by Meg Cabot
"Suze," he said, coming down the steps from the dais. I was too late. The transaction had been completed. In his hand was the belt buckle. "Fancy meeting you here."
"I need to talk to you," I said more intensely than I’d meant to, because both my mother and Sister Ernestine, who was standing nearby with Paul’s check still hot in her hands, turned to look at me.
"Susie, honey," my mom said. "You all right?"
"I’m fine," I said quickly. Could they tell? Could they tell my heart was hammering a mile a minute and that my mouth was as dry as sand? "I just need to talk to Paul really fast."
"And who is minding the bake sale table?" Sister Ernestine wanted to know.
"Shannon’s got it under control," I said, reaching out and taking Paul’s arm. He was watching us—my mom, Sister Ernestine, and me—with a slightly sardonic smile, as if everything we were saying was amusing him very much.
"Well, don’t leave her alone too long," Sister Ernestine said severely. I could tell that wasn’t what she’d wanted to say, but just as far as she was willing to go in front of my mom.
"I won’t, Sister," I said.
And then I dragged Paul away from the dais and folding chairs, and over behind one of the display tables holding the rest of the stuff that was to be auctioned.
"What do you think you’re doing?" I hissed at him the moment we were out of earshot.
"Well, hey, Suze," he said, looking as if he were still finding plenty about the situation to amuse him. "Nice to see you, too."
"Don’t give me that," I said. It was kind of hard to talk with my mouth feeling so dry and all, but I wasn’t about to give up. "What did you buy that belt buckle for?"
"This?" Paul opened his fist and I saw silver flash in the bright sun for a second before his fingers closed over it again. "Oh, I don’t know. I just thought it was pretty."
"Eleven hundred dollars’ worth of pretty?" I glared at him, hoping he couldn’t see how badly I was shaking. Come on, Paul, I’m not stupid. I know why you bought that thing."
"Really?" Paul’s grin was more infuriating than ever. "Enlighten me."
"Only it’s not going to work." My heart was slamming into my ribs now, but I knew there was no going back. "Jesse’s last name is de Silva. That’s an S, not a D. That isn’t his buckle."
I’d expected this news to wipe the insufferable smile right off Paul’s face.
Only it didn’t. The corners of his mouth didn’t even waver.
"I know it isn’t Jesse’s buckle," he said evenly. "Anything else, Suze? Or can I go now?"
I stared at him. I could feel my pulse slowing down, and the roaring sound that had filled my ears since I’d realized he was the buckle’s new owner suddenly disappeared. For the first time in several minutes, I was able to take a deep breath. Before, I’d only been able to manage shallow ones.
"Then . . . then you know," I said, feeling ridiculously relieved, "you know you won’t be able to use that to go . . . to go back through time to save Jesse."
"Of course," Paul said, his smile growing broader than ever. "Because I’m going to use it to go back through time to stop Jesse’s murderer. See you, Suze."
chapter ten
Diego. Felix Diego, the man who’d killed Jesse, because Jesse’s fiancée, the heinous Maria, asked him to. She had wanted to marry Diego, a slave-runner and mercenary, rather than the man her father had picked out tor her to marry, her cousin (ew) Jesse.
But Jesse never made it to the wedding. That’s because he was killed on his way there. Killed by Felix Diego, though no one at the time knew that. His body was never found. People—Jesse’s own family, even—assumed that he’d chosen to run away rather than marry a girl he didn’t love and who didn’t love him. Maria had gone on to marry Felix, and they’d produced a whole bunch of kids who later grew up to be murderers and thieves themselves.
And, not too long ago, the pair of them had paid a little visit to me, at Paul’s behest. He’d met Diego’s ghost. In fact, Paul was the one who’d summoned him.
Now Paul was going to stop Diego from killing Jesse . . . probably by killing Diego himself. It’s easy for shifters to kill people. All we have to do is remove their souls from their bodies, escort them to that spiritual way station where their fate—whatever it was, heaven, hell, next life—was decided, and boom: back on earth, another unexplained death, another body in the morgue.
Or, in Diego’s case, the icehouse, because they didn’t have morgues in California circa 1850.
