by N. D. Wilson
Peanut butter, however, was a different thing entirely. She adored Extra Crunchy. And she was always amazed by oranges in the winter. And bananas and avocados and oversize grapes. These were things that brought her joy, because they had been impossible for her family when she’d been young.
When Millie had described the old family farm to Alex, the brutal winters, her struggle to survive after her parents had died, he had begun to understand why their funny little grocery store was his mother’s favorite place in the world. Even if it did have an entire aisle of factory-made bread in baggies . . .
As the warm weight of breakfast perfection filled Alex, all thoughts of his father’s loose pages began to fade. Along with the cobwebs of his strange dream. Today would be a good day. He would draw. Maybe plan a story himself. Read.
“If you’re done,” his father said, “get the front walk shoveled and I’ll take you to the library.”
“Shovel? Did it snow last night?” Alex slid his fork across his plate.
“It dumped,” said Jude. “Half a foot at least.” He pointed at Alex’s arm. “What happened there?”
Alex looked down at the skin inside his elbow. An uneven stripe of dry blood emerged from a prick at the center of a bruise smaller than a dime. Just like what he remembered seeing on his father’s arm the night before.
Alex rubbed it, startled.
“I don’t know.” Alex glanced at his father’s arm, but Jude was wearing sleeves.
Millie swooped in, grabbing Alex’s hand and pulling his arm straight.
“It’s fine,” Alex said. “It doesn’t hurt. I don’t know what happened.”
His mother tested the bruise with her thumb and then focused on his father. Alex watched her blue eyes, fierce with fury. Wide. Lids trembling.
“If someone took your blood . . .” She trailed off.
Alex stood up quickly and eased his way out of the kitchen toward the front door. “I’ll shovel,” he said. “Right away.”
He slipped his bare feet into his father’s wool-lined boots—already small on him—and stepped outside. Voices erupted behind him.
“Jude!” his mother said. “This can’t be happening. You know that woman is still out there somewhere.”
“Out there,” his father replied, “does not mean she was here.”
Alex pulled the door shut. His father’s voice was audible but muffled, punctuated by his mother’s.
“Right,” Alex said, looking at the bloody prick on his bare arm. Goose bumps already surrounded it. He was coatless, and his T-shirt wasn’t much better than nothing. Bouncing his weight foot to foot, squeaking fresh powder beneath him, he grabbed the old snow shovel from beside the doorway and focused on the sidewalk. His father had been wrong. The fresh snow was at least a foot deep.
Alex hated shoveling snow. The truth was that he hated most things that were physically demanding, things that left him aching and sweaty, with blistered hands and his pulse kicking against his eardrums.
“Well,” Alex said. “At least shoveling will keep me warm.”
He attacked the sidewalk in a flurry, heaving fluffy piles in both directions as he marched forward, carving a path with precarious and crumbling walls.
Instantly, he imagined himself in a story. Alex Monroe, working frantically to dig out after an avalanche. Working to dig out his buried brothers in arms. Or hobbits. He wasn’t just a timid kid growing up in a tiny duplex with no friends and no life. He was needed. People would die without him.
“Hang in there,” Alex said to his imaginary buried friends. “I’m coming. I’m almost there.” His arms pumped faster. His shoulders and lower back ached. His palms burned. He was halfway to the street, breathing hard, beginning to sweat. Snowstorms could not defeat him.
“Alex!” The shout belonged to his middle-aged Korean neighbor, Chong-Won. Alex slowed slightly, but he didn’t stop. “You need a coat?”
“No thanks!” Alex yelled, and reaccelerated, grunting and gasping. He was almost to the street. He had almost conquered. No need to travel through the Mines of Moria after all. He, Alex Monroe, with the strength of his back and arms, with his raw determination, would lead Gandalf and the hobbits safely over the mountains.
