The Gathering

by K. E. Ganshert

  Chapter Twenty

  A Tumor

  Vivian calls Samson a swamp-dweller. As soon as he steps inside the Rivard foyer, I can see why. He smells like swamp; the odor is overpowering. Combine that with his wandering left eye, a couple missing teeth, and a severely-stooped back, and I have a feeling he’s the kind of guy little kids run away from.

  He hobbles inside on Hezekiah’s arm, a threadbare knapsack in his other, and starts speaking in a language I don’t know. Cajun, maybe? Vivian listens attentively, then leads us up the wide staircase to one of the rooms.

  Luka lies inside with his eyes closed, breathing rapidly, locks of dark hair plastered to his sweat-dampened forehead. His jaw is tight. His lips, thin.

  Samson sets his bag on the armchair by the bedside.

  “It’s his lower back.” Vivian asks Luka to turn onto his side and exposes the same bit of skin she exposed earlier.

  Samson lays his hand over the spot and starts murmuring under his breath. Then he stops suddenly and pulls his gnarled hand away.

  I step further into the room. “What is it?”

  “This boy has a leech.”

  His use of English is so surprising at first that I don’t process. I have to run his heavily-accented words through my mind a second time. “What’s a leech?”

  I mean, I know what it is. But Samson can’t be talking about the regular kind of leech.

  “It’s a sort of spiritual parasite used by the other side,” Hezekiah answers.

  “What does it do?”

  “Sucks life away.”

  My fingers turn to ice.

  Samson removes a jar from his bag and pours what looks like oil onto his palm. A stringent odor assaults my nostrils, more overpowering than Samson himself. So strong, in fact, my eyes start to water.

  “It also works as a tracker,” Hezekiah adds.

  “A tracker.” The dull words belong to Jillian.

  And suddenly, it clicks. That’s how Agent Bledsoe knew where we were. It wasn’t Jillian. It was this leech. That must be how that dark shadowed thing on the bus found us, too. I come all the way to Luka’s bedside and set my crutches aside. “Can you remove it?”

  Samson begins to hum. It’s a sound that seems to rise up from somewhere deep down in his soul. He rubs the pungent oil on Luka’s exposed back and invites the rest of us to place our hands on Luka’s body. A ripple of fear crawls up my spine. The whole scene reminds me of the Ouija board, only instead of a planchette, we’re putting our hands on Luka.

  Samson closes his eyes. His humming turns into a chant.

  Luka’s skin warms beneath my palm. It grows feverish. Impossibly, dangerously feverish. My mouth goes dry. “What’s happening?”

  Nobody answers.

  And just when I think touching Luka’s skin will scald my palms, his body convulses, and as fast as I can blink, his temperature returns to normal.

  Samson’s chanting stops. He removes his hands. So does everybody else.

  “Is that it?” I ask. “Did you heal him?”

  He shakes his head sadly.

  “But—”

  Samson lifts his gnarled finger and pins me beneath the unwavering stare of his right eye. “I did not heal him. But he is healed.”

  “The leech is gone?”

  “Yes.”

  A wave of relief washes over me as Samson gathers his knapsack and speaks with Vivian in more Cajun. I wish he wouldn’t. I want to know what he’s saying. Especially since they both seem so serious and concerned. Why—if the leech is gone? She nods twice, frowns through most of it, then squeezes Samson’s arthritic hands and thanks him for coming.

  As soon as Hezekiah escorts him out, I ask what Samson said.

  Vivian glances at Luka, now asleep, her frown still in place. “Samson found a … a tumor on Luka’s soul. It happens whenever someone’s been touched by evil.”

  “I thought Samson said he was healed?”

  “Of the leech, yes. The tumor remains.”

  I grip the handle of my crutches tighter. “What does that mean?”

  “We’re not sure. Symptoms manifest themselves in various ways.”

  “Is Samson going to come back and remove it?”

  “He said there’s only one capable of doing that.”

  “Who?”

  “He wasn’t clear, which means he either doesn’t know or he isn’t willing to say.”