Except that it wasn’t going to happen like that. I wasn’t going to let Paul do it. Oh sure, Diego deserved to die. He was the scum of the earth. He’d killed my boyfriend, after all.
But if Diego died, that meant Jesse wouldn’t.
And then I’d never meet him.
I knew, of course, that I couldn’t stop Paul on my own—short of killing him myself. I needed backup.
Fortunately, I knew just where to find it. As soon as the auction was over, and Sister Ernestine dismissed Shannon and me with a curt, "You may go now," I booked for my mom’s car, which she’d graciously allowed me to borrow for the day, in light of my "volunteering" to help out at the Mission. Paul had left the second after he’d dropped his little bomb about stopping Felix Diego. I had no way of knowing, really, where he’d disappeared to.
But I had a pretty good idea who might know.
The sun was just starting to set as I pulled out onto Scenic Drive, painting the western sky a deep burnt orange, and turning the sea the color of flames. The windows in the expensive seaside homes I passed reflected the light from the setting sun, so you couldn’t see inside them.
But I knew that behind the glowing glass, families were just sitting down to dinner . . . families like my own. I was going to be in big trouble for what I was doing . . . not for trying to keep Paul from saving my boyfriend’s life, but for missing dinner. Andy’s a real stickler about family mealtimes.
But what choice did I have? There was a life at stake here. And okay, so the life belonged to a heinous killer who deserved to die. That was beside the point. Paul had to be stopped.
And I knew of only one person he might possibly listen to.
But when I pulled into the Slaters’ driveway, I saw that my panic had been for nothing. Not only was Paul’s silver BMW convertible there, but it had been joined by a red Porsche Boxster that I recognized only too well.
Paul wouldn’t, I knew, be hurtling through alternative dimensions any time soon.
I parked behind the Boxster, then hurried up the long flight of stone steps to the modern house’s front door, where I leaned on the bell. A cool, crisp breeze was blowing in from the sea. Inhaling it, you almost felt like all was right with the world . . . anything that could smell that clean and fresh had to be good, right?
Wrong. So wrong. The water in Carmel Bay can be treacherous, with dangerous riptides that had swept hundreds of hapless vacationers to their deaths. It was fitting that Paul would live just yards away from something so deadly.
Paul answered the door himself. You could tell he was expecting some kind of food delivery, and not me, because he had his wallet out.
To his credit, when he saw it was me, and not, say, my stepbrother Jake delivering a pie from Peninsula Pizza, Paul didn’t skip a beat. He slipped his wallet back into the pocket of his perfectly pressed chinos and said with a slow smile, "Suze. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Don’t get your hopes up," I said. With luck he’d mistake my sudden hoarseness for gruff disconcern, and not what it actually was, which was fear. "I’m not here to see you."
"Paul?" A familiar voice tinkled like wind chimes from somewhere deep in the house. "Make sure he gives you extra of those, you know. Whaddyacall’ems. Hot sprinkles."
Paul looked over his shoulder, and I saw Kelly Prescott—barefoot, with the straps of her extremely skimpy Betsey Johnson dress slipping off her shoulders—coming down the stairs.
"Oh," she said when she saw it was me at the
door and not a pizza. "Suze. What are you doing here?"
"Sorry to interrupt," I said, hoping they couldn’t see how fast my heart was racing beneath the conservative white blouse I’d worn to appease Sister Ernestine. "But I really need to have a word with Paul’s grandfather."
"Grandpa Gork?" Kelly looked up at Paul inquisitively. "You told me he couldn’t talk!"
"Apparently," Paul said, the amused smile never leaving his face, "he does. But only to Suze."
Kelly flicked a scathing glance at me. "Geez, Suze," she said. "I didn’t know you were so into old people."
"That’s me," I said with a laugh I hoped didn’t sound as nervous to their ears as it did to my own. "Friend to the old people. So . . . can I come in?"
I half expected Paul to say no. I mean, he had to have known why I was there. He had to have known I only wanted to talk to Dr. Slaski so I could see if he knew of some way I could stop his grandson from playing with the past . . . and messing up my present.
But instead of looking angry about it or even mildly annoyed, Paul opened the door wider and said, "Be my guest."
