A Dark Inheritance

by Chris D'Lacey

  By then, she had slouched into Solomon’s office, and Mrs. Greaves was giving me grief. “Don’t you have a lesson to go to, Michael?”

  The photocopier flared. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then go.”

  It was almost morning break by the time Freya made it to the chemistry lab. She parked herself on a bench near the back, hidden behind a couple of tall burettes. She stared out the window for the remaining eight minutes of the lesson. Mr. Boland noticed her, but let it pass. Freya was a lost cause to most of the staff.

  But she was the key to my progress with UNICORNE. So when the bell for recess sounded, I shoved Ryan and the rest of the crew aside and quietly followed Freya out of school. She went deep into the grounds, on a winding walk across the soccer field, before slumping in a heap on a well-carved tree stump surrounded by a crop of dandelions. The journey had taken her almost five minutes, which was a measure of her loneliness, I thought. I approached slowly, making sure my footfalls were heavy enough so she wouldn’t think I was creeping up. Her forehead was sunk against her forearms in her lap. I was fairly close in before she murmured, “Leave me alone, whoever you are.”

  “It’s me.”

  Silence.

  “Michael. Malone.”

  More silence.

  Awkward.

  “Hey, Freya,” I began.

  She said, “I don’t date and no, you can’t copy my biology homework.”

  It took me several seconds to realize this was a pretty slick joke. First surprise: Freya had a sense of humor. She also had limited patience.

  “Whatever tired joke you’re playing won’t work. I’m immune to insults and idiots like Garvey. Get lost, Malone. I don’t drink blood, but I sure can bite.”

  I crouched down and snapped a blade of grass. “I just wanted to know if Trace was okay. Neat name, by the way. Did you call him that?”

  “It’s a her,” she tutted.

  A husky female. There was a wisecrack there, but I didn’t pursue it. Instead, I said dumbly, “Yeah, well, it was … misty.”

  “What?” She lifted her face off her hands.

  I shrugged and flicked away the blade of grass. “Guess you were right: Biology isn’t my strongest subject.”

  Drumroll. Muted cymbal crash. Thank you, I’ll be here all week. Smug me thought that was a smart reply to her homework gag, but when she looked me in the eye, she wasn’t smiling. “You faked it, didn’t you?”

  “Sorry? Faked what?”

  “No one could have held Trace still that long.”

  Oh, the photograph. “The photographer tricked me. Don’t believe everything you see in the papers.”

  “I don’t — or anything I read. Trace is a wolf in doggy fur. There’s no way a wimp like you could have caught her as easily as they said.”

  “Me and my uniform disagree, sorry. You want to see the dry cleaning bill?”

  She spat out another chunk of gum. “You’re a real comedian, aren’t you?”

  “Hey. Chill out. I didn’t come looking for a fight, okay?”

  “Good. You’d lose.” She got up and stormed toward the school buildings.

  A second lapsed, then I let myself snap. “She was going to jump.”

  I heard Freya’s footsteps slow to a stop.

  “I can’t explain how I knew, I just did. So I ran for her. It all happened fast, in a blur. I didn’t know the journalists were going to turn up or what they were going to do with the picture. I swear, I hardly spoke to them. They made up all that stupid stuff about me having ‘superpowers.’ You might like to know that I don’t own a cape and I keep my underwear inside my trousers.”

  She snorted at that. A slight thaw, perhaps? I took a chance and looked over my shoulder at her. She was standing by a goalpost, stubbing her toe against it. “I like dogs, Freya. That’s all there is to it.”

  She nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “Why was Trace loose on the headland that morning?”

  I was confident I’d get a reply, and I did. I was working out where on my wimpy body I could have my secret UNICORNE tattoo, when Freya blew the dream far across the playing fields. “I don’t know,” she mumbled.

  “How come? You must know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because …” I spread my hands. “Did you leave the back door open or something?”

  “Um, no?” She hit me with her trademark sneer.

  “She got off the leash, then?”

  “Malone, let it go.”

