“That’s Dr. Grundfest! He’s a professor as well as a curator at the Smithsonian. But he’s also one of the most famous Rollens around and a renowned scholar—he’s kind of like the vampire version of Indiana Jones. He’s a really big deal in the Alliance,” Lindsey said, awestruck as if she were in the presence of greatness or, at the very least, a major rock 'n’ roll star. “He’s a contributor to The Undead Sea Scroll and specializes in Otherworldly history and artifacts. Cool, huh?”
Fern nodded at Lindsey but couldn’t really muster up the excitement to match her friend’s. Lindsey had been raised a Rollen and had a reverence for the Alliance and all its head honchos, but Fern hadn’t learned of the Rollen Alliance until a few months ago. It was hard for her to be either impressed or intimidated by a man in a suit, no matter who he was in the Alliance. Fern did, however, appreciate Lindsey’s attempts to bring her up to speed on the varied aspects of vampire culture.
“It just goes to show you, the Alliance is everywhere,” Lindsey added.
“It sure does,” Fern said, curious about whether or not the group surrounding Dr. Grundfest was also made up of vampires. Before Fern could ask, Lindsey told Fern she’d see her later and darted back to her group.
Fern rejoined a forlorn-looking Candace, and they quickly resumed touring the museum as a twosome. While the dinosaur fossils fascinated Fern, she was especially drawn to the dimly lit insect zoo. She laughed when Candace pointed out the incongruity of Orkin, a pest control company, being the official sponsor of the live insect zoo.
“Only in America,” Candace said, laughing. Fern wasn’t quite sure what she meant but laughed anyway. A sense of camaraderie, even if it was with Candace Tutter, felt good to Fern. She had wanted to skip the Hall of Geology, Gems and Minerals (even the name of the hall put Fern to sleep), but Candace insisted they see the Hope Diamond.
“It’s the one from Titanic,” Candace said. Fern had never seen Titanic. The Commander’s strict policy limiting television hadn’t permitted it. Though Sam and Fern snuck a few hours of television watching in when the Commander wasn’t home, they’d never gotten around to watching Titanic, mostly because Sam insisted it was too girlie for him.
The Hope Diamond was certainly spectacular. Sitting by itself in its own glass enclosure, it was the largest gem Fern had ever seen. It had its own spotlight and rested on a black velvet pillow. The plaque next to it detailed its actual size, 45.52 karats.
“It’s blue to the naked eye because its crystallized structure contains boron,” Candace stated. Fern was tempted to ask what boron was but knew that would start Candace on a tangent providing more gemological information than Fern ever wanted to know. Instead Candace talked about the legend behind the diamond. “The legend specifies that the Hope Diamond was stolen from a temple long ago. In ancient times, it used to be one of the eyes of a famous sculpture. Now it is supposed to bring bad luck to whoever possesses it.”
“Well, it definitely is beautiful. But we better move on before we catch its bad luck,” Fern said, anxious to leave the Hall of Geology for greener (and less boring) pastures.
“That’s just a legend,” Candace said.
Fern chuckled to herself. She had experienced too many instances in her short life where things discounted as “just legends” turned out to be completely true. In fact, sometimes it seemed like her whole existence had come to be defined by legends come to life.
Fern’s favorite stop of the day, by far, was the Lincoln Memorial. Candace informed Fern that the white columned structure that housed the huge Lincoln statue was modeled after a Greek Doric temple. Fern bent down to feel the worn grooves in the marble steps that led up to the large temple structure with its thirty-six gleaming white columns. She imagined the millions of footsteps that had preceded hers. Fern was impressed by the size of the imposing seated figure of Lincoln—with nearly every other statue she’d seen, the subject was standing. As Fern looked up at him, she felt the effects of her late-night visit with Miles. She had a strong urge to climb up Lincoln’s marble legs and curl up in his oversize lap for a nap. The sixteenth president’s face looked so calm and serene. The inscription above Lincoln’s head was perfect too.