I stepped inside and managed a smile at Kelly as I went by her and up the stairs to the main floor. Kelly didn’t return the smile. I could see why when I stepped into the living room. There was a fire going in the fireplace and, from the placement of the brandy snifters on the chrome-and-glass coffee table in front of the long low couch, it appeared that I’d interrupted a "moment" between her and Paul.
I tried not to take it personally that Paul had never broken out the brandy or firewood during the many times I’d been over. I am, after all, taken. Still, the whole thing smacked of overkill. Kelly had been warm for Paul’s form for so long, she’d have been happy with beef jerky and a Slurpee, let alone a fire and Courvoisier.
I hurried past the living room and down the long hallway that led to Dr. Slaski’s room. I could hear the Game Show Network blaring away. That must have been a nice accompaniment to Kelly and Paul’s make-out session. The dulcet tones of Bob Barker. Smack, smack.
When I got to Dr. Slaski’s room, I stopped and knocked, just to make sure I wasn’t interrupting a sponge bath or anything. When no one called for me to come in, I went ahead and pushed the partly open door. Dr. Slaski’s attendant was sprawled in a chair in one corner, taking what was probably a well-earned nap. Dr. Slaski himself, propped up in his hospital bed, appeared to be dozing as well.
I hated to wake him, of course, but what choice did I have? Was I wrong in thinking that he might want to know that his own grandson was thinking of tampering with the course of history, something he himself had warned me was perilous in the extreme?
"Dr. Slaski?" I whispered, since I didn’t want to wake the attendant, as well. "Dr. Slaski? Are you awake? It’s me, Suze. Suze Simon. I have something really important I need to ask you."
Dr. Slaski opened one eye and looked at me. "This," he wheezed—his breathing didn’t sound right— "had better be good."
"It’s not," I assured him. "I mean, it’s not good news, anyway. It’s about Paul."
Dr. Slaski looked toward the ceiling. "Why am I not surprised?"
"It’s just," I said, slipping onto the chair beside his bed, "that I found out why Paul wants to go back through time."
Dr. Slaski’s eyelids opened a little wider. "To save mankind from the atrocities of Stalin?" he rasped.
"Um," I said. "No. To keep my boyfriend from dying."
Paul’s grandfather blinked his rheumy eyes at me. "And this is a bad thing because . . . ?"
"Because if Paul goes back through time and saves Jesse," I whispered, to keep the attendant from overhearing, "I’ll never meet him!"
"Paul?"
"No." I couldn’t believe this. "Jesse!"
Dr. Slaski licked his cracked lips. "Because," he wheezed, "Jesse is. . . ."
"Dead, all right?" I shot the still-dozing attendant a careful look. "Jesse is dead. My boyfriend is a ghost."
Slowly, Dr. Slaski closed his eyes. "I don’t," he sighed, "have the patience for this. I’m not feeling very well today."
"Dr. Slaski!" I leaned forward and prodded his arm. "Please, you have to help me. Tell Paul he can’t do this. Tell him he can’t play around with time travel, the way you told me. Tell him it’s dangerous, that he’ll end up like you. Tell him something, anything. But you’ve got to get him to stop before he ruins my life!"
Dr. Slaski, his eyes still closed, shook his head slowly from side to side. "You’ve come to the wrong person," he said. "I can’t control that boy. Never could. Never will."
"But you can still try, Dr. Slaski," I cried. "Please, you’ve got to! If he saves Jesse . . . if he succeeds. . . ."
"Your heart will break." Dr. Slaski had opened his eyes and was gazing at me. "Your life will be over."
"Yes!"
"How old are you?" Dr. Slaski wanted to know. "Fifteen? Sixteen? You really think your life will be over if a boy you have a crush on—not even a boy, a ghost!—happens to disappear? Next year, you wouldn’t remember him, anyway."
"That isn’t true," I hissed at him through gritted teeth. "What Jesse and I have . . . it’s something special. Paul knows that. That’s why he’s trying to ruin it."
Dr. Slaski looked interested in that.
"Is he?" he said with a little more animation. "And why would he want to do that, do you think?"
"Because . . ." I was embarrassed to admit it, but what choice did I have, really? I took a deep breath. "Because he thinks we should be together. Him and me. Because we’re mediators."
A slow smile broke out across Dr. Slaski’s dry, liver-spotted lips.