  “It’s a simple question, Freya. How come Trace was running the cliff?”

  “I don’t know,” she shouted, loud, like she was scared.

  The bell rang for the end of recess.

  “But that doesn’t make sense. Either you —”

  “Jeez,” she cut in. “Are you totally dumb?” She bit her lip and seemed a little freaked out. “I don’t know why she was on the cliffs — Trace is not my dog, okay?”

  “What?”

  “Oh!” With a sigh, she hurried away, walking briskly with her shoulders hunched and her arms tightly folded.

  I caught up with her by the grassy embankment that sloped down from the playing fields toward the school drive. “Freya, wait.” I took her lightly by the arm.

  “Get off me!” She turned and flapped her hands.

  Someone grunted, “Fight!” and an audience of kids seemed to instantly materialize on the drive.

  “If Trace is not your dog, whose is she?”

  More flapping. “Just leave me alone!”

  “Freya, will you —” I grabbed her wrists and shook her till she looked at me. “The girl, the reporter, she said she was yours.”

  “Well, she was wrong. Let me go.”

  “But you know something, don’t you? You’re just afraid to say.” I could see the sparks of fear in her eyes.

  “I’m gonna scream,” she threatened.

  And, boy, could she holler. An eardrum-shattering howl that rattled the school windows and drove a gang of crows out of the nearby trees.

  The kids on the driveway whooped and cheered.

  Not so Mr. Besson, my languages teacher, who bellowed at me from an open window. “Michael Malone! What do you think you’re doing?”

  So I let Freya go, raising my hands as if the cops had the drop on me. Instantly, she lost her footing and stumbled backward down the slope. It wasn’t steep and the ground here was dry, but it didn’t do a lot for her fading dignity — or my tarnished image.

  “Freya!” I called, and scrambled down after her.

  Right away she was swamped by kids. Some of them wanted to check she wasn’t hurt, but most were just taking a ghoulish peek at the traumatized goth girl rocking back and forth like a frightened animal, sobbing into her shaking hands.

  “Out of the way. All of you. Now.” Mr. Besson was there in moments, peeling kids aside in an effort to get through.

  “It was him, sir. He pushed her.” The fingers came for me.

  “Sir, I —”

  “Be quiet,” snapped Besson. “I’ll deal with you later. I said, stand back. Give the girl some air.”

  He knelt beside Freya, tucking his tie into the belt of his trousers as though contact with it might shatter her into pieces. “Freya, it’s Mr. Besson. Are you hurt?”

  “Just leave me alone,” she sobbed.

  “You know I can’t do that. I need you to stand and come with me to the office. Have you knocked your head?”

  She shook it hard. But through the gaps of her fingers I could see what Mr. Besson could see: the first signs of a bruise developing. Gently, he pulled one hand away. On her left temple was a dull red mark. It was about the size of a quarter and looked like a spill of wine on a tablecloth. I couldn’t understand it. I’d watched her fall all the way to the bottom and I was pretty sure she hadn’t struck her head on the drive.

  But Mr. Besson was taking no chances. He gently pulled Freya to her feet and guided her away. Over his shoulder, he said, “Malone, you’d better
follow — at a sensible distance.”

  So I dropped in behind them, feeling like a prisoner on the walk to his cell. Kids were speaking abuse from all sides, and Mr. Besson was doing nothing to stop them. Finally, we got inside and everything calmed. As we approached the office, even Freya was beginning to play down what had happened. “Sir, I’m all right.” I heard her fussing. “I don’t want this. I’ll be fine. I’m okay. Really.” And, “I slipped, sir. It wasn’t Malone’s fault.”

  “Well, we still need to look at that injury,” he said. “Wait there a moment.” He knocked on the office door and went straight in, giving me a chance to be alone with Freya.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, sidling up. I had my hands in my pockets, head bent low.

  “Go away,” she whispered, covering her face. She scrubbed her fingers through her raggedy hair. Despite the relative safety of reception, she seemed more troubled here than she had been on the field.

  I chewed my lip. “I can’t, you heard Besson. Is your head okay?”

