“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Enrique shuddered. “So beautiful I’m driven by envy to destroy it immediately.”
Tristan smacked his arm.
Using the key hidden in the heel of his shoe, Enrique unclasped the metal hump. He tossed Tristan a pair of small pliers that Zofia had packed, and a pair of needles. They set to work unlocking the base, peeling back the metal shelling and protective layers until the box holding the piranha solution broke free. Enrique and Tristan took out their foldable gas masks at the same time. Tristan poured some water in the lenses, and Enrique checked for any cracks. None. A single crack, and he’d lose an eye and get poisoned. Or worse.
Enrique held a small hammer in his hand, fingers trembling. If they did this wrong, he’d probably burn off his hands. Then again, he might not even notice because his vision would be the first thing to disappear. Tristan glanced at the door.
One chip.
Two.
The casing broke.
Enrique tossed it high in the air. He and Tristan had about four minutes before they were in any trouble.
“Let’s go—” he started, but right then he heard Tristan start gasping.
Tristan grabbed his fingers, nearly crushing them in his grip. His face went from pale to tinged with blue.
A knock sounded at the door.
“What’s going on in there?” demanded one of the guards.
“Nothing!” shouted Enrique.
“We are only allowed to accept orders from Monsieur Maréchal. Sir, is everything all right?”
Tristan tugged at his goggles. Then brushed something off his jacket. Petals. Frantically, he pointed at the poisonous Pied Piper flutes. Enrique had once read that the moment one touched the petals, they released oils that could seep into one’s skin. Tristan must have accidentally brushed against the flower.
“Monsieur?” demanded the guard. “Do we need to come in? We will take your silence in the affirmative if so.”
Tristan’s face turned blue.
“He cannot speak because he got too close to a poisonous plant!” shouted Enrique, thinking fast. “If he speaks, he will inhale a toxic fume and… and die!”
Outside, the guards began to shuffle back and forth, arguing with one another. Enrique reached out, shaking Tristan.
“Just croak out a word!”
Tristan’s eyes turned watery, limpid. Drooping. And then he slumped over.
“No no no no no,” muttered Enrique, throwing the tools into the metal hump and fixing it sloppily to his shoulders.
“We’re coming in!” shouted the guard.
The doors cracked open a sliver. For a moment, Enrique wondered whether he should just smash the rest of the piranha casing, but he couldn’t do that without risking severe burns. Several guards peered through, rifles at the ready.
One of the guards in the back whispered, “Wasn’t his hump on the other side?”
But the second one shoved him to the ground. “Monsieur Maréchal! He’s been injured.”
The other guards were clamoring to get inside. Shouts crowded the air.
“What’s that?” asked the first guard, staring at the piranha solution falling slowly from the ceiling.
A heavy mist began to descend on the plants. Plumes of sulfur unraveled into the air.