A final scoop. A final heave. The flying snow whumped down beside the walk. And in it, something black caught Alex’s eye. Wheezing, puffing clouds of breath, Alex leaned on his shovel. In the cold dry air, steam was rising off his bare skin. Normally, that would have made him feel heroic, but right now he was distracted. With bare fingers, he picked through the loose snow beside him and plucked out a charred page fragment, frozen stiff. It was shaped like a tiny flattened Texas and only the burnt edges were black. The typed letters were dark red, and all of them were bleeding pink clouds from the moisture.
Five partial lines were visible.
vicious tal
blind and bloody, Alexande
Glory lunged but couldn’t
er Miracle kn
s dead.
Alex looked up at the morning sky, gray and cool, dotted with blue pools. Countless questions were boiling over in his mind, but all of them were caused by one very uncomfortable fact.
Last night had not been a dream. From the snowy footprints on the carpet to the falling sky fire, to the arm around his throat. He held the proof in his hands. Had someone taken his blood? But why would they?
His world was ending. Of this, Alex was certain.
And he wasn’t wrong.
2
The First Shadow
ALEX WAS PUSHING THE SHOPPING CART FOR HIS MOTHER. Which meant that he was draped facedown over the handle and shuffling behind her, staring into the cart while she occasionally added to its contents. His puffy coat rustled every time he breathed, and the rubber toes of his borrowed boots squeaked as he dragged them on the linoleum floor.
His mother didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t even seem to notice. In the grocery store, the contents of the shelves required her full attention. Normally, that attention was joyous and eager, even when money was short. Not today. Today, Millie was twitchy, whispering into the red scarf that was wrapped around her neck and chin or pulling on her long braid as she scanned prices, and glancing up and down the narrow aisle every time she heard another cart.
The store was decorated in shades of orange, from the humming tangerine lights to the cream-and-rust floor. Pumpkin and brown banners weren’t just for Thanksgiving, they were a year-round thing, and right now they wore green and red tinsel garlands to reassure the shoppers that the store knew Christmas was coming and that the tiny and terrible speakers in the ceiling weren’t playing “Here Comes Santa Claus” by accident.
Alex had spent his morning at the library with his father, but their time together had been just as silent on both sides of the outing as it had in the middle. A silence sandwich. Jude had picked out a stack of books for himself and then had settled into one of the two easy chairs in the old Carol Ryrie Brink children’s wing with the Alamo architecture, right beside the fireplace. Alex had perched in the other chair, flipping pages in comic books and trying to find the right question to get his dad to talk, along with the courage to ask it. Who burned one of your books in the yard last night? Can I see the inside of your left elbow? Did we get our blood stolen? Do you ever type in red ink? These were the things Alex had wondered, but they seemed crazy and he hadn’t had the courage to ask.
A squeaking cart crossed the end of the aisle and Millie looked up, practically holding her breath. When the cart passed out of sight, Millie tugged her scarf loose and let it hang around her shoulders. Her face was flushed.
The problem with winter, Alex knew, was the heat. Everybody dressed for the few minutes that they would spend in the cold, but then they spent hours wearing wool and down outer layers in the fully heated indoors. He could feel sweat all over his torso, but he didn’t even think about taking his coat off. Where would he put it? He had other things to worry about.
“Did anyone come ove
r last night?” he asked his mom. “After I was in bed?”
Millie picked up a large box of raisins. She paused, but didn’t look at her son. Alex hated raisins, and he knew she knew it.
“Why don’t you tell me?” She asked, studying the ingredients. “Did they? I was asleep.”
Alex didn’t answer. His mother turned and faced him.
“I don’t like raisins,” he said, nodding at the box in her hand.
She tossed it into the cart in front of him. “On a quest, raisins could save your life. Or on a desert island. Just ask Robinson Crusoe. Learn to like them. Now tell me why you’re asking. Is it your arm? What do you remember?”
Alex hadn’t meant to put himself on the spot. He straightened slowly, gripping the cart handle.
“It might have been a dream. I don’t know what happened.”
“Do you usually bleed in your dreams?” Millie asked. “I know your father doesn’t, and he dreams whole novels. I’ve seen him sleep-write, but I’ve never seen him sleep-bleed.”
Alex took a deep breath and bit his lip.
