A Taste for Red

by Lewis Harris

  Her voice grew from somewhere back in the house. "Is it dinnertime already? I declare—I'm like some potentate, being waited on hand and foot." She careened into the kitchen, banging into the table hard enough to topple the salt and pepper shakers. "Oh, dear." She steadied herself, pushing away from the table. "I haven't quite mastered this contraption."

  I wondered if she'd been double-dipping into her painkillers. "You might want to let your leg mend before you go breaking it again."

  Lenora Bones smiled. "I'll be back in tiptop condition in no time at all—thanks to your wonderful care. But how are you faring, my sweet?"

  "Well, I haven't been arrested yet—if that's what you mean." I set down the foil-covered plates that were warming my hands.

  Ms. Bones waved dismissively. "I wouldn't worry your head over that. Criminals can hardly get arrested nowadays—let alone angels such as yourself." She grabbed a handful of my cheek and squeezed. "Now let's eat!"

  I uncovered the plates of ravioli.

  "Good heavens," she said, "your mother is determined to put some meat on me."

  I shrugged off my backpack and pulled up a chair. I dug into my pasta, already two bites behind. Despite appearances, the old lady could shovel away some serious food.

  "I think you'll find worry a poor investment," she advised. "Your little team hasn't broken yet, have they?" Meaning Fumio and Foote. "Of course not. And if they haven't by now, believe me, they won't. Those boys don't want matters complicated any more than you do." She cocked an eyebrow. "I say let the authorities wrap things up as they please."

  The dynamite explosion had left little of Larch's sports car and nothing at all of Dumloch's van—including Larch and Dumloch. Had the two been vaporized or atomized? Their vampire flesh obliterated and blown into dust? The Bone Lady believed so.

  As far as the cops were concerned, Larch and Dumloch were prime suspects in what they assumed had been a botched kidnapping. They believed the teachers had been holding the three girls for ransom. The fact that Marsha and Madison's dad was some kind of millionaire helped sell that line of reasoning. The authorities theorized the dynamite explosion was a diversion set by the duo to aid in their escape. It sounded like brilliant detective work to me—more power to them. Foote, Fumio, and I had been dismissed as three clueless kids who just happened to pass along and spy the missing girls' bikes inside an open garage—accidental heroes foiling Larch and Dumloch's villainous scheme.

  That worked—as long as Foote and Fumio didn't spill the beans about the dynamite.

  "Don't fret," Ms. Bones said, sensing the worry still hounding my thoughts. "You've done excellent work, a terrific job: vanquished the dragon and saved the village and all that." She reached a hand to my elbow and squeezed. "You did what had to be done—and I'm very proud of you, Svetlana." She poked a forkful of pasta into her mouth, grinning. A dab of red sauce lingered on her lip, and she swiped with a napkin. "How's the cranium?"

  "Good," I answered. After two weeks, the knot on my noggin had almost completely vanished.

  "And your friend Dwight?"

  "He's good," I said. "Getting better."

  We finished, and I gathered up the plates.

  "Be sure to give your mother my thanks, as usual. But no more—I can take care of myself, you know."

  "I know, but just until you get back on your feet. Please?" Please? At least until I'm off restriction?

  Very well, she thought, her words tickling like a feather behind my eyes. But only because you're a dear and your mother's a wonderful cook.

  I reached beneath the chair and fished inside my backpack for What Is Known. I drew the book free and laid the heavy volume on the table. "I've finally finished," I said.

  "And?"

  "And it's scary stuff. Unbelievable."

  "Very scary—and all true. But keep it a bit longer. Study it." She pushed the book back toward me. "And I've one other thing for you to take." She wheeled from the room and returned a moment later with a package across her lap. "It arrived for you in the mail today."

  "For me?"

  "Well, it has your name on it, my dear."

  The box was wrapped in plain brown paper, stamped AIRMAIL, and peppered with postage bearing the likeness of the Queen of England. The address on the box was Lenora Bones's, but the addressee was SVETLANA GRIMM; the sender, BARTALBY FRIES AND FISH.

  "Bartalby Fries and Fish?"

  The old woman shrugged. "Sounds like a chip shop."

  "What is it?" The package weighed as much as a phone book.

  You can see I haven't opened it.

  But you know, I thought.

  "It's serious business, for certain—I can tell you that much. So be thoughtful when you unwrap it." She lifted a pop-knuckled finger to stay my hands. "But not now."

  "Don't open it?" Then why was she giving it to me?

  Because it's yours, Svetlana, if you like—or even if you don't like. As I've said before, we hardly have a choice. You're familiar with What Is Known, so you know. You have a talent; that's a fact. What's in the box is like a promise. It's a promise that you make. If you truly accept.

  Accept? I lifted the box and shook it.

  She said, "Tonight's close, but tomorrow night the moon will be full. Open it then—at midnight—outside if you can."

  "But why then?"

  Her thin lips curled at the ends. "To honor the moon, perhaps. It's a wonderful thing, after all—a light amidst all that darkness." She reached her fingers to my cheek, brushing gently. "So open it then. It's something of a tradition—or superstition. Something silly like that."

  Twenty-five

  Can you believe this?" Fumio complained, taking a seat and sliding a paper across the lunchroom table to me.

  I looked and saw it was an advance copy of the Sunny Hill Bee. I leafed through the four pages and didn't see anything special. A couple of articles welcoming the two new teachers, a piece on the success of this year's Spring Fling, a few puzzles and poems. "What?"

  "That's right. 'What?' Mr. Horn didn't print one word of my story. He said it was inappropriate, that the school needed to move forward and put the past behind us." Mr. Horn was the newspaper editor.

  "It was practically a made-up story, anyway," I said, tossing the paper back across the table to him.