IN THIS TEMPLE
AS IN THE HEARTS OF THE PEOPLE
FOR WHOM HE SAVED THE UNION
THE MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
IS ENSHRINED FOREVER
Lincoln was a hero for the ages, presiding over a nation in turmoil. He could have stood by while the states divided, but instead he took the more difficult, righteous path, abolishing slavery and fighting to preserve the nation. Fern’s thoughts about Lincoln’s courage unexpectedly returned her to the present, and guilt and anxiety swept over her. She didn’t aspire to the sort of accomplishments Lincoln had achieved, but she did feel a growing responsibility because of her special talents. There were few certainties about Fern’s status as an Unusual, but she knew she shared a connection with Miles. She also felt sure that if she were in a cage in a concrete cavern, Miles would do everything he could to help her.
Snapping back to the task at hand as she stood in the bathroom, Fern put on her jacket and shoes, which she’d stowed in the same place as the night before. She concentrated on the row house in Miles’s photograph. With the image burned into her brain, she closed her eyes. She zeroed in on the pastel colors and the wooden steps leading up to the house.
The prickling sensation began in Fern’s fingertips and moved up her arms. Taking a deep breath, she knew she’d be gone in a few moments.
“Fern?” a voice said. “What are you doing in there?”
It was Candace. Though she racked her brain, Fern couldn’t remember if she’d locked the bathroom door. She tried to open her eyes to see if Candace had entered the bathroom, but all she saw was darkness.
Fern was already on her way.
Fern always preferred to arrive standing up. In fact, if there was one part of her teleporting skill set that needed refining, it was the landing. This trip, she thankfully reached her destination upright. The street was quiet, and except for the smattering of porch lights, it was dark.
Fern still clutched the photograph. Her eyes danced around in the dimness from the picture to the actual house. Every detail was identical. The colorful trim was muted by the night, but there was no doubt she was looking at the house in the photo. Almost immediately, Fern felt the chill in the air. Washington was very cold in March, but this place was freezing. Fern wished she had followed Candace’s “layering” plan.
She tried to see if she could determine her location from her surroundings. The street sign was in English. DEL LANE. There was no city or other information on it. Fern looked at the address, in golden numbers, nailed to the front of the house: 12101.
12101 Del Lane. Fern knew she could be anywhere. But she reassured herself with the thought that Miles would not send her somewhere dangerous. Another thought nagged at her, though: What if the situation had changed inside this house since Miles had been taken? What if he was unaware of some danger now lurking inside?
Gripping the railing, Fern climbed up to the porch of the house. There was no playbook to go by here, nor did she know exactly what she would say to whoever was inside. Nevertheless, her instincts told her to ring the doorbell.
She gulped and heard a faint scuttling inside. Would she introduce herself? Ask if the person who answered knew Miles Zapo? As the seconds ticked by, Fern wondered if the doorbell would be answered at all.
Fern tensed as the door slowly creaked open. From within, a voice sounded.
“I’ve been expecting you, Fern.”
Chapter 9
The House With Oil the Mirrors
Flarge might not have looked like a skilled sleuth, but after many decades of spying on and ultimately assassinating a number of high-profile Rollens, he had trained himself to become nearly invisible. Though, among Blouts, he was widely recognized for his undercover skills, even Flarge was impressed when he saw Fern McAllister appear o
n the porch of the house he’d been staking out in Mound, Minnesota. With the three-hour flight to Minnesota from DC, he had needed to move very quickly in order to arrive before the girl did.
After parking his rental car down the street, he’d hidden behind the hedge that separated the house from the neighbor’s. Flarge marveled when McAllister appeared out of nowhere on the porch. He knew she’d arrived instantly, most likely from her hotel room in Washington, DC.