“Dad was out cold,” he said. “Asleep or unconscious. On his typewriter. And his pages were missing. Like he hadn’t been working on anything, but I know he had been. And the front door was open.”
Millie searched her son’s eyes. “Did you see anyone? Anything? Did you go outside?”
Alex didn’t know how much to say. Definitely nothing about the arm around his throat. Not because he didn’t trust her. He did. More than anyone. Just because he didn’t want her panicking, and he knew she would. With enthusiasm.
“Do you know Dad’s stories?” Alex asked suddenly.
Millie blinked. “What do you mean? Of course I know them. Why?”
“Have you read them?” Alex asked. “Especially the Miracle stories. The ones about Sam.”
Millie raised her eyebrows high. “I think I know those stories even better than your father does. Except for the comic books. Those got a bit silly. Why are you asking me this?”
Alex shoved his hand in the pocket of his sweats. The page fragment had thawed. Now it was soggy and crumpled.
“There were footprints,” Alex said. “Inside the house. And a bunch of Dad’s pages were burning outside in the snow. And there were northern lights. And then someone came up behind me, and when I woke up, I was inside. I figured it was a weird dream until I found a piece of one of the burnt pages when I was shoveling. It was a story about Sam. And a character in it had my name.”
Alex pulled out the scrap and gave it to his mother. Millie smoothed it quickly on her palm.
“The ink is red,” Alex said. “And the paper feels really weird.”
A voice coming over the store speakers interrupted the Christmas music. Someone was being paged.
“It isn’t paper,” Millie said. “And it isn’t ink.” She looked up. “Does your father know about this?”
“Well, he typed it, didn’t he?” Alex was confused.
“Maybe,” she said. “Does he know that you found this in the yard? That someone saw it before you did?”
“I . . .” Alex trailed off and then shrugged. “I didn’t tell him.”
The lights above the aisle flickered and Millie yelped, grabbed Alex’s arm, and crouched, ready to run. She was panicking. Alex sighed. He shouldn’t have said anything.
“We have to go,” Millie whispered. “Right now. Leave the cart.” She dragged Alex down the aisle, race-walking toward a jog. “We have to get home. I have turkey jerky. Fruit leather. Jam. Pears and peaches and applesauce. We’ll be fine. We can fill backpacks.”
“Mom, what are you talking about?”
“Hush! No.” Millie shook her head. “We can’t leave! Your sisters! They’d never understand. We can’t just leave them! They’ll get married. They’ll have grandchildren, and they’ll all be here.”
Alex locked his knees and braced himself. His mother jerked to a stop.
“Mom!” He hissed. “Calm down. What is going on?”
“Someone found us,” Millie said. “That’s what’s going on. They were never supposed to find us. This was supposed to be a better time. We chose a time that didn’t matter. A place that didn’t matter. We were never supposed to move again.”
Alex’s brain could find nothing but confusion. Along with everything else, his mom was going insane. Or his parents were criminals. Or spies?
A voice crackled its second announcement through the speakers.
“Millicent Miracle, phone call at register two. Millicent Miracle, you have a phone call at register two.”
The Christmas music returned.
Millie looked up at the ceiling. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was hanging open.
“Mom?” It was Alex’s turn to grab his mother’s sleeve. “Mom!”
A shadow with razor-sharp wings flashed just below the lights. Needles of cold air and a barnyard smell billowed into Alex’s face.
“We can’t go out the front! They’ll be waiting.” Millie turned and began to run for the back of the store. Alex ran behind her, trying to see what they were running from. To catch a glimpse of what had thrown the shadow.
The dairy section was along the back wall, and beside the cartons of milk and bricks of margarine, there was a door to the stock room. Millie hit it with her shoulder and plunged through. Alex smiled at two startled shoppers and followed after her. The back room was dark, with large naked light bulbs hanging above wet concrete floors. Millie wove between a pile of rotting produce and a pallet of glass-bottled soda, her braid swinging and snapping behind her. She was heading for an employee entrance.
