I knew, right then, that she’d said the right thing.
Dani was coming to England.
Chapter Sixteen
Since Keira had been taken, I’d spent a lot of time on European trains, and I rarely got to enjoy the view. Cyprus trees, stone cottages, and rolling vineyards were often overlooked as my mind focused on death threats and conspiracy theories. Dani, however, seemed to have no problem mentally diagramming every twig outside our rumbling train window; it was much more preferable to looking us in the eye as we told him all the horrible details we knew about Department D.
“So your parents were my stepfather’s boss, and now I’m sitting here with you. You realize how strange that is.” His gaze stayed out the window.
“We don’t know if our parents had anything to do with what happened to your mother,” I reasoned, resting my arms on the gray plastic table that separated us as I picked at an airplane-quality croissant that was wrapped in plastic like a Twinkie.
“But they ran the company,” he said.
“We used to be proud of that.”
“Proud of criminals?” His lips pursed to the side.
“They weren’t criminals back then, not to us,” Keira added.
We hadn’t yet told Dani we thought our parents were alive. His anger was already so palpable it was getting hard to breathe in the dining car, and we didn’t want to give him any more reason to dive off the speeding train.
“You have to remember, for our whole lives, they were just our parents. We thought they were these super important engineers,” said Keira as the train rocked over the country tracks. “Remember that carnival Urban had in his backyard?”
I nodded, unsure why she was bringing it up.
“I was probably twelve at the time, and you were, what, five?” She peered at me, and again I nodded hesitantly. Was now really the best time to get nostalgic? “Randolph Urban, the CEO, hosted this huge carnival with clowns, a carousel, pony rides, acrobats...”
I could practically feel the sun on my cheeks as she spoke, my body spinning round and round as the carousel played, wind blowing my hair. I could see my parents moving through the crowd, everyone stopping to greet them, fighting for their attention.
“When it got dark,” Keira went on, “we all huddled around a fire pit. The kids roasted marshmallows, and the adults smoked cigars and drank.” Keira’s eyes looked distant, and it was as if we were both picturing the scene so vividly we could smell the smoke. “Everyone was thanking Urban and our parents. I thought they were thanking them for the party, but eventually I realized it was something more…” I suddenly knew what she was getting at. “I remember Mom and Dad sitting at Urban’s side and everyone looking at them like they were so important, like they were kings. Everyone wanted to please them—tell the funniest joke or offer the best compliment. I felt so proud. Those were my parents. Everyone worked for them. I remember looking at the other Dresden Kids and thinking I was more important than them, because my parents were so high up in the company, higher than theirs.”
I’d felt the same way. It was the pride of a kid on career day whose parent had the coolest job. What I would do to have those people back. But it was never real. “Now we realize it only meant they were worse than everyone else.”
Keira rubbed my arm. “Who our parents are, what they did”—she looked at Dani—“is just as confusing to us as it is to you.”
“How could they do this to kids, to families, and not care?” It was as if Dani were asking the meaning of life.
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “But if you’re looking for an apology, if that’s what you want at the end of this, from Faruk, from anyone, I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” I thought of Allen Cross, and how he had a hard time offering condolences after my best friend’s funeral. He didn’t even apologize for faking my parents’ deaths and not telling me they were alive as I ran around Italy after professional killers. I sensed a career in crime forced you to amputate many bits of your humanity, most notably the parts that feel empathy and remorse.
“Don’t worry, I’m realistic about what will happen at the end of this,” Dani answered, gazing at the blackened windows as our train entered the tunnel beneath the English Channel. Ochre lights flickered on the ceiling as we plunged farther below the massive body of water, zooming back to London. When he looked back our way, the glint in his eyes seemed harsher, or maybe it was the lighting. “I know you want revenge for your kidnapping, and your friend’s death, but have you considered that some of these Dresden Kids might want revenge against you? Against your parents?”
Actually, we’d discussed this possibility at length since Allen Cross proposed this plan, and our only hope was that Keira and I could get through to them, prove we were serious about destroying Department D, and that despite our different experiences, we wanted the same thing.
