In her seat beside me, Gwyn scribbled for a few seconds and passed a note to me.
Sad–looking eyes—check.
Amazing hair—check.
Ass–to–die–for—check.
What part of this confuses you?
This time when I rolled my eyes, they ached from repetitive motion strain. I had to admit she was right about Christian’s eyes, though. They did have this sort of sad–puppy–dog look to them. Haunted, Sylvia had called them.
Gwyn reached back to pull a stray leaf from Christian’s long hair. “Flowing locks of gold,” she’d said when he wasn’t in hearing range, “Hair that belongs to a bass player in a really cool band.”
I could hear a girl seated behind Christian quizzing him on what biology was like in French schools.
“Do you study reproduction?” she asked. “Or anatomy?”
I glanced back to see her adjusting a tight tee–shirt to display her own body parts to advantage.
Christian’s face was red when he turned forward. Gwyn stared at the girl looking like she could shoot lasers from her eyes.
She passed me another note.
OMG Can you believe the girls at this school?
I snorted back a laugh while she waited for me to respond. On the board, Mr. Polwen had written: HUMAN CLONING—ETHICAL OR UNETHICAL?
Gwyn sent me another note.
Do you think Christian gets lonely here?
Ignoring her, I scribbled notes on a controversial cloning facility that had come to light last fall. I’d heard about their claimed success with humans. The location of the facility had been kept secret, but in the photos you could see the Cyrillic alphabet, so it was somewhere in the former Soviet Union, people surmised.`
Gwyn kicked my foot and looked at me with an eyebrows–raised expression that asked, Well, don’t you have an opinion?
Probably, I wrote at the bottom of a scrap of paper. I left it on my desk where she’d see it. My stomach was doing sick flops as I tried to copy Polwen’s notes on zygotes and blastocysts, the names for the earliest stages of human embryo development. I had to get my egg back. And soon.
Class dismissed and Gwyn linked one of her arms through mine, the other through Christian’s.
“Looks like rain again,” said Gwyn. “Do you mind driving me?”
I made a choked laughing noise.
Gwyn guffawed. “Okay, it’s not going to rain. I just like your company.” She winked at Christian.
The two carried on a discussion of the merits of American versus French pastries, about which Christian knew little and all of it centuries out of date. They’d be pretty cute as a couple, I had to admit. Gwyn climbed in the front of my Blazer cab again, snuggling against Christian for the three–hundred–foot drive across the parking lot and Main Street.
Our school’s three cheerleaders waved and called out, “Bonjour, Christian,” as I idled in front of the Las Abuelitas Bakery Café.
“Au revoir,” said Gwyn, planting a quick peck on his cheek as she stared down the trio.
The door closed and I pulled out into the Las Abs rush–hour of school–letting–out.
“You suffered distress today,” said Christian. “During the lesson which the biology master taught. Are you recovered?”
I swerved the car around Main Street’s large pothole. “How did you know … what I was feeling?” It was true, the discussion of creating life in test tubes had me pretty upset.
“I felt it,” said Christian. “Like an assault almost physical in its nature.”
“You felt … my feelings?”
“Indeed.”
“Can you do this with other people or just me?”
Christian shrugged. “The thoughts of others I catch easily. Feelings, I am less accustomed to…overhearing. But I think that your feelings were of a strong nature. And we are both of the family de Rochefort.”
Okay, I thought. Super–freaky that Christian has a window into my soul.
“I’ll try to keep my thoughts to myself in the future,” I said.
“Just as you wish,” said Christian. After a brief pause he added, “Perhaps you felt it inappropriate that I ‘listened’ to you?”
I pulled the car down our long drive. I didn’t want to appear impolite. “It was nice of you to ask how I was doing.”
Inside the house, Sylvia had left a note on the fridge white–board. “Shopping,” the note said.
“Samanthe?”
I closed the fridge. Whatever I needed right now, it wasn’t in there.
“I have been considering our wisest course of attack whereby to remove the egg from the possession of our enemies,” he said.
Half my mouth curved up into a sad smile listening to his funny turns of phrase. “What did you come up with?”
He frowned. “I am unsatisfied on all counts. To go alone would be the wiser course, but I cannot allow myself to be parted from you again.”
“I thought I might go on my own,” I said.
His eyebrows raised; the lines furrowing his forehead made him look older than a high school boy.
Which he was.
“That would be unthinkable,” he said. “I beg of you, Mademoiselle, place me not in the position of being unable to account for your wellbeing.”
“Yeah, I didn’t figure you’d go for that,” I said.
The hard part of having Christian around all the time was just that: he was around all the time.
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
BESETTING SINS
· WILL ·
Mick and I were good at packing up quick, and we left Rome before the sun had risen. Sir Walter led us invisibly towards the outskirts of the great city where we stopped briefly at a car dealership, with really sweet rides like DeLoreans and Mercedes and Alfa Romeos. Sir Walter bought a midnight blue Alfa Romeo Giulietta and the world’s smallest Mercedes, paying cash.
“If we’re splitting up,” said Mick, “I think it needs to be you two who stick together.” Her eyes held back tears.