  *

  Vivian offers to show us the library—an odd request this late at night, but since I’m too keyed up to fall asleep, I clunk after her down the stairs and stop in the entryway.

  The library is breathtaking, with cathedral ceilings and stone flooring and a series of inlaid arched bookcases and stained glass windows above each one. There’s also a fireplace and a proud-looking desk and a table and straight ahead, a dais with an ornate railing and two sets of curved stairs—one on the left, one on the right. I’m so amazed by it all that it takes a few seconds before I realize that while every inch of shelf space is taken, there are no actual books in the room. Every single spine belongs to a composition notebook.

  Cap sent us here to find answers and here they are—an ocean’s worth.

  “You’re welcome to browse. Cressida only asks that you handle each volume with care and return them to their rightful location once you are finished. She’s very particular about how this room is organized.” Vivian’s mouth splits into a yawn, which she covers with her fist. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to turn in.”

  As soon as her heels tap-tap away, Link pivots in a slow circle and lets out a low whistle.

  Jillian chooses a notebook at random and begins flipping through the pages. She hasn’t said anything since Samson found the leech. A fresh bout of shame washes over me. I bite the inside of my lip, wishing I could take back my accusations from dinner. Why did I have to voice them out loud?

  As if realizing our need for some privacy, Link wanders toward the fireplace and examines the ancient-looking relics on the mantle.

  I take a step closer to my friend—the one I accused of being a traitor. “Hey, uh, Jillian?”

  She slides the notebook back into place and turns around. “It’s okay, Tess. You don’t have to apologize.”

  “No, it’s not okay. And I do too have to apologize. You’ve been nothing but loyal, and I threw that loyalty back in your face. I’m really sorry.”

  “I get it. I really do. Claire and Clive seriously messed with our heads. But we have to be able to trust each other.”

  “I know. You’re right.”

  “Then let’s start with the reason we’re here.” Jillian runs her finger along several spines. “There’s no way Cap wants us to read through all of this. He has to have something specific in mind.”

  I scratch my wrist. Jillian sacrificed her safety to join me on this journey. She became number four on the Most Wanted list. And I haven’t told her anything. I haven’t even told Link. “Cap wants us to learn more about a prophecy.”

  He turns around, a candelabra in hand. “A prophecy about what?”

  “A time when The Gifting will face extinction.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “Cap thinks the prophecy is coming true.”

  Jillian’s face turns gray. “Is there a way to stop it?”

  This would be the part where I tell them all of it. The whole thing—about the One and me and how maybe I’m it. But if I tell them, Cap’s beliefs might become their beliefs. And I’m not sure I can handle anybody else placing their hope on my shoulders. If I’ve proven anything, it’s that I can’t save one person, let alone an entire race of people. Anytime I’ve tried, things go wrong. I trust someone I shouldn’t and lives are lost. I accuse someone who’s innocent and relationships are damaged. “I don’t know. I guess that’s what we’re supposed to find out.”

  “Well, we’re not going to get anywhere tonight. Not without Cressida.” Link sets the candelabra back on the mantle. “I think it’s time for you and I to
pay Agent Bledsoe a visit.”

  *

  As soon as I fall asleep, I find Link inside a large, dank cave, leaning against a vehicle that can only be the Batmobile. He opens the door and flashes a lopsided grin. “Ready for an adventure?”

  “What exactly are we hoping to accomplish by visiting Bledsoe’s dream?”

  “I think it’s time to point out some inconsistencies.”

  “You think he’ll listen?”

  “Never know unless we try.” He wags his eyebrows and opens the passenger side door wider. “Shall we?”

  “If we show up in that thing, he’ll never take us seriously.” I take Link’s hand and pin my mental energy on Agent Bledsoe. Mostly, his crooked nose—like he broke it in a bar fight and never had it reset. And also, the fact that he’s prowling around New Orleans trying to find us.

