by Ryan Calejo
Holding my breath, too scared to move, I flicked my eyes from left to right, scanning my surroundings, but at first it was too dark to see much of anything. Only shifting shadows and the blocky, bulky outlines of the gravestones. Then a sliver of moonlight sliced through the cloud cover, and I felt my mouth go dry.
Someone was watching me. Maybe a hundred yards away. Some dude in a dark jumpsuit and a beanie. At this distance, I couldn’t make out his features—they were just a shadowy blur—but it looked like he was holding something. Something big. Like a huge steel s—
Leaves rustled nearby. Then I heard the dry sound of a twig snapping.
I whirled but didn’t see anyone. Not even a stray cat.
Geez . . .
Sucking in a breath, I rubbed a hand over my racing heart and turned back to the creepy guy in the jumpsuit—but he was gone!
A chill of fear skittered down the middle of my back. Had I imagined him . . . ? Was I now hallucinating freaky-looking dudes in jumpsuits? The angel’s stony eyes stared down at me. You’re losing it, muchacho, he seemed to say.
And he was probably right.
Somewhere far away, an owl hooted. Closer, leaves stirred in a cold gust of wind. I shivered. Wrapped my arms around myself.
And then nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder!
Shrieking, I whipped around.
Violet Rey screamed and leapt back.
Wait. Violet Rey is here?
“You almost gave me a heart attack,” she said, panting. Her wavy blond bangs hung in her eyes, and she had one hand pressed over the breast pocket of the long brown trench coat she wore.
“I almost gave you a heart attack?” My voice was high and shrill. “¡Estás loca!”
“Why’d you freak out so bad, huh? I only touched your arm.”
“Because I thought you were a grave-robbing serial killer!” I rubbed the spot of pain on my shoulder. “Man, you got one heck of a grip. . . .”
“That’s what seven years of nonstop cheerleading and gymnastics will do for you.” Violet smiled, making my stomach flutter even through the fear and shock. “I could probably snap your back like a twig,” she confessed. When I didn’t say anything, she shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Just kidding—kinda . . .” Then she stepped up to the statue of the angel. “So, this is where the map led you, huh?” She ran a hand along one of the marble wings. Her shiny pink nails glinted in the moonlight. “Creepy.”
I looked around wildly. “Where the heck did you come from, anyway?”
“I followed you,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I know what you’re doing here, Charlie.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do. You’re trying to find out what happened to your parents. That’s why you didn’t want to tell me what you were going to do with the map.”
My mouth opened and then closed. Dang, this girl was sharp.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said. “It’s perfectly natural. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have told me either. And full disclosure? I knew that locket I opened for you was your mother’s. I’d seen it before. She wore it to a PTA meeting once, and my mom tried to convince her to sell it at our shop.” She took a step toward me, her eyes soft. “I wanna help, Charlie. . . . I wanna help you find them.”
“Aw, I don’t know—” I started to say, but she cut me off.
“Charlie, this is what I do. Investigative journalism. I hate to sound like Liam Neeson or whatever, but I have a very particular set of skills.” She paused. “You’ve seen Taken, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it. But I—I just think don’t think it’s a good idea. . . .” I was staring down at my feet now, shaking my head, but I could feel her eyes on me. “I’m usually pretty good at following clues and stuff, anyway. I mean, it’s pretty rare when something catches me by surprise.”
“Know a lot about sleuthing, huh? Keeping your wits about you? Noticing every little detail . . . ?”
“I know enough.”
“Know a lot about spiders, too?”
“In fact, I do know a lot about spiders. I know a lot about all kinds of animals and insects.”
“Know anything about tarantulas?”
Is that a challenge? “Kingdom, Animalia. Phylum, Arthropoda. Class, Arachnida. Order, Araneae. Burrowers by nature. Roughly eight hundred different species worldwide. They spin silk, but unlike most spiders, they don’t use webs to catch their prey. They have eight eyes but can’t see very well.” Take that! I always knew all my dad’s animal talk would come in handy one day.