“Hurry, Alex!” she shouted, and then hit the door and barged out onto the snow and ice, flailing her arms and scrambling to keep her footing. Alex slid out behind her, but he had his feet spread and was ready. Grabbing at his mother, he barely managed to save her from falling.
“Shoplifters?” a boy asked behind them. He was pimply, redheaded, and wearing a stained brown apron under his puffy vest. He flicked ash from a cigarette. “Don’t matter,” he added. “I’m on break.”
“No,” Alex said. The smoker looked his own age. “No, not shoplifters. My mom just got startled. You know? That’s all. C’mon, Mom.” Gripping his mother’s arm, Alex helped her shuffle along the building toward the parking lot out front.
“You shouldn’t smoke!” Millie yelled. “You really shouldn’t. You’ll die!”
“But I look good living,” the pimply kid countered. He waggled his eyebrows.
“No,” Millie said. “You don’t! You look stupid.”
“Mom,” Alex said. “Let it go. Do you still have the car keys?”
MILLIE MONROE SAT IN THE CAR, BREATHING AS EVENLY AS she could manage. The old brown Rambler shook slightly with the idling engine, and the air blowing out of the vents was barely warmer than the great frigid outdoors. The inside of the windshield was covered with continents of frozen condensation, but there were a few clear holes in front of Millie, and her eyes were focused through one of them, locked on the front of the grocery store. Her heart rate was almost back to normal. No one had exited the store. No one was in pursuit. Yet. Maybe it had just been a phone call. But that shadow . . . and her old name.
“What just happened?” Alex asked.
Millie looked at Alex. He was too young to be so big already, wasn’t he? Already taller than Jude. His dark mop of hair was touching the saggy upholstery in the car ceiling. His dark eyes were forward, studying the storefront.
She’d done her best with him, hadn’t she? But had she spoiled him? He’d never slaughtered a chicken or milked a cow. He probably had no idea how to make butter. And why would he? She’d raised him on margarine. The stuff had seemed like a miracle, even if it tasted a little like gasoline and carpet.
Alex probably couldn’t even start a fire without matches. But that was Jude’s area, and he was hardly outdoorsy himself. Never had been.
No, Alex wasn’t exactly tough.
&nb
sp; But did he need to be? This was 1982. Was a mom supposed to make life harder for her kids just because? One hundred years ago, the world had killed anyone who wasn’t tough. Of course, it killed all the tough ones, too, it just usually took a bit longer. Toughness had mattered way back when Millie had been his age.
Alex did well in school. And he didn’t really complain about chores or helping whenever she asked. Well, yes he did. But that was normal. Boys complain. Don’t they?
Alex was thoughtful. And observant. Self-contained. She’d never seen him be unkind to a soul. Of course, she’d never seen him be kind, either. No . . . that wasn’t true. He was kind to her. All the time. He wasn’t ashamed to hug her in public when she picked him up at school. And so many other boys treated their mothers like barely necessary evils.
Alex was sweet. And Millie loved him so much she ached.
But was he tough enough for this? If the dark demons that had hunted her brother had found them here, if that horrible woman who had first created the Vulture knew where they lived, if their little world was about to come unglued, would Alex survive? Would he even have a chance? He was a dreamer, not a fighter. He’d never even broken a bone. Or thrown a punch.
He was no Sam Miracle. Even less like Glory Spalding. Except for his hair. And eyes.
“Mom?” Alex looked at her. “Are you going to tell me what happened in there?”
“Someone found us,” she said. “They weren’t supposed to, but they did.”
“Who?” he asked. “Who found us?”
Millie sighed. The corners of her eyes were suddenly warm. She wiped them quickly. “I have a horrible feeling that we’re going to find out.”
“Are you and Dad on the run?” Alex asked. “You aren’t Russian spies are you?”
“No.” Millie smiled. “Not spies. Not on the run. But we might be. Soon.”
“That shadow . . . ,” Alex said. “It was like . . .”
“A demon bird,” said Millie. “I know.”
Alex stared right at her. Hard. “The PA system. They paged Millicent Miracle.”
