“You must change form at once—I shall carry your belle–mère to safety.”
My eyes flew wide as I saw a flare of light outside my window. “The house is burning!” I said, stupidly.
“Quickly, Mademoiselle, please, assume your chameleon form!”
I tried to calm my mind, knowing full well Christian wouldn’t leave to help Sylvia until I vanished. I thought of Illilouette Creek and felt my skin begin to melt away. Then I stopped cold, rippling back solid.
“Mom’s painting of Yosemite!” I cried. “I have to save it!”
“Which painting?”
“The one over the couch, by the kitchen.”
Christian nodded. “It is too large for you. Run to Sylvia. You can ripple with her, non? I shall rescue the picture.”
“Okay,” I said. Grabbing my cell, I rippled to safety. I would call 9–1–1 from outside the house once I had Syl.
Passing invisibly through the door of my room, I caught the scent of smoke and the odor of things that shouldn’t burn. I shot down the hall to my parents’ room. Downstairs, I could now hear the crackling of a fire gaining momentum. Had I jeopardized Christian’s safety, sending him after the painting? Surely he’d have enough sense to judge whether it was too dangerous.
I came solid beside my step–mom’s side of the bed. She turned in her sleep. Inhaling as I leaned over to take her in my arms, I felt my lungs burn from the spreading smoke. Sylvia coughed as I embraced her. Thank goodness she’s short, I thought.
She mumbled in her sleep.
Her voice cut off as I rippled us to the safety of nothing.
The odor of incineration grew stronger once I’d vanished. I took several swift steps to a large window overlooking our deck and pool. I barely noticed the grip of the glass as we passed through. Falling earthward, I saw a dreadful beauty reflected in our swimming pool. Flames engulfed the entire lower level of my home and glimmered in reds and golds on the surface of the water.
Christian! My mind cried out, seeking his thoughts. His presence felt near, but he wasn’t responding at the moment. I dashed across the pool with it’s grimly beautiful reflection of the inferno. Down the stairs to Sylvia’s garden I carried my step–mom invisibly. The slope of the hill sheltered us from the view of the flames. Setting Sylvia carefully upon the stone bench beside the fig tree, I brought us both solid.
“The house is burning,” murmured Sylvia as she came awake in the cold night air.
I fumbled with my cell, new and unfamiliar. “Unlock, you stupid thing,” I muttered, punching buttons. I had a text. I flipped past that to free up my number–pad. 9–1–1. I pressed the buttons too quickly and only one–one appeared on my screen. Hitting the cancel button, I dialed once more, successful this time.
One ring. Two.
“Please state the nature of your emergency,” said the voice on the other end.
“Fire!” I shouted. “My house is burning down! Send a fire truck!”
Sylvia grabbed my cell and rattled off our address, which I have to admit, it hadn’t occurred to me to report to the operator. A minute passed while Sylvia remained on the line, nodding and grunting, “Mmm–hmm” every few seconds.
The flames engulfing the house rose steadily to the second floor and I heard a loud explosion from the far side where our garage lay.
“Oh dear God!” said Sylvia, passing my cell back to me as she sprang up the garden stairs. “Christian!”
I dashed behind her, holding her from moving any closer to the inferno. “It’s okay! He got out!” I could hear him praying on the other side of the house.
“What? How do you know? Are you sure?”
I answered only the last question. “Yes, I’m sure.” The window over our kitchen sink exploded, sending glass arcing across the night sky—a terrifying rain of reflective mirrors each capturing the glow of flame.
“He’s out front,” I said.
Sylvia grabbed my arm. “We’re going to find him.”
We passed in a wide half–circle around to the south side of the house. The heat coming off of it amazed and horrified me. Christian! I called out once again. Rounding past the now–empty burn pile, we heard sirens wailing as the volunteers of the Las Abs fire department roared towards our home.
Christian stood outlined against the black sky, arms raised high overhead.
Sylvia laughed in relief as we spotted him together. “I don’t think the firemen will have any trouble figuring out where to turn in.”