Violet smirked. “Bad eyesight, huh? Well, that’s ironic, because I bet the one on your arm is getting a pretty good look at you.”
“Ha. Nice try. But I see what you’re doing. . . . You’re trying to get me to freak out and look down so you can prove that I’m not aware of my surroundings and therefore need your help. Unfortunately for you, I’m not that gullible.”
“Charlie, I’m serious. . . .” Her expression became earnest, urgent. “It’s literally crawling up your arm right now.”
“You’re funny. I like that. But, for your information, I also happen to have a pretty keen sense of danger, so I think I’d know if a tarantula was crawling up my—”
Just then something tugged on my sleeve.
I glanced down. My body went numb.
A huge black tarantula was crawling up the side of my arm!
“¡AY MI MADRE!” someone shrieked—must’ve been me, I guess—and then I was tearing off my jacket, swatting it against my arms, my legs, my back, spinning in wild circles and stomping on anything that moved or even came close to resembling an eight-legged arachnid.
“DID I GET IT?” I shouted frantically. “DID I GET IT? HUH? HUH? HUH?” When Violet didn’t answer, I danced right up in front of her and yelled, “DID I GET IT OR WHAT, CHICA?”
But she just stood there, staring at me with wide, bulging eyes.
And then I realized why: my jacket! I was EXPOSED!
¡Corre! my mind screamed. Run, run, run!
But I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even move. I could only stand there, frozen with fear and shock, waiting to hear the next words out of her mouth.
I expected something like, Freak! Or, Animal! Or, Freaky animal! (At least that’s what I probably would’ve said to me had I been in her position.)
But what she finally said was: “Awesome . . .”
CHAPTER TEN
You’re like—like a beautiful blood-speckled angel!”
I could feel an embarrassed blush creeping up my neck. “The blood is on account of my pores being too small for the feathers, so they bleed a little. But you think I’m beautiful? I mean, my plumage?”
“Duh!” Violet was circling me now, looking me up and down like I was Michelangelo’s David or something. “But no wings, huh? That’s too bad. I’ve always wanted to fly. You know, like Lois Lane in the original Superman movie?”
“Gimme a day or two,” I said. “Wouldn’t be surprised if I sprouted a pair.”
She held my gaze, her eyes electric. “So—what are you . . . ?” she asked finally.
“What do you mean what am I?” I snapped. “I’m a boy. A real boy!”
She put her hands up. “Easy there, Pinocchio. I was only asking.”
“Kind of a rude question, don’t you think?”
“Listen, I know as the head of the student newspaper I’m probably the last person on earth you wanted finding out about this, but it’s not like I’m going to write a story on you or anything.” She paused like she was considering something. “Though I have to say, the headline would be one heck of a grabber: ‘Charlie Hernández, the half-avian man-child that stalks our halls.’ I mean, c’mon, tell me that’s not must-read stuff!”
“I don’t stalk the halls,” I grumbled. “And I am not half-avian.”
“Nephilim?”
“Ne—what?”
“Shape-shifting mutant?”
>
I raised a brow. “Like Mystique from X-Men?”
“Is that a yes?”
“No! It’s a definite no! I’m just a normal guy, okay?” I started pacing back and forth in front of the angel, thinking, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation right now. I can’t believe I have to defend my humanity of all things! “Listen. This,” I said, gesturing at the feathers, “todo esto—feels like a nightmare. And it’s definitely not something I’ve been dealing with all my life. Believe me.”
“So, when did it start?”
“The day my parents disappeared,” I said before I could catch myself.
Her gaze sharpened. “I should probably start there, then.”
“What? No. You’re not investigating this! This isn’t some local fast-food place putting horse meat in their burger patties. This is my life!”
Violet looked surprised. “You read that story?”
“Yeah. And I loved how you worked in the factory farms and animal abuse angle. . . . But no! This is not some—some investigative journalism piece!”