  “Don’t look at me,” she squealed, turning away. And then she said something very strange, something I didn’t think was meant for me. “Please, get out of my head….”

  Half a second to respond. And Besson was coming back. “Who?” I asked quietly. “Who’s in your head?” I tried to touch her arm, but she batted me away. At the same time, the office door opened and Mr. Besson called her in. As she moved across to the doorway, I glanced at her face — and saw something that made me start. Her left temple was normal and clear.

  The red mark that had been there had completely disappeared.

  “Suspended?”

  “Mom, I swear, I didn’t do anything.”

  “Suspended?” she repeated, in the way someone would if you told them aliens had stolen your laundry. Her confusion filled the living room like invisible dark energy.

  Josie stared at me, openmouthed. “Tirion said you had a fight with Freya.”

  “Fight?!” Mom’s words were growing harsher by the vowel.

  “It wasn’t a fight. And who the heck is Tirion?”

  “My new friend,” Josie said. “What did you do to Freya?”

  “Nothing. I did nothing.”

  Chantelle came in and leaned against the door frame.

  “We were arguing and she slipped. I didn’t push her or hit her. Ask her yourself. Solomon suspended me because …”

  “Because?” said Mom.

  I had to look away from her; I couldn’t find the words. But all of a sudden, they were pouring out of Mom. “Because he’s run out of patience. And so have I. What on earth has happened to you, Michael? Ever since this … scrimmage with the dog, you’ve become every mother’s worst nightmare. You used to be so …”

  “Sweet,” Josie said, raising an eyebrow.

  In another reality, maybe.

  “I dread to think what your father would have said.”

  And oh, how I would have loved to tell Mom that Dad was the reason I was putting myself through this. Dad, who seemed even more distant to me now. I glanced at Chantelle, who was airily posed, there to make sure I kept my mouth shut about Amadeus Klimt and UNICORNE, no doubt.

  “How long?” Mom said. “How many days before you go back?”

  “Three,” I mumbled.

  “How many?” gasped Mom.

  “Three. I just said so, didn’t I?”

  “Don’t you talk back at me, young man.” Mom’s glare became laser intense. “Well, you will work,” she said, poking my shoulder. “You will stay in your room with your head in your textbooks and you will demonstrate to me that you are truly sorry for the hurt and embarrassment you’ve brought to this family. While I’m at work and Josie is at school, Chantelle will bring you your meals and —”

  “Mom —?”

  “Be quiet, I haven’t finished. You will stay up there for the whole three days so you know what it means to be deprived of your freedom and other comforts. And it begins right now.” She pointed to the stairs.

  “Mom, please.”

  “Go, Michael.”

  Josie made hamster hands across her mouth. This was serious stuff. Her once “sweet” brother was effectively under house arrest.

  I picked up my bag and sloped toward the door. Chantelle said to Mom, “The garage called. I’m going to fetch the scooter.” She moved aside to let me pass. But in the moment it took to get a waft of her scent, she got the message I was silently mouthing.

  We need to talk.

  Maybe when she brought me my first bowl of porridge.

  In fact, Josie was the first one I saw. Two hours had limped by and I had done precisely nothing but watch raindrops roll down my bedroom window. I was rapidly discovering that changing my reality carried its downfalls as well as its perks. Or maybe I was just feeling sorry for myself because I hadn’t gotten to the root of my “mission”? If I couldn’t solve some silly little mystery about a dog, how would I ever find my way to Dad? I was turning his paper chain of dragons through my hands when Josie knocked on the door and eased her way in. She marched across the room, stood on tiptoe so she could reach around my neck, and gave me a hug. “Night-night,” she whispered, and turned away.

  “Jose, don’t go.”

  She paused by the door, curling and uncurling her fingers. I was guessing Mom had ordered her not to speak to me, but there had always been enough of the rebel in Josie to do what she thought was right. “Mom’ll kill me if she finds me here.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  “Will you do something for me?”

  She looked toward the landing.

  “Please?”

