable.
    Knocked three times. The door cracked open and Jose