“He’s not trying to attract attention,” I said, hearing an echoed prayer from his mind. “At least, not from the fire department.” I could hear him chanting one of the psalms that asked for aid.
We ran up the slope, skirting the driveway where it hugged the burning mass. Christian, seeing us, dropped his arms and ceased chanting. He closed the distance between us in two giant strides, scooping me into his arms.
“Merci, Seigneur!”
I heard his whispered thanksgiving in one ear. Then I felt his embarrassment, rolling over and past me. He set me down and, seeing Sylvia, murmured, “Thanks be to God!”
Looking past Christian, I saw Mom’s painting of Yosemite lying on the entrance to the driveway. The fire truck roared around the last curve toward our house.
“The painting,” I cried.
Christian looked behind and saw the canvas, saw the approaching truck, and vanished. Half a second later he reappeared at the top of the drive, hauling the precious artwork off the road not a moment before the firemen drove across where it had lain.
Sylvia, standing beside me, blinked and rubbed her eyes, but said nothing.
The fire truck came to a noisy halt along our driveway.
“Anyone still in the structure?” called a tall man as he jumped off the truck.
“No,” Sylvia called. “We’re all out.”
I turned my back on the firemen and their activities. Suddenly, I couldn’t watch the flaming house anymore.
Las Abuelitas’ single police vehicle screamed down the highway and pulled beside our drive, the county sheriff arriving just behind.
A dark–haired officer approached us, carrying blankets. I recognized Officer Thao; Coach had repeatedly tried to get his younger brother Phong to run cross country.
“How thoughtful,” said Sylvia to Officer Thao, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders before taking her own.
“Thanks, Thao,” I said. I clutched the soft fleece close. It gave instant relief from the biting night air. I hadn’t had a chance to realize I was freezing in the brief time since I’d carried Sylvia from her room.
“I’ve got the heater running in the patrol car,” said an officer I didn’t know.
“Come on,” said Sylvia. “Let’s get inside.”
Christian placed a gentle hand between my shoulder blades, aiming me to the top of the driveway and the warmth of the patrol car. From within his mind, I heard as he continued to chant. Deus in adjutorium meum intende. Domine ad adjuvandum me festina. Although my years of catechism had long since faded, I could understand the words: God come to my assistance, Lord make haste to help me.
“What he said,” I mumbled, my first real prayer in many years.
The officer and his officer buddies passed out stretchy hats and gloves and one pair of socks which Christian and Sylvia both insisted I wear.
“I’m fine,” I said, shoving the socks away. I leaned my head against the glass of the vehicle window. I was anything but fine. I was making a mental inventory of everything I cared about on the first floor of our home: the family pictures on Dad’s desk; the ugly pillow I’d made in second grade for Mom’s birthday; my flip–flops, sitting by the sliding glass door; the Ghirardelli caramel squares in the pantry; my princess Ariel cereal bowl … the list wasn’t long. I didn’t want to think about my bedroom right now.
Sylvia sighed, long and heavy. “I should call Dave.”
I hadn’t thought about Dad, other than being thankful he’d been gone.
&
nbsp; “Can I borrow your cell, Sam?” she asked. “Mine’s upstairs …”
Uncurling the fingers that gripped my cell, I passed the phone to her.
“It’s trying to make me read a text, honey,” said Sylvia. “What do I press?”
“Here,” I said. My step–mom was hopeless with electronics. I stared at the unfamiliar number and accidentally punched the “view” button instead of the “ignore” button. Everything on my new phone seemed backwards. My thumb hovered over the “back” button as I glanced down at the new text.
I know where you live.
I gasped involuntarily.
“Honey?” asked Sylvia, still reaching her hand out for the phone.
I turned the gasp into a cough. “I’m fine. Just inhaled a little smoke or something.” I hit the “delete” button, changed my mind and hit “no” once and “back” twice and passed her the cell.
Beside me, cramped in the patrol car’s back seat, Christian looked at me with his brows raised. Wherefore are you thus alarmed?