For her part, once she’d appeared, Fern studied the partially open front door of the house. She shored up her resolve. Though she was apprehensive, she hadn’t teleported in the middle of the night just to stand out in the cold and freeze. Besides, Lindsey and Sam would worry if she was gone too long. She inched inside the open door. The lighting was a little brighter inside, but it still took Fern’s eyes a moment to adjust. She was standing in a long hallway lined with different-size mirrors on each side. Some of the mirrors were rounded, ornate gilded frames enclosed some, and others bubbled out. On the far side of the hallway, bits of reflective glass had been glued to the wall at odd angles, forming a mirror mosaic. The whole effect reminded Fern of an artsy fun house. On the floor, piles of Oriental rugs were stacked, one overlapping the other, creating a patchwork of faded colors and designs. Though she expected to find the owner of the voice she’d heard moments ago, the hallway was empty. The only light came from the room at the end of the corridor. A small figure appeared there briefly before vanishing into the adjoining room.
“In here.” The same voice that had beckoned her from the porch now drifted down the hallway. The voice sounded worn-out and weathered like an old woman’s. “Now is not the time to be shy. We haven’t a moment to lose.” As Fern quickened her pace, the floor underneath the rugs creaked.
The first thing she noticed as she reached the doorway to the adjacent room was the large chandelier suspended from the ceiling. There must have been two dozen flickering candles resting on it. Melted wax dripped from its glass structure like creamy icicles. The octagonal room had more mirrors than the hallway. Every inch of wall was covered with some kind of reflective glass. Some of the mirrors were tarnished, but everywhere she looked, Fern saw distorted versions of herself. In the clearer images, she noticed her developing black eye.
“A fluorescent light may be best for illuminating surfaces,” the woman said, observing the direction of Fern’s gaze toward the dozens of candles floating above her. “But candlelight illuminates the soul. I can discern a person’s character more accurately in candlelight than with any newfangled technologies. For Miles’s sake, I wish I was more sure about yours.” Fern suddenly felt exposed. She looked toward the woman. She ahd not expected her to be so challenging.
As distracting as the flickering light from the chandelier and the mirrors was, as soon as her eyes fixed on the woman, Fern was unable to concentrate on anything else. The woman sat with her arms folded on a table covered with a red tablecloth. Her face was the color of cinnamon, and except for a few deep creases on her forehead and around her mouth, her skin was smooth. Her caramel eyes shone in the flickering brightness of the candles. A multicolored scarf was wrapped around her head, like a radiant cloth beehive. There was a frantic glint to her eyes, though, that made her look frenzied.
Fern peered at the woman, trying to guess her age. It was an impossible task—the woman could’ve been anywhere between thirty and eighty years old. Fern had never seen anyone like her.
“Sit,” the woman commanded, motioning to a seat across from her.
Fern was nervous but tried not to show it. She pulled a velvet-covered armchair out from the table and settled on the edge of the seat.
“I must know . . . is he okay?” the woman asked, a mixture of anger and concern seeping into her voice.
“Is who okay?” Fern responded.
“Miles.” The woman’s clear eyes stared at Fern. “That’s why you’re here!” The woman pounded the table once with her gnarled hand. “This is not a game, child.”
Fern tensed, wondering if teleporting here had been a mistake. This woman was angry and not necessarily on Fern’s side.
“I’m here,” Fern said, backing her chair up slightly, “because Miles told me to come here. But I don’t know who you are.”
“Tell me about Miles,” the woman barked as if she were barely in control of her emotions. To Fern, her voice teetered on the edge of something—as if she was either going to attack Fern or burst into tears.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Fern said, tiring of being the only one answering questions, “but . . . before I tell you anything, why don’t you tell me something: Who are you? Where am I?”
The woman looked down and traced the tablecloth’s fabric with her finger. Fern noticed her hands for the first time. Her nails were long, like Mrs. Phillips’s, but each nail was painted a different color. Fern couldn’t decide if this woman was some kind of witch or merely eccentric.
“Have you been foolish enough to bring someone with you?” The woman’s voice was cold now and most certainly adversarial.
“Bring someone with me?”
“I sense someone else here. . . .” The woman trailed off, closing her eyes. Several feet away, having snuck into the hallway, Flarge paused, ready to attack at a moment’s notice if discovered.
The woman’s eyes popped open at once and she leaned across the table, shoving her long index finger in Fern’s face. “The gray in your soul, Fern McAllister, has been known to me for some time. So if you are lying to me, I promise you, there will be consequences. . . .”