  Fumio scrunched up his face. "Factually inaccurate—slightly. But the spirit of the article was true." His account had thankfully not mentioned vampires, nor connected us directly to the dynamite—he was at least that smart. He knitted his brows. "And you said I'd end up getting a story out of this"

  "Hey, there are always the tabloids," I suggested. "Give it a shot—mail something in. You might find yourself in every grocery store in the country."

  "Maybe," Fumio said, but he shook his head doubtfully.

  Foote approached, steadying his lunch tray with his one good arm.

  "How's your bum wing, Dwight?" I asked.

  He sat and shrugged. "It's better. Still a pain in the butt to get a decent night's sleep, though."

  The short cast was gone from his left arm, but a full cast now enveloped his right arm, courtesy of his short flight on Dumloch Airlines. Luckily, the heavy drapes in the bedroom window and a prickly bush below had saved him from anything worse.

  We'd both been pretty lucky. Just thinking about the explosion made me cringe. Lenora Bones thought I'd done a smashing job, but, really, I'd barely escaped being blown to smithereens.

  For lunch I'd packed an apple and a double-decker sandwich: half tomato and half raspberry jam (I know, it sounds gross, but it's totally not). Before digging in, I reached over and sliced up Foote's cube steak without him even having to ask, which I guess was the least I could do.

  "Thanks, Svet," he said with a smile, always pushing it. "You know, you haven't signed my new cast yet."

  Why not? I found a blank spot amid the scribbles and added my two cents in black felt tip: "Always stay down-stairs—Svetlana."

  "Hardy-har," he said, blu
eberry eyes blinking.

  "Hey, guys," Sandy said, joining us for lunch. She'd been sitting at our table all week. She's not so bad. Still with the lousy taste in clothes, but to each her own. What do I know about style, anyway?

  "How much longer you got left on restriction, Svetlana?"

  "Two more weeks to go," I told her. "My dad's easy, but Mom won't budge."

  Sandy curled a finger in her mess of blond hair. "My folks are letting me put my trampoline back up. If you guys want, you could come over sometime."

  Dwight perked up. "When my cast is off, sure—if my dad'll let me. He might not, though. He thinks I'm made of glass or something lately."

  "Don't forget about your wooden head," Fumio added.

  What a bunch of dodos. Dodo wannabes, actually. "Do any of you have a clue how many trampoline-related injuries occur in this country every year? Maybe we can do something else—a trip to the mall, even."

  "Yeah," Sandy said, "but not to the mall. I don't care if I never see that place again."

  Darwin would be proud.

  When the bell rang for last period, I hustled to class. I couldn't afford to be late for science. After Larch's position opened up, Mom didn't have to substitute anymore—she became a full-time science teacher at Sunny Hill Middle School. She was low-key at home, but in class she acted like a general commanding troops. Attention! Still, she's definitely the best teacher ever.

  But man, she loved to pile on the homework.

  You think she'd cut me a break—I practically got her the job.

  Twenty-six

  The hands on the rooster neared midnight. I slid from beneath the bed and found the package in the closet. Moonlight fell in a long, pale block across the floor. I stood at the window, peering into the maze of shadows and light in the yard below. I hugged the package to my pajama top. Nothing moved on the streets beyond the fence. Windows in the nearby houses were as black as caves. A few porchlights glowed yellow and dull.

  I silently descended the stairway, leaving Mom and Dad's soft breathing behind. Downstairs, wheels inside the grandfather clock clicked and whirred as the hands crept toward the hour. I turned at the ticking of Razor's nails across the hardwood floor.

  "Good boy," I whispered, kneeling, scratching his neck. "Good boy, Razor." His eyes glistened in the dark, watching me. The fridge hummed. I moved toward the kitchen door. "Stay," I called softly over my shoulder, then stepped outside.

  The moon was a bright hole poked in the sky, a cutout in the darkness. Light fell through, splashing the world in liquid silver, throwing everything into stark relief. The evening coolness seeped through my pajamas. I crossed the yard toward a wide pool of moonlight. My shadow fell around me in a black ring.

  I knelt on the crisp grass and tore the wrapping from the package. I pushed my thumbnail along its taped center, splitting the folds of cardboard. Inside was a book. It was heavy; the cover, made of leather, was thick and soft. I thumbed through the empty pages. Squares of stark white reflected the lunar glow, waiting. Only a page near the front was marked—a symbol at its center: two circles each the size of a quarter, one white and one black, the natural and the aberrant, and where they met, a third circle, smaller, and red.

  The red was dark in the moonlight, another version of black.

  This is you.

  Above, a flutter of wings and then gone. A night bird? A black carpet spread across the sky. Pale pinpricks for stars. The moon was a vast ivory eye, cold and distant. Inside the house, the grandfather clock began tolling midnight. I lifted my face toward the bathing light. I breathed deeply, filling myself, every sight and sound filtering through me.

  I set the book aside and returned my attention to the package. I removed a slender case of dark wood and lifted its hinged top. Moonlight winked from a narrow blade, throwing light into my eyes. The blade was a duplicate of the one Ms. Bones carried in her boot, five inches of thin, polished steel. The instrument was cold; the handle, smooth and heavy.

  Another twinkling came from within the case, a thread of silver. I lifted the necklace. A red stone dangled from the chain, obsidian in the moonlight. I pressed my thumb across the letters cut into the mounting, eight small grooves.

  Svetlana

  I turned the stone beneath the glowing heavens, reading the carved letters of my true name. I brought the clasp together behind my neck, making my promise, letting the silver lie cool against my skin, the stone at my sternum. Moonlight everywhere.

  Thirteen days till I was off restriction.

  I couldn't wait.