“No, no,” said Sir Walter. “The Mercedes is to compensate our landlady for the loss of her vehicle.” He arranged to have the car delivered to her.
“The Alfa Romeo’s for us?” I shook my head. “Flashy, much?”
Sir Walter shrugged. “It is considered the safest compact car on the market.”
We piled in the car and Mickie started crying. “It’s all my fault.”
I wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t.”
“No, it’s the truth. And I’m not just talking about yesterday. I never should have taken the work Pfeffer offered all those years ago.”
“That work kept us in shoe leather and groceries,” I said, trying to turn around the Mickie–guilt–fest.
“But I took the job because I wanted … what’s the word?” She paused, sniffled. “I wanted glory, Will. I wanted to do great research and become known and respected.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Mick.”
Her sobbing got a whole lot worse. “I was willing to endanger you to get what I wanted. I brought you into the lab so Pfeffer would be sure to keep me on.”
I made a small snorting sound. “Well, you can quit beating yourself up on that one. You think I would have stayed home, knowing you’d met someone who was researching Rippler’s Syndrome? Mick, I would have snuck in to see him if you hadn’t taken me.”
“You’re—just—saying—that.” She made these little hiccups–sounds between each word.
I shook my head. “Sorry, Mick, you’re stuck with a deceitful, sneaky little brother. I totally would’ve gone to see him on my own.”
She looked at me. “Really?”
“I swear.”
“It doesn’t excuse that I was willing to use you,” she said, wiping her eyes on her shirt–sleeves.
“Hmmm, so I’m a lying deceiver and you’re guilty of, um, I think it’s called ‘vainglory.’ Both pretty bad. What a team we make, huh?” I bumped her from the side,
trying to make her laugh, which she wouldn’t do.
“We each carry within us the seed of a great evil,” said Sir Walter.
“Yeah, dude, what’s your sin of choice?” I asked.
“Will!” murmured my sister.
“My besetting sin, that is, the evil by which I am most sorely tempted is sloth,” he said.
“You’re fond of sleep?” I asked.
Sir Walter laughed. “No, no. I am fond of sitting by whilst others are allowed to work great harm.”
“You’re not sitting by this time,” said Mickie.
“Indeed,” replied Sir Walter. “There is, I believe, hope for me yet.”
Eventually, last night’s interrupted sleep caught up to me and Mick. We crashed out, and the next thing I was awake for was crossing the border into France. With fake passports—proof that deceitfulness had its uses.
“I propose that we make a stop in Nice,” said Sir Walter. “My cousin has leased a building there rather closer to the Musée National Marc Chagall than makes me content.”
He then explained we might actually be able to learn what use the buildings were being put to, seeing as this one had been acquired a couple years back.
Sir Walter had a new plan for keeping Mickie safe, as well. “I like it not that we must abandon you for so many hours at a time, my dear. I propose placing you invisibly within the walls of our hotel during the hours we must be gone.”
I shook my head, ‘cause no way was my sister going for that.
To my shock, she nodded and said, “Okay. Good idea.”
I turned to her. “Who are you and what did you do with my sister?”
She looked down, her long lashes hiding her eyes from me. “It’s the least I can do,” she murmured. “One less thing for you to worry about.”
“Thanks, Mick,” I said. “And, by the way? It’s really relaxing, hanging inside a wall.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Chrétien told me about it.”
“Huh?” I asked.
“I placed Chrétien within the walls of my family’s castle following the death of his wife and daughter,” said Sir Walter. “For nearly four–hundred years he rested there.”
“Dude!” I exclaimed. “Four–hundred years?”
“He wished to end his own life,” said Sir Walter. “I convinced him instead to rest, to heal.”
“Still,” I said. “Four–hundred years … What about eating and sleeping?”
“Those are only required when one moves about as a chameleon,” replied Sir Walter. “However, if one is still, it is possible to remain indefinitely invisible.”
That made sense. “So what convinced him to, um, come out of hiding?” I asked.
“I asked him to protect the life of Mademoiselle Sam, explaining that she is like a long–lost grand–daughter,” said Sir Walter.
I felt a sick gnawing in my stomach, wondering if Sir Walter secretly hoped Chrétien would “heal” by falling in love with Sam. I seriously couldn’t let myself start thinking like that. Only how do you get rid of that sort of idea once it moves in?
Sir Walter put us up in a really swank hotel with crystal chandeliers and marble everywhere. One great thing about Nice was we got to try a local special, Salade Niçoise.
The salty black niçoise olives tasted so good you kind of wanted to keep gnawing on the pits. Unfortunately, you couldn’t take more bites and gnaw at the same time. I popped out a pit in my hand, setting it on the white tablecloth beside two others.
“Could you be any more cave–man?” murmured my sister.
I was glad to see Mick’s sarcasm back, ‘cause it freaked me hanging around the version of my sister that cried and apologized for everything.
Following dinner, Sir Walter placed Mick into a really nice patch of very ancient stone wall. Then we rippled and took off toward Helmann’s building. Like the structures surrounding it, this building had red roof tiles and was painted off–white. There was absolutely nothing special about it, except for the location.