Wherefore? Do you mean “why” am I freaked?
Yes, wherefore? Why?
Ignoring his bizarre English, I flashed him an image of the message upon the cell phone screen, explaining that it was from a San Francisco prefix. Hans.
He is vengeful, Christian said, Like his father.
My heart sunk within me. You think he set the fire? I already knew the answer.
Indeed.
I sat, lost in thoughts dark and despairing. Was it possible that my visit to the Geneses lab had brought our house down in flames? Or would he have tried it anyway? I stared out the car’s front window, craning to see past the fire truck. The flames were gone now. My house resembled a skeleton: a smoking, reeking collection of bones laid bare. As I watched, the roof over the garage groaned and collapsed inward.
So much for my Blazer.
Christian reached over for my hand and held it, squeezing softly. I am so grieved, Mademoiselle, for all that you have lost.
You saved Mom’s picture, I said. That’s the only thing I really cared about.
Your cell phone, said Christian, It made the sound of an angry hive of bees while you slept this last night. Would that have been the messenger?
Text message, I corrected automatically. Yes, probably. If I’d seen it, maybe none of this would have happened.
Surely, you could not have foreseen this destruction.
No, I agreed, but I might have sensed Hans, heard his thoughts.
I felt Christian’s surprise. You can hear Hans as you hear me?
Sort of. Except I only get stuff from him when he’s really emotional. Angry. Frustrated. Happy. Then I hear him.
I see.
Maybe I could have heard him muttering, ”Your house is toast,” or something, I said.
Mademoiselle, can you hear him, now?
I paused, listening. Beside me, Sylvia spoke softly to my dad. He sounded really upset. I blocked that sound out and searched for the sound of Hans, gloating or celebrating.
There was nothing.
He’s not around, I said. As I sent the thought to Christian, I felt sure I was right. We’re safe.
Mademoiselle, you will forgive me for speaking in contradiction, but we are anything but safe. I believe the events of this night have proven that Las Abuelitas is no longer safe for you or your family.
Well, what are we supposed to do about it? Call the police?
I felt Christian hold himself back from retorting in kind with my sarcasm.
We must leave, Mademoiselle. We must depart Las Abuelitas.
Chapter Twenty–Six
* * *
THE ANGEL
· WILL ·
Mick gave me an extra big hug as Sir Walter and I got ready to go. I wanted to bring her with us, to watch invisibly, but Sir Walter pointed out that if anything happened to us, there would be no one to bring Mickie solid.
“And no one left to warn Sam,” she whispered, eyes brimming.
“It’ll be fine, Mick,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.
We arrived back at the building in Montpellier and approached one of the sleepers. It was a lot easier for me to “feel” where the invisible body was, now that I was trying to notice. It was like I was using a muscle and noticing it get stronger with use. Sir Walter tried the French version of the phrase first.
“Elisabeth est morte,” he said, the words echoing off the walls of the empty room.
We’d brought the guy solid and leaned him against me so that my arms were wrapped around him. If he seemed immediately hostile, I’d be ready to ripple him back to insubstantiality. What with Sir Walter muttering beside me, the whole thing felt like a weird séance.
The French phrase didn’t work.
Sir Walter switched to Occitan, the language in which the black book had been written. “Helisaba es morta.”
I felt life returning to the sleeper’s body. I couldn’t get a good look at his eyes from behind like I was, but Sir Walter’s expression told me the pass–phrase had worked this time.
“Greetings, Bonjour,” said Sir Walter.
Finding his arms loosely held by my own arms, the blond–guy turned to look at me.
“Hey, there,” I said, “Easy now.”
“You speak English?” asked the former sleeper. “I was to have been assigned to France. Where is the doctor?”
“The doctor … could not be here.” Sir Walter was improvising; I could tell. “We came instead. And you are called?”
“I am Eric,” he said, trying to shrug free of my grasp.
Sir Walter gave a fraction of a nod, indicating I should let him go.