She gripped my shoulders, the sudden intensity in her eyes more than a little freaky. “Charlie, I don’t know if you realize this or not, but your feathers and your parents’ disappearance are linked. Just consider the circumstantial evidence. All your life you’ve been normal, right? Your words. Then your parents vanish, and all of a sudden you start experiencing this kooky transformation. It’s one case. And you’re going to need someone with extensive investigative experience to help you crack it. Again, not that I’m thinking of doing a story on you or anything, but a chance to investigate something like this—the hours of painstaking research, the thrill of the hunt, the exhilaration when all the pieces finally click together . . .” She trailed off. Her eyes were huge, her dark blond hair whipping around her face in the breeze. “Charlie, this is what I live for. . . . And how many times in my life do you think I’m going to get a chance to be a part of something like this? Do you seriously want to deprive me of that kind of life experience?”
“Yes!” I said. Then I turned and started walking away.
“You’re so not being fair right now, Charlie Hernández!” she shouted after me. “You’re acting like a selfish little boy! A selfish, selfish little boy!”
I whirled on her. “Me? I’m the one who’s selfish? Look at my arms. Look at where I am. In a cemetery. At almost eight o’ clock at night. Trying to figure out what’s happening to me. What happened to my parents—who, by the way, have been missing for more than two months!” I was trying to catch my breath, trying to keep the tears from smarting in my eyes. “You really want to go there . . . ?”
Violet’s expression softened; her voice was low as she said, “What if I can help?”
“What if you can’t?”
“Fine, let’s say I can’t. What do you have to lose?”
I ran the back of my hand across my eyes. “Besides my dignity?”
Violet sighed. “Look, I just wanna help. And I don’t want to have to resort to cheap threats or blackmail, but if you don’t agree to let me, I’m going to have no choice but to rat you out in the school newspaper.”
“I believe that’s the exact definition of blackmail,” I said, putting my jacket back on. “And a cheap threat.”
“You’re burning moonlight. We should see what’s under that statue before it gets any later.”
“Under that statue . . . ? Please tell me that was a joke.”
“You have a better idea?”
I felt my eyes bug. Was she kidding? “Better than grave robbing? Uh, yeah!”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Charlie. Plus, we wouldn’t technically be robbing anything, since I fully intend to return whatever it is we find once we’re done with it.”
“Oh, well, when you put it like that . . . Just be sure to explain that to the police when they arrest us!”
Just then lightning flashed overhead, momentarily turning the night into day and revealing row after row of whitewashed stones. It flickered again, and out of nowhere a figure appeared in front of us. A man, tall and skinny, with a hard, bony face and eyes sunk so deep in his skull they might as well have been empty sockets.
“Getting arrested should be the least of your worries,” he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” I screamed.
“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” Violet agreed.
She whipped out a can of Mace while I struck my fiercest-looking karate pose. When I was little my mom had signed me up for Brazilian jujitsu classes, and even though I’d only made it to a gray belt (which is a rank-two belt for juniors), I’d learned that looking like you knew what you were doing was enough to deter most attackers.
And I guess it worked, too, because the guy didn’t take another step. Instead, he stabbed his shovel into a hump of dirt and leaned heavily on it like it was a cane.
“The cemetery is closed, muchachos,” he said with a thick Spanish accent. “Cerrado. You’re both trespassing.” His voice was seriously creepy; it sounded all raspy and distorted, as if coming through a pair of ancient, blown-out speakers.
“Uh, sir, if you could just gimme a minute to look around—” I began.
“Kid, you deaf? I said we’re closed.” His fingers tightened threateningly around the shovel’s rusty handle. “Now move along or I’ll bury the both of you. Side by side.”
I frowned. The heck did he just say?
“We’re very sorry, sir,” Violet suddenly piped up. She tugged on my arm, then began pulling me back the way I’d come. “We’ll be going now. . . . Sorry for bothering you.”