  The bottom of the dream drops out from under us. My stomach swoops. Link’s grip tightens. And when I open my eyes, we’re no longer in the Batcave. We’re standing on a stage surrounded by teenagers and the loud boom of rap music. A crowd of faceless onlookers sits elbow-to-elbow in an auditorium. Agent Bledsoe stands at the front of the stage, leading a group of girls through a hip-hop routine, yelling over the music for everyone to keep up.

  “This is weird,” I mumble as Link pulls me through the dancers and taps our man on the shoulder.

  Agent Bledsoe stops.

  So does the music.

  The second he sees us—really sees us—his eyes go crazy wide. They zip from me to Link and back again. Two wanted fugitives standing calmly in front of him. He fumbles inside his coat pocket. I expect him to pull out a gun. Instead, he pulls out a phone, punches a few buttons, and presses the device to his ear. “I found two of them. They’re standing right here at my daughter’s dance recital.”

  The audience slowly fades away. The dancers have become very still. Some vanish altogether. Our sudden appearance inside Agent Bledsoe’s dream has changed the dream’s focus. If we don’t tread carefully, the whole thing will disappear and we’ll be kicked out.

  “No, they aren’t running.” He seems to realize the oddity of this fact as soon as he says it. He looks at us with a furrowed brow. “Why aren’t you running?”

  “Because this is a dream,” Link says.

  The stage is almost completely empty now. All that remains is me and Link and one other girl. Judging by the shape of her eyes and the color of her hair, she’s Agent Bledsoe’s daughter. Not his real daughter, of course, but his projection of her. She stands like a robot that’s been powered off.

  Bledsoe scratches his earlobe. “A dream?”

  “Unless you usually make a habit of getting on stage at your daughter’s dance recitals.” Link waits for his words to sink in before continuing. “Think about it. Why would we come here in real life? We’re running from you.”

  His scratching fingers move from his earlobe to his chin to his chest. It’s as though he’s having an allergic reaction to the discovery.

  “Why are you after us?” I ask.

  “You’re wanted for murder.” He points his accusation at me.

  “That’s not true. Look at the initial reports. The coroner ruled Dr. Roth’s death a suicide. So did the media. So why was it changed?”

  Agent Bledsoe’s eyes flicker. They are a window to the soul, and I can see a mustard seed of doubt burrowing inside the black depths of his pupils.

  “I haven’t committed any crimes, unless you count escaping from a mental facility I didn’t belong in.” Or breaking into the highest security mental rehab facility in the country. I push away the picture of my father sitting inside a prison cell and focus on the man in front of me. “Why should that make me FBI’s Most Wanted criminal? It’s a little strange, isn’t it?”

  “Y-you set off a bomb.”

  “It wasn’t a bomb. It was a diversion. And nobody was hurt.” Jillian made sure the car was empty. She made sure nobody was close by.

  The seed in Bledsoe’s eye germinates.

  Link places his hands on the man’s thick-set shoulders. “Do some digging. You’ll see the inconsistencies.”

  Bledsoe’s dream blurs at the edges.

  Link grips his shoulders tighter, gathering his full attention. “Remember this when you wake up. Don’t forget it. We’re not dangerous. We’ve done nothing wrong. Look at the facts.”

  And just like that, before I can hear another word, I’m pushed like a wave out to sea.

  Link is gone.

  Agent Bledsoe and his bizarre dream is gone, too.

  I float off into nothingness.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Prophecy Revealed

  Sunlight streams in through the large windows of my new bedroom. I turn over and spot a familiar backpack sitting on an armchair. Someone must have retrieved them early this morning. I remove the poultice Geoffrey wrapped around my ankle last night. The swelling has gone down significantly, and when I put weight on it, so has the pain.

  Ditching the awkward crutches, I make quick work of getting dressed, splashing water on my face, pulling my hair back into a ponytail, and gargling some mouthwash. I grab the five journals from my bag and make a beeline for Luka’s room. I want to see how he’s doing. But the room is empty, the bed already made.

  In the dining room, Jillian and Link eat a plateful of crepes with Vivian and a man dressed in a suit and tie. His skin is more creamed coffee than ebony. Mr. Rivard, I assume.