I leaned toward Dani. “The one thing we all have in common is this—we aren’t our parents. I promise you, if the evidence points to our mom and dad, I will not be protecting them any more than they protected us. I’m offering revenge. Why wouldn’t you want that?”
Dani looked at me, and I wished I could hear the million thoughts I saw screaming behind his dark eyes, but he stayed silent, for almost too long, before he finally nodded. “Well, I guess we have that in common—vengeance.”
Slowly, our train emerged from the pitch-black tunnel, and as soon as we chugged into the English countryside, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a message from Charlotte. Marcus was back. And he wasn’t alone.
…
They were all at an Irish pub near Charlotte’s flat, which apparently, she still paid for despite the fact that she spent most of her time at Julian’s penthouse. I’d never been to this part of London. They called it Zone 2, which essentially meant it was outside of the touristy epicenter. We could feel it the moment we stepped out of the Tube. Gone were the pristine townhomes, gaslights, historical palaces and cathedrals. Instead, Charlotte’s neighborhood was bustling with women commuting in sneakers with their suits, men yelling about work into cell phones, dogs being walked, babies being strolled, and children squealing in playgrounds. This was where Londoners actually lived. I couldn’t believe I had never been to Charlotte’s place before.
“I like it,” Keira noted as we trudged alongside Dani past a boutique displaying handmade soaps with fresh flowers for sale on the sidewalk. “It’s homey.”
“Getting tired of glass penthouses and room service?” I asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Getting tired of living out of a suitcase,” she replied.
Wasn’t that the truth.
The bar was tiny, nestled on a corner with gold Celtic lettering that read, “The Auld Shillelagh,” above an exterior painted the color of merlot, though I doubted people ordered anything other than beer. According to Charlotte, “it served the best pint of Guinness in London,” and Julian swore it was the most authentic Irish pub outside of Dublin, as if that meant anything to me.
“Just make sure no one slips anything into my drink,” Dani cautioned as he opened the door. Trust issues ran deep in our group, but before I could reassure him further, I was stopped in my tracks.
There, past a handful of tiny round tables, directly next to a wood-paneled bar cluttered with taps, sat Marcus. He was playing acoustic guitar. With Antonio.
And they were good.
I stood glued to the entry, jaw dropping as Marcus and his brother plucked at strings so quickly it was as if their fingers were dancing. It was a Spanish medley, and they weren’t singing, but they didn’t need to—the rhythm was so intoxicating every patron in the long, narrow pub was enthralled. There was no stage. They were sitting on low stools in front of round tables full of half drunk pints. Behind them were framed pictures of soccer teams, musicians like David Bowie and Frank Sinatra, and a blue and gold flag I didn’t recognize. Marcus started leading, his whole leg bopping to keep beat as Antonio batted his hands in tempo on his guitar. Then they swi
tched. It was clearly a routine they’d practiced before. A lot.
Keira turned to me, equally stunned. “Did you know he played?”
“No.” I shook my head.
“You know those guys?” Dani asked as he stood between us, studying our reactions.
“Yeah,” I choked. “It’s who we’re here to meet.”
“Great. Let’s get a beer. I know I need one.” Dani stepped toward the bar, every stool occupied by patrons.
“Anastasia! Keira!” Charlotte yelled across the narrow establishment, jumping up from a table in back and waving wildly.
Marcus instantly looked my way and smiled, dimples as deep as I’d ever seen them, hands still moving rhythmically. Then he and Antonio ran their fingers back and forth across all the strings at warp speed, staring at each other, their chests leaning forward as they strained to hit the final crescendo, and then suddenly, the music stopped.
Everyone cheered. People stood. There were wolf whistles. And before they even set the guitars down for the next person, a stranger placed a dark frothy pint in their hands.
“Holy shit,” I muttered.
“Yeah,” Keira agreed. “That was hot.”
“Come on! Meet everyone!” Charlotte beckoned.