  She closed the door a little so Mom couldn’t hear. “What?”

  “Talk to Freya for me.”

  “Michael?”

  “She’s scared, Josie. Something’s wrong about the dog. Freya says it’s not hers, but talking about it turns her loopy.”

  “Not hers? But they said in the paper …?”

  “I know, but Freya says different. That’s what we were … arguing about.”

  She sighed and hunched her shoulders. “Why would she talk to me, sister of the boy who gave her grief?”

  “I think she wants to tell someone what she knows.”

  “And what does she know?”

  “That’s what I need you to find out, Sherlock. Just, y’know, be a girl. Make friends with her.”

  “Trick-or-treat with the goth freak? Thanks.” She threw her hair behind one ear. “Would, but can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s older than me.”

  “So?”

  “So she wouldn’t be seen dead with a fifth grader, dimwit.”

  I looked down at my hands and had an idea. “Tell her you like dragons.”

  “Dragons? Is this a joke?”

  “Ryan says she draws them.”

  Her face filled with disbelief. “Anything that comes from Ryan Garvey’s mouth came straight out of a clown manual first.”

  “Honestly, she likes them. I’ve seen her with The Hobbit.”

  “That’s about funny little men with hairy feet, Michael.”

  “There’s a dragon in it, too. Just talk to her, Jose. Honestly, she’s not as bad as people say. She’s … quite smart, actually.”

  “Oh, now I get it. You ‘like’ her, don’t you?” She made quote marks with her fingers.

  “What? Don’t be dumb. I don’t like Freya.”

  Josie just grinned and patted her cheeks, meaning mine were glowing like coals. Where were the shadows in this room when you needed them? “Look, just find out anything you can. Hambleton said she had an operation.”

  “Oh, nice topic when you finally start dating! You show me your scars and I’ll show you mine? Why are you so interested, anyway?”

  “In what?”

  “Freya, the dog, any of it?”

  I rubbed a paper dragon between my thumb and fingers. Could I afford to make Josie part of this? Kli
mt’s orders had been pretty clear. No mentions of UNICORNE to anyone. Thankfully, I was spared a decision when Chantelle called out from downstairs, “Josie, est-ce que tu veux un chocolat chaud ce soir?”

  Josie immediately scampered away to the bathroom. She flushed the toilet and quickly called back, “Sorry, did you ask me something?”

  She frowned at me as she flashed past my room and hurried downstairs. And though she hadn’t confirmed it either way, somehow I knew I could count on her help.

  I didn’t see Chantelle until the following morning. Mom came in briefly with a breakfast tray and repeated the terms of my imprisonment. But I was on my game by then and had schoolbooks open on the floor and on my desk. Mom said before she left, “I do love you, Michael, and I always will. Please don’t test the extent of it.”

  And that actually made me cry a little.

  I was still crumpling a tissue when Chantelle knocked on my door and flowed into the room. She arranged herself on my battered desk chair, with one leg tucked under her. She was wearing slacks and a sloppy gray sweater, but she still looked cool and French and — amazing. “So,” she said, gazing at my poster of a Lamborghini Gallardo, “you’ve been a bad boy, Michael.” She picked up a pencil and bridged it between her manicured fingers. “Klimt will not be impressed.”

  “Is that why you’re here, to tell me I’m finished?”

  “You said you wanted to talk. Here I am. Talk.”

  “The dog doesn’t belong to Freya.”

  “And this is supposed to be meaningful to me?” She angled her free foot into the air.

  “Klimt told me to report everything to you.”

  “And this is all you have to tell me, that the dog does not belong to Freya?” She lifted a page of my history book and let it fall like a dying swan. “I have work to do. I’ll return at noon, possibly with a sandwich — if your behavior is good.”

  She stood up and so did I. Even though I was several years younger than her, I was tall enough to block her path.

  She smiled and spiraled a hand toward my face, dragging a nail slowly down my cheek. I was so tense I thought my skin would split. She said, “Are you sure you want to confront me, Michael? You may have some interesting powers, but you know I could easily glamour you again.”