  “Good morning,” Vivian says. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, I did, thanks. Do you know where Luka is?”

  “He ate breakfast earlier this morning with Cressida. She’s an early riser. The two are in the library.” Vivian introduces me to her husband, Marcus Rivard. I shake his hand, noting the smoothness of his palm as he welcomes me to New Orleans.

  Vivian dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “How’s your injury?”

  “Much better, thanks.”

  She looks pleased with my quick recovery. “Would you like something to eat?”

  I decline and with a polite wave, I backpedal from the room and head to the library. Sunlight shines through the stained glass windows up above, giving the room an entirely different feel from last night. A woman with skin like her mother’s sits behind the antique desk. Her hair, however, isn’t nearly as tidily pulled back. It’s a mess of coiled curls that spring from her head in every direction. Luka stands behind her, looking over her shoulder with his thumbnail wedged between his teeth. He looks healthy and whole and completely engrossed. Cressida wears reading glasses, and is equally focused. So much so that she bites the end of her tongue as she marks something on the page. Luka bends lower and peers at whatever she’s writing.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask from the entryway.

  Luka looks up, his eyes meeting mine. My heart rate picks up speed. I have a million questions. How does he feel? Did he have a nightmare last night? Does he remember what happened? Did he hear what Vivian said about the tumor on his soul? Now that the leech is gone, is his gifting back?

  Cressida slips off her readers. “You must be Tess. Come in.”

  When I reach them, Luka wraps his arm around my waist and kisses my forehead. “How’s your ankle?”

  I melt against his side. Not a scent of Samson’s stringent salve remains. Just soap and wintergreen and … everything Luka. “Mostly healed.”

  “My father likes to joke that my mother’s poultices have magical powers,” Cressida says.

  “Do they?” I ask.

  She smiles. “We were just studying a journal written by a Keeper. We have a few in our collection, but not as many as I’d like. Keepers are quite rare.”

  So I’ve been told. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Luka wanted to know whether or not a Keeper has ever lost the ability to protect his or her anima.”

  I glance at him. “And?”

  “There’s nothing recorded,” he says, his green eyes dar
k.

  I guess that answers one of my questions.

  “At least that we know of. My grandfather was the Scribe before me. He only died three years ago. I haven’t had enough time to read them all.” Cressida spots the journals in my hands, a strange glow overtaking her expression. “What are those?”

  “A gift from Non.”

  “Thank you.” She takes them from me so carefully, so reverently, that I feel a little guilty for stuffing them haphazardly beneath my mattress these past few months.

  “What exactly do you do with them all?” I ask.

  “Oh, lots of things. Study them. Add to them. Most importantly, preserve them. Whenever the writing begins to fade, I transcribe the journal into a new notebook. It’s very time-consuming work. Every letter has to be meticulously copied and triple checked.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more efficient to digitalize them?” The question comes from behind me. It belongs to Jillian. She and Link must have finished their crepes.

  “Efficient, yes. But also dangerous.” She sets Non’s gift on her desk, then turns around with eyes that are impossibly awake. “Tell me, what are you searching for?”

  My heart begins to tap dance inside my chest. I’m not sure I want to learn whatever it is we’re about to learn. I lick my bottom lip and take a deep breath. “There was a prophecy given during the fall of Rome, in 476 AD.”

  Cressida’s eyes glow brighter.

  “We’d like to know more about it.”

  She heads to the ladder on the left wall, climbs a few rungs, and skims her pointer finger along the spines. “This particular bookcase is reserved for the prophetic journals. The prophecy you’re asking about is one I’ve studied extensively. I think you’ll see why.”

  She pulls out a notebook and climbs down the ladder. “We don’t have the original account. This comes from a secondary source, but it’s a very reliable one.” She opens to a specific page and slips her reading glasses back on her nose.

  The four of us move closer as Cressida begins to read.

  “A time approaches when evil will grow to such heights, our kind will face extinction. One will arise with the ability to set captives free. She alone will see evil’s mark and her gifting will be complete in its power. She will be our victory.”