We had to walk by Marcus and Antonio to get to their table, which was situated near a fireplace actively burning wood and filling the bar with the scent of ski lodges at Christmas.
“I’ll wait for Dani. Go.” Keira practically shoved me toward Marcus. Subtle.
I stepped toward him, feeling shier than I’d ever had in my life. I hadn’t spoken to him since the London Eye, since the comment that was stuck on repeat in my brain. I’d spent a lot of time traveling to and from Provence imagining what it would be like when we faced one another again, practicing all of these clever lines I’d say, how perfectly cool I would act. But I never expected an acoustic guitar. It wasn’t fair.
“Hey.” I nodded.
Marcus ran his hand through his messy black hair, his black T-shirt lifting to expose a toned strip of his belly. This seriously wasn’t fair.
“I’m glad you’re back safe,” he greeted, and I felt an instant thrill all the way to my belly.
No. Don’t. You’re not his girlfriend.
“You, too,” I replied coolly. “I didn’t know you played.” I gestured to the guitar.
“Sí, Antonio and I have always messed around. We’re self taught.”
Perfect. He was a musical genius. And he was smiling at me like there was no one else in the world he wanted to see. It made no sense. He dumped me.
“Well, you’re good.” I was trying to sound detached, but really my heart was crashing against my ribs so hard I swore he could hear it over the conversations buzzing in the bar. “How did you end up playing tonight?”
“It’s open mic. Or open guitar.” He chuckled, hand in his hair once more. He had to stop doing that. “We haven’t played together in years.”
“It sounded like you practiced that.”
“A long time ago.” He nodded toward his brother, the admiration so clear in his dark eyes I felt even guiltier. I had a right to be suspicious of Antonio, but I didn’t want to argue about that now. After the seemingly endless conversations with Dani, I was emotionally exhausted. Now it seemed Dani wasn’t the only newcomer. Seated at Charlotte’s table was the teenage boy Marcus was sent off to meet in the British countryside.
“I see you brought back Ben.” I pointed with my chin.
“Sí, you, too.” Marcus’s eyes followed our Turkish companion as he, Keira, and Antonio headed toward our table of friends.
Hauling the Dresden Kids back to London was not part of our plan, so it was an interesting coincidence.
“Ben insisted,” Marcus explained, as if hearing my mental questions. Sometimes it felt like Marcus could read my mind, and other times, it felt like we hardly knew one another. “He’s got some solid evidence, but it’s complicated.”
“Same with Dani.” I grunted.
“They’re helping, at least.” Then his dark eyes turned intense. “I think in time we’ll all learn to trust each other.”
I could tell there was another layer of meaning to his comment, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it, or us. Maybe that was a benefit to ending our romance; I could be more focused on our mission. We obviously needed it.
“Introduce me to Ben,” I suggested, swiftly turning away before any more butterflies could flap through my belly.
“Claro.” Marcus strolled beside me.
Our group took up two round tables full of Guinness, and as soon as we approached, Charlotte and Julian started clapping.
“Bravo!” Julian cheered. “You and your brother are impressive performers.”
“We’re a little rusty.” Marcus smiled at Antonio, whose hand was already on Keira’s knee, his eyes on me as if daring me to object. I had no desire to resume our fight, and definitely not before the hellos were even finished. I sat down next to Marcus.
“Anastasia, have you met Ben?” Charlotte gestured to the English teen across from me, whose skin was so pale I could see blue veins on his temples and in his hands. He was fifteen, but he looked twelve with long scrawny legs and a baby face that wouldn’t scare a Chihuahua.
“Thank you for helping us,” I greeted.
“You should thank my grandfather. He was the one who refused to drop the matter.” Ben looked up at the heavens. “At least now we will get some retribution for Aunt Hilda.”
Benjamin’s great aunt, Hilda Murell, was sexually assaulted and murdered in the English countryside in 1984. The government convicted a teenager for the crime, only Ben’s grandfather disagreed. His aunt was an outspoken anti-nuclear activist who died days before she was set to give a high-profile speech against Margaret Thatcher’s nuclear power policies. According to Allen Cross, the crime had been committed by an off-the-rails pro-nuclear activist, and Department D was hired to cover up any hint of a “nuclear motive,” so as not to falsely implicate the British government.