"Shifters," he corrected me.
"Shifters," I said. "Whatever. Dr. Slaski, it’s not right, and you know it."
"On the contrary," Dr. Slaski said with a phlegmy cough. "It’s probably the smartest thing that boy’s ever done. Romantic, too. Almost gives me faith in him."
"Dr. Slaski!"
"What’s so wrong with it, anyway?" Dr. Slaski glared at me. "Sounds to me like he’s doing you a favor. Or the boyfriend, anyway. You think this Jessup—"
"Jesse."
"You think this Jesse likes being a ghost? Hanging around tor all eternity, watching you live your life, while he hovers in the background, never aging, never feeling an ocean breeze on his face, never again tasting blueberry pie. Is that the kind of life you wish for him? You must love him a lot, if that’s true."
I felt heat rising in my cheeks at his tone.
"Of course that’s not what I want for him," I said fiercely. "But if the alternative is never having known him at all—well, I don’t want that, either. And neither would he!"
"But you haven’t asked him, have you?"
"Well, I—"
"Have you?"
"Well." I looked down, unable to meet his gaze. "No. No, I haven’t."
"I didn’t think so," Dr. Slaski said. "And I know why, too. You’re afraid of what he’ll say. You’re afraid he’ll say he’d rather live."
I looked up sharply. "That isn’t true!"
"It is and you know it. You’re afraid he’d say he’d rather live out the rest of his life, the way he was supposed to, never having known you—"
"There has to be another way!" I cried. "It can’t just be one thing or the other. Paul said something about soul transference—"
"Ah," Dr. Slaski said. "But for that, you need to have a body available to take the soul you want to transfer into it."
I thought darkly of Paul. "I think I know of one," I said.
As if he’d read my thoughts, Dr. Slaski said, "But you won’t do that."
I raised my eyebrows. "Won’t I?"
"No," he said. His voice was beginning to sound fainter and fainter. "No, you won’t. He would. If he thought it’d get him what he wanted. But not you. You don’t have it in you."
"I do," I said as fiercely as I was able.
But Dr. Slaski only shook his head again. "You’re not like him," he s
aid. "Or me. No need to get huffy about it. It’s a good thing. You’ll live longer."
"Maybe," I said, tears filling my eyes as I looked down at my hands. "But what’s the point, if I’m not happy?"
Dr. Slaski didn’t say anything for a while. His breathing had grown so raspy, that after a minute or so, I began to think he was snoring, and looked up, fearing he’d fallen asleep.
But he hadn’t. His gaze on me was steady.
"You love this boy?" Dr. Slaski asked finally.
"Jesse?" I nodded, unable to say more.
"There is one thing you could do," he wheezed. "Never tried it myself, but I heard it could be done. Wouldn’t recommend it, of course. Probably put you into an early grave, like I’ll be, soon enough."
I leaned forward in my chair.
"What is it?" I cried. "Tell me, please. I’ll do anything . . . anything!"
"Anything that doesn’t involve killing someone, you mean," Dr. Slaski said and broke down into a coughing fit from which it seemed to take him ages to recover. Finally, lying back on his hospital bed, the horrible, body-wracking spasms finished, he wheezed, "When you go back . . ."
"Back? Through time, you mean?"
He didn’t respond. He just looked up at the ceiling.
"Dr. Slaski? Go back through time? Is that what you meant?"
But Dr. Slaski never finished that sentence. Because midway through it, his jaw went slack, his eyes closed, and he fell sound asleep.
Or at least that’s what I assumed.
I couldn’t believe it. He’s about to give me some really valuable tip on how I might be able to save Jesse, and suddenly his Excedrin PM kicks in? What’s the deal with that?
I reached out to touch his hand, hoping that might wake him. "Dr. Slaski?" I called a little more loudly. When he still didn’t respond, panic set in.
"Dr. Slaski?" I cried. "Dr. Slaski, wake up!"
My scream brought the attendant snorting back into consciousness. He was up and out of his chair at once, crying, "What? What is it?"
"I don’t know," I stammered. "He—he won’t wake up."
The attendant’s fingers flew over Paul’s grandfather’s body, feeling for a pulse, adjusting IVs. . . .