As we threaded our way through the maze of tombstones, I whispered, “Wow. You sure talk big for someone so ready to tuck tail and run.”
She threw a fast look over her shoulder. “Who said anything about running?”
I turned, trying to follow her gaze. “¿Qué haces? What are you looking at?”
“I’m timing it.”
“Timing what?”
“This! ” And she shoved me to the ground behind a row of tall headstones.
“What’d you do that for?” I rasped as she ducked in next to me.
“Because this guy knows something,” she said. “Did you see his pinky ring?”
“No. I was too busy praying he wouldn’t murder us!”
“It has the same symbol from the map. The horns and the feathers.”
I blinked in surprise. “Really?”
“Yep. Which means we’re going to have to follow him.”
“But you told him we were leaving!”
Violet gripped my shoulders and squeezed. “Get ahold of yourself, Charlie. And remember, I’m the professional here. Just follow my lead.”
“Yeah, you’re the professional, all right . . . professional crazy person!”
She peeked over the top of the tombstone. “Look!” she whispered, tugging excitedly on the sleeve of my jacket.
The gravekeeper had turned to face the statue of the angel. Now he crouched down and put his hand to the handprint in its concrete base. Before either of us knew what was happening, the ground started to tremble and the entire statue—giant stony angel and all—slid silently to one side, revealing a gaping hole in the ground. I rubbed my eyes, unable to believe what they were seeing, but nothing changed: the groundskeeper dude had opened up some kind of hidden passageway!
“That’s why you always keep pulling on the thread,” Violet whispered, as if talking to herself.
I shook my head. “What?”
“Never mind.”
After a quick look around, the groundskeeper started down the hole, his enormous shovel dragging behind him like a limp leg.
The moment he was out of sight, Violet grabbed my arm and yanked me forward. We skidded to a stop at the edge of the hole, and when I peered into it, I was surprised to see a set of dusty stairs leading down into a narrow corridor.
“Ready?” Violet asked, her eyes all big and blue and sparkly. The girl obvious
ly lived for stuff like this. When I hesitated, she tilted her head, grinning at me. “You’re not chicken, are you?”
I glared at her. “Seriously? You’re going to make chicken jokes with my whole feather situation?”
Her grin widened.
“By the way, just ’cause something’s got feathers doesn’t mean it’s chicken.” I grabbed her hand. “¡Vamos!”
• • •
The tunnel was cold and damp and smelled like clothes that had been left wet after washing. A few torches burned on either side, casting long, spooky shadows on the rocky-dirt walls, but otherwise it was pitch-dark.
As we walked, Violet inspected the torches, the beams of rotten wood supporting the ceiling, even the little fluffs of moss that had gathered between the beams. She reminded me of a bloodhound. A bloodhound on a scent.
“This is incredible!” she whispered excitedly. “This thing shouldn’t even exist. We’re in Florida! Which is, like, what? Eight feet above sea level?”
“Six, actually,” I said, but she had a point. How did this thing exist?
A couple of yards later, the tunnel curved left and opened up into some kind of underground boarding station: about a dozen rusty old mine carts sitting on even rustier steel tracks that ran off into the black mouths of the tunnels in either direction. As we looked on, the lead cart shot off into the tunnel to our left while another cart—this one just as rusty and rickety-looking as the others—emerged from the opposite end, joining the back of the line.
“They’re automated,” I heard myself say. “Like a theme park ride.”
“And look!” Violet pointed at the side of one of the carts. Etched into the corroded metal were those symbols again: the horns and feathers.
I felt the hairs on my neck prickle. Okay, this was getting weird. . . .
“C’mon,” Violet said.
We climbed into the lead cart, and it lurched forward almost immediately, sending us to our butts. As we entered the dark tunnel, a rush of cool air washed over us, blowing my hair back from my face and making me shiver. The cart’s single headlamp snapped to life then, but it didn’t show much—only the arched brown ceiling above and the rocky red earth beneath.