“Charlotte says you have DNA evidence?” I asked skeptically. The crime was thirty years old; how could that possibly exist?
“Not me personally,” Ben said. “The police have the evidence boxed up. All I know is what my grandfather told me before he died—there were four sets of DNA found at the scene, one was the teenager they convicted, one was my aunt, and the other two have never been identified. So if it was a lone crazy teenager who killed her, why the other sets of DNA?”
“I’m gonna try to work with law enforcement,” Charlotte interjected as she sipped her frothy pint. “See what we can do.”
“I’m telling you, my family’s tried everything,” Ben warned.
“They haven’t tried me.” Charlotte smiled at the challenge.
She and Julian had taken charge of all technical matters, responsibilities I was happy to delegate. See, I could trust people.
“From what I’ve been told, your mum and dad were very…high up.” Ben looked at me.
It appeared I’d be having this conversation with every kid who joined our group, and I caught Antonio glaring at me from across the table, eyes practically shouting, How does it feel not to be trusted for something you didn’t do? How does it feel to have to prove you mean what you say? Our situations weren’t the same, but I had to admit there were parallels. And it sucked.
“It’s not a secret that my parents weren’t good people. We’re not covering that up,” I recited the familiar lines. I used to hate talking about my parents, now it was all I ever did. “My sister and I have been hurt as much as anyone else. Believe me, we want the same revenge you do.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed, like he either didn’t believe I could hate my parents or he pitied me for hating my parents. Both options were pretty miserable.
“It’s okay. I had a nice long talk with Ben-ha-meen.” Marcus said his name with Spanish flare. I loved when he did that. “He knows we’re all on the same side.” Then he nudged my shou
lder like he wanted me to hear how much he meant it, like he wasn’t just talking about Ben. “Could I talk to you?” Marcus whispered in my ear, so close his breath sent a buzz through my body. “Not here?” He gestured to the front door.
“Sure.” I nodded. I’d spent so much time envisioning this conversation that I needed to get it over with for the sake of my sanity.
Marcus extended his hand, and I clasped it. Then I followed him outside.
Chapter Seventeen
A couple years ago, Charlotte, Keira, and I watched The Blair Witch Project. It was our way of celebrating Halloween—we didn’t get many trick or treaters in a city condo. Now I was walking through an urban cemetery with tombstones that were hundreds of years old, engulfed by so much overgrown brush, you could barely see the names etched due to the dense ivy covering the stones. I was wearing a gray knit hat, pulled low over my ears. And my nose was running from the cold. All I needed was a close-up monologue.
“Antonio and I found it earlier today, before we got to the bar,” Marcus said as he led me down what at one point was a path, though it was now smothered in mushy leaves with trees arching overhead until they met like a canopy, making the already grey sky of twilight in London even darker. “It’s romantic, no?”
“I guess, in a Wuthering Heights kind of way,” I mumbled, stepping over a fallen tree branch.
The cemetery was across the street from the pub, surrounded by a bustling neighborhood and honking city traffic. But as we walked down the unkempt paths, it was eerily quiet. Cockeyed headstones loomed in all directions, obscured by shrubs and twining vines, along with statues of winged angels, pillars dangerously leaning to the side, and stone crosses stained lime green with mold. It was as if the bodies were buried centuries ago, then an earthquake hit and no one bothered to clean up, letting nature take its course.
I had to admit, it did have a creepy Gothic charm, like I should be wearing a long white nightgown and floating ethereally over a layer of dew.
Marcus stopped at a wooden bench below what used to be a tree. Now the thick, hollowed stump soared a few dozen feet in the shape of a “V,” its two massive branches amputated at the elbows. The rotten wood was almost black, and the crack down its middle suggested it might have been hit by lightning. Or it simply died, much like everything else.
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