Fern pushed back the armchair and stood up to leave. As much as she wanted to help Miles, she was now most concerned about her own safety.
“I came by myself, and I’m here to help Miles. He’s alone and he’s scared and he’s being held in a cage, but if you want to accuse me instead of answering my questions, I think I should go.”
The woman cleared her throat.
She paused a moment to steady her voice. “My profound apologies,” the woman began. “I’ve been so anxious over the last few days . . . waiting for you to arrive. I didn’t fully realize the depth of my anguish. Even though I am known as a gifted augur, I’m afraid I was unprepared for how deeply I have felt the boy’s absence.” The woman no longer seemed to be talking to Fern, but to herself. She suddenly looked old in the glinting light of the dozens of tiny flames. “I’ve seen so much destruction, so much needless death, outlived so many I’ve cared for. Despite my best instincts and intentions when he was entrusted to my care, I’ve grown quite attached to the boy. Though I knew it would happen, when he was taken from here, I . . .” She drifted off and looked up, as if trying to see the scarf curled around her head. With a single shudder, the woman’s eyes focused back on Fern.
“I’m Miles’s Aunt Chan.”
“Oh!” Fern said with disbelief. It was hard for her to imagine that this anxious and nearly unhinged woman was Miles’s aunt. “So I’m in Minnesota? In Mound, where Miles is from?”
Aunt Chan looked puzzled. “Didn’t Miles tell you that?”
“We were interrupted. He handed me the photo and told me to come here, but I wasn’t sure why.”
A draft moved through the room and dimmed the candles for a moment before they flared up again. Fern caught a whiff of something that smelled like tree sap. In the corner, she saw a smoking stick.
“Pom . . . incense from the copal tree. It helps sharpen my visions,” Aunt Chan said, following Fern’s gaze. The scent tingled the inside of Fern’s nose. She feared she was wasting valuable time.
“Why did Miles tell me to come here?” she asked.
“Because I have always known you would need my help if you had any hope of keeping him, and yourself, alive.” Aunt Chan’s eyes flickered in the candlelight.
Fern took a deep breath to stem her rising anxiety.
“You have a connection to him, do you not?” Aunt Chan said, her eyes kinder than they’d been previously. Fern couldn’t possibly
explain why, since she’d first dreamed of Miles, she felt more in sync with him than with her own family who loved her. Perhaps it was because Miles was a part of the prophecy too, or that he had secrets of his own.
“From this point on, child, both your life and Miles’s will be marked by extraordinary difficulties,” Aunt Chan said, as if she were responding to Fern’s inner thoughts. “I have pledged to help you in any way I can. But you first need to tell me what you know of Miles’s situation and captors.”
Fern didn’t fully comprehend how much she did know until she began recounting her story. She described the first time she’d seen Miles in a dream. When she was finished, Aunt Chan folded her hands once more on the table.
“So you really came here without knowing your actual destination or who you were coming to see?”
“Miles told me to come to the house in the picture.”
“And you trust Miles?” Aunt Chan arched one of her dark eyebrows.
“Well.” Fern paused. “He’s an Unusual, like me.”
“Never lose your instinct to trust people, Fern. Soon you will be tested more than you can currently fathom. You will be tempted to cast hope aside, like your mother did, but resist. With all your heart, resist.”
“You—you knew—my mother?” Fern stammered. The mere mention of Phoebe caused a spring of emotions to rise within Fern. She instinctively felt for the one letter of Phoebe’s she had placed into her inside zippered jacket pocket. As soon as she felt it crinkle slightly under the pressure of her hand, she calmed down. She thought of all she had learned about Phoebe from the letters. Fern wanted to know everything about her mother, but at the same time, she was also terrified that the information Aunt Chan possessed would be disturbing. Sometimes she longed for the days when she knew nothing of Phoebe Merriam—when the Commander had been the only mother she knew.
Aunt Chan’s eyes clouded over. Her face turned stonelike. She was absolutely motionless. A minute passed before Fern spoke.
“Aunt Chan . . . are you okay?”
The Siren's Cry Page 9