Helmann, like his former associate Herr Hitler, said Sir Walter, would like nothing better than to obliterate the art of the Jewish people. Along with their race, that is. He is disturbed by how the beauty of Chagall’s work calls to the hearts of so many nations.
Sick bastard, I wrote.
Quite.
The inside of the building appeared every bit as empty as the one we’d viewed near Paris. We started with our zig–zags on the ground floor. We’d nearly finished the third level when Sir Walter spoke, sounding excited.
Pass before me, he commanded. As if in a circle.
We were holding hands, facing the same direction. I didn’t really see the point, but there’s times it’s better to just do what Walter de Rocheforte tells you. I swung out in a little half–circle ‘til I must’ve been facing him.
Okay, I wrote, now what?
You noticed nothing unusual? He asked.
Nada, I wrote.
Reverse the motion, this time lending your full attention to what you can sense.
I raised up one hand in this “whatever you say, dude,” gesture even though obviously it wasn’t like he’d see me do it. But when I brought my hands back down it made me think of something.
I had five senses, right? So I already knew Sam and Sir Walter killed me on smell and taste. But I’d always been able to see stuff just fine when I rippled. I could hear just fine, too. That left one last sense: touch. And me and Sam were both good at noticing what something felt like.
This time, when I wheeled out around Sir Walter, I extended my free hand and held all the fingers out wide.
I kind of noticed something. Like the air was gooey or super–thick.
What the heck? I scribbled on my note–pad. Then I moved ahead and back several more times. That was some freaky air right there.
What’s wrong with the air? I wrote. Why’s it all thick and moist?
I believe we have discovered something of importance. Pass through me, Will, and tell me what you notice.
I had a sick feeling I knew what was here in the building with us. Which was confirmed when I walked “through” Sir Walter’s invisible body.
It’s the same, I wrote.
Indeed, he said.
So Helmann’s stuffing these buildings with corpses, you think? Like some creepy Nazi cemetery?
That is no corpse, replied Sir Walter. It is a living being before us. It may even be the body of a Geneses employee. I do not think Helmann would go to such lengths to dispose of his enemies.
Dude, I wrote, as quickly as I could. Stop talking! It’ll hear you!
Indeed, I have been attempting communication, but with no success, said Sir Walter.
You want to talk to it?
I would welcome the chance to discover anything that might reveal to us my cousin’s intentions. Unfortunately, the person you have encountered seems to slumber. It is impossible to be certain, without bring him into solid form, but I can hear no active thoughts, no trace of conversation within the mind.
I thought of something worse than being overheard. Pulling hard on Sir Walter’s hand, I yanked us back several feet. What if it—uh, he or she—knows how to do that thing you did with getting the bullet out?
Pardon? Sir Walter sounded confused.
It’s just, I don’t want someone from Geneses that close, you know. Like, what if that person reached inside me and yanked out my heart, you know?
Sir Walter chuckled. Be at peace in that regard, my young friend. Firstly, because you are thinking of two entirely distinct actions: the removal of an object which does not belong in your body is quite different from the removal of an object which is knit to you by a thousand strands, even invisible. Secondly, it is extremely unlikely that this individual has received training in this area of expertise.
Again with the chuckling. I didn’t see anything funny about it.
My cousin Helmann never mastered the art as did I. As children, during an exceptionally snowy winter, w
e played at a game of my invention, Helisaba—that is, Elisabeth—Girard, and myself. I would hide a small object within the walls of the castle and the other two would seek it out. Never could Girard find the object, save with the help of Elisabeth. After a few tries, he refused to play, saying the game was impossible.
Years later, he sought me out to teach him this ability, which came easily to me. I attempted to teach my cousin how to trace the air in search of subtle differences in its texture, or its weight, or its moisture–content. None of these could he perceive. He scorned my lessons and accused me of lying about things that were not possible to detect.
Loser, I wrote. It’s not like it’s even that hard.
Ah, said Sir Walter, for you, it is possible, but for my cousin, it was supremely difficult. Think of your own abilities: you can see and hear clearly, but you say that odor is difficult for you to sense.
Oh, I wrote. Yeah, I guess. I can’t taste, either, like Sam can.
In any case, my dear young man, I am quite certain Helmann’s enormous ego would never permit others to learn what he himself has no mastery over. In addition, it took me many centuries to develop the skills I possess. I do not exaggerate, Will, when I say that I have never met nor heard of anyone who is my equal in this area.
I didn’t need any convincing in this department. I couldn’t imagine training my fingers to detect what was invisible–bullet and what was invisible–flesh.
Okay, I wrote. So this person’s not going to come screaming at us and pull our brains out. Got it. But what’s Helmann sticking live people in empty buildings for, anyway?
This, I do not understand, said Sir Walter. But I intend to discover. And Will? There are five bodies stored here.
Chapter Seventeen
* * *
PINACLE OF RESPECT
· SAM ·
I crunched mournfully through a bowl of Sylvia’s homemade granola. Missing Will had become an ache that pressed upon me without mercy and without respite. It was another six days before our every–other–Friday phone call. I’d passed the half–way mark yesterday.
Unfurl (The Ripple Trilogy) Page 9