“How far has the medical emergency progressed?” asked Eric. “I stand ready to assist.”
Leaning out of Eric’s sight, I raised my eyebrows at Sir Walter, all what the heck?
“And your companions?” asked Sir Walter. “Are they prepared to assist in a medical emergency? Or do you expect them to act … differently?”
I was really wishing Sir Walter would do his “talking inside my head” thing with me now, ‘cause I didn’t really know where he was going with this line of questioning.
“Of course they will assist. We are no cowards,” said Eric. He looked deeply offended. “We are members of the Angel Corps. Have they been deployed ahead of me?”
“As you see,” said Sir Walter, “You alone stand before us.”
Eric looked worried. “Have I been left behind? Disqualified in some way?”
“I’m here to test you,” said Sir Walter. “To hear, in your own words, what you are prepared to do and to uncover where your loyalty lies.”
“I am prepared to lay down my own life, if necessary, to bring assistance to others. I know that I may become infected, and I accept this. Like Dr. Girard, I fear neither plague nor death.” He paused for a moment. “I am a loyal servant of the good doctor.”
Sir Walter raised his hand to his goatee, the signal that I should transport Eric back to invisibility.
In an instant, we were gone.
Sir Walter sighed heavily. Will, he called inside my head, I do not like leaving him here awake, but I fear our only other option is to strike him a blow to the head.
I paused, considering how to “write” the laughter I was feeling at my friend’s funny way of putting things.
And then I wasn’t laughing anymore, because invisible Eric wriggled free of me and rippled solid in front of Sir Walter.
Sir Walter registered shock and threw a single thought to me: A chameleon?
Chapter Twenty–Seven
* * *
THE TIME FOR SECRETS IS PASSING
· SAM ·
A loud rap sounded on the window of the patrol car next to Sylvia. We’d steamed up the windows too bad for me to be sure who knocked. My step–mom opened the door on Bridget Li.
“Come with us,” Gwyn’s mom said, her voice low and urgent.
“Now!” said Gwyn, standing behind her mom. “We’re g
etting you to safety. Come on!”
“What are you talking about?” asked Sylvia.
Gwyn reached out a hand. “Sam, now!”
My step–mom looked at me and then at my friend. Gwyn’s eyes were over–large and focused on me.
“Let’s go,” I said. “I’ll explain in Bridget’s car.”
As we stepped into the icy pre–dawn air, my eyes flew wide. There had to be fifty or more cars lining the side of the highway, gawking at the smoldering ruin of my home.
“Christian up front,” barked Gwyn, reserving the back for herself, Sylvia, and me.
Her mom’s Mini Cooper held us, barely. In the front seat, Christian hunched over his long legs, easily as squashed as us. Although he didn’t have two cats crawling over his feet, trying to find a place to settle.
I looked at Gwyn and mouthed, “Cats? Really?”
“What’s going on?” Sylvia demanded.
While I hesitated, Gwyn answered. “That was no accident, your house burning down. Ask Sam. Someone tried to kill her. And they didn’t mind taking you out as collateral damage. We’re taking you some place safe, for the short term.” Looking at me, Gwyn added, “I hope its okay I told Ma about … everything.”
“Sure,” I said, nodding. Sir Walter’s words in France echoed in my head once again. The time for secrets is passing.
Sylvia took my hand and held my gaze. “Sammy?”
“Gwyn’s telling the truth,” I murmured. Then I cleared my throat and spoke more clearly. “I have an unusual genetic make–up, Syl. There are people who would like to harvest my genes for their use. And,” I hesitated, “There are people who would like me dead.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Most regrettably, Ma Dame, she is not deceiving you,” said Christian.
Between the two of us, Christian and me, we told Sylvia everything. She demanded a demonstration, which Christian obligingly provided, and to her credit, she didn’t freak out. My step–mom rocked self–control.
After only a minute or two of silent reflection, she spoke again. “Where are we going?”
Unfurl (The Ripple Trilogy) Page 14
