"I am not going to a Shakespeare play!" Dan protested.
Nellie ignored him.
"Yes, I'd like three tickets..." she said into the phone. She finished making the arrangements and hung up, a dreamy look in her eye.
"It's Romeo and Juliet," she told Amy. "Romeo and Juliet, in London, where Shakespeare wrote it, performed at the Globe, just like it was originally done...."
Amy's expression turned just as awestruck and dreamy as Nellie's.
"Amazing," she whispered.
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"Torture," Dan muttered. "Cruel and unusual punishment. Worse than those poisonous snakes and spiders in Australia. Worse than almost being chopped up into lollipops in China. This has got to be the worst thing we've had to do yet!"
But nobody was listening.
As far as he knew.
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CHAPTER 4
Ian Kabra tiptoed across the cold marble floor. He was related to just about every notable spy in the last five hundred years. He himself had been trained in subterfuge practically since birth. But this was the one place he'd never suspected he'd have to employ his stealth skills: his own home.
Somewhere high overhead -- on the third floor of the Kabra mansion, or possibly the fourth --a beam creaked. Ian froze.
It's an old house, he told himself. It makes sounds like that all the time. Doesn't it?
Normally, Ian wouldn't have even paid attention. But normally, he wasn't breaking into the one wing of the house that had always been off-limits to him and Natalie. The wing where all the Kabra family secrets were stored.
Ian's eyes darted about, looking for the first glimmer of telltale light coming toward him. He rehearsed excuses in his head: Why, no, Mum, Dad, how could you ever think that I would be out of bed tonight doing
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something wrong? Or sneaky and underhanded? I'm just... getting a drink of water. Yes, that's it. I was thirsty, and I thought the water would taste better down here than near my bedroom. Haven't you always taught me I deserve the very best of everything? How could you think that I would be here because... because I don't trust you anymore?
No light flashed at him. No accusing parent --or suspicious servant--leered out at him. He took a deep, silent breath and began inching forward again. No matter how carefully he stepped, he could hear a soft tssk-tssk with every brush of his socked feet across the floor.
What will happen if they catch me? Is this worth the risk?
"I just want to know the truth," Ian whispered, so desperate that his lips actually formed the words, his vocal cords actually pushed out small bursts of sound. He froze again, but nothing happened.
Truth...
Ian had always been taught that truth was a very flexible thing. His mother could smile brightly at another woman and say so charmingly, "Oh, that dress is just perfect for you. Wherever did you get it?" And then behind the woman's back she'd go on for hours about how such a hideous, shapeless old hag could not possibly have picked an outfit any more repulsive than that one. Or -- Ian had heard both of his parents, at different times on the phone, talking to business associates and assuring them, "Why, yes, of course,
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we have your best interests at heart ..." -- and then hanging up, telling a subordinate, "Close down that factory. It's worthless." Or, "Sell that stock. Every last share."
But that's just how they treat losers. Outsiders. People who aren't Lucians like us.
He remembered how his mother had treated Irina Spasky, who'd been loyal until almost the very end of her life.
She wasn't a Kabra. Mum and Dad have a code of conduct--the Kabras are the only ones that matter. It's just their way. Yes, they can be ruthless with everyone else, but really, they're doing it for their family. For Natalie and me.
Was that why his mother had slapped him earlier that day? Why she seemed not to care anymore if Ian or Natalie lived or died, as long as she won the Clue hunt? Why she'd had Natalie on the verge of tears for, oh, weeks, now? Ian had always found his little sister a bit annoying, but lately he'd actually felt sorry for her, watching her try so hard to please their mother, who'd become completely impossible to please.
What changed? Ian wondered. What happened? Is it really just that we're... losing?
Ian was reaching for a doorknob now. Willing his hands to stay steady, he slipped an old-fashioned skeleton key from the pocket of his silk pajamas and slid it into the lock. His parents had ordered that he be trained to pick locks so he could steal information, if necessary, from business rivals, family enemies,
34
international spies. He'd never expected to become so confused about who his enemies really were.
It's time to find out, Ian told himself coldly.
Just then the lock clicked. One twist of his wrist, and the door sprang open.
With a glance over his shoulder, Ian stepped into the secret wing and pulled the door shut behind him.
* * *
Jonah Wizard gave a final wave to the fans crowding around his limo and slid into his seat. His driver shut the car door firmly behind him and pushed dozens of girls out of his way getting back around to the front of the car.
"You're so hot, Jonah!" one of the girls yelled, kissing the window as the car pulled away. She left a smear of lipstick across the glass.
Jonah stared at the lipstick. He'd asked his father to schedule this concert in London at the last minute. He'd sung and danced his heart out for the past three hours. He'd even added a surprise encore at the end. The crowd and the screams and the excitement were his reward, exactly what he needed right now: proof that his fans loved him. Proof that he deserved that love.
So why did he keep thinking that the smear of lipstick looked like blood?
Because of the clue hunt, Jonah told himself. Because if my fans only knew what I almost did... If they knew what my mother expects me to do... If I did it...
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Jonah had been thinking like this since China: in incomplete sentences. He couldn't form a complete thought because that would mean he had to make an impossible decision. An irreversible decision, one Jonah would have to live with for the rest of his life.
"Good show." Jonah's dad, Broderick, spoke from the opposite corner of the limo seat. He was doing calculations on his ever-present BlackBerry. "Ninety thousand people at seventy-five pounds per head, minus overhead, that's a take of..."
Jonah shoved at the BlackBerry, almost knocking it out of his father's hands.
"Oh, money," Jonah said, his voice cracking. He reminded himself to at least try to sound normal. "Yo, don't you care about anything except the Benjamins?"
"Elizabeths, in this case," Broderick said.
Jonah stared at him blankly.
"Queen Elizabeth?" Broderick said. "On the British pound?"
"Oh," Jonah said. "Yeah. But..."
And he'd arrived at another incomplete sentence.
What does Dad think I should do? How much does he know, anyhow? Jonah wondered. What does he want for me? fust more money? Or...
Jonah couldn't even bear to think the question.
Everything had always come so easily for Jonah. The first time he'd picked up a musical instrument--a child-size guitar --he'd been able to play "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" by ear. (He'd written about that
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in his pop-up book Twinkle, Twinkle, Li'l Gangsta.) Even in the early stages of the Clue hunt, things had just fallen his way. He was a Janus; it was no big deal to sing, tour, record, blog, Tweet, promote, and find Clues on the side. He'd had to do a few crazy stunts -- stretch a little--but, hey, things worked out. He already ruled the music world. Winning the Clue hunt and conquering the rest of the world just seemed like the next step. Until China.
In China, Jonah had come face-to-face with evil. Evil inside himself.
He'd almost let Dan Cahill be sacrificed for the Clue hunt. He'd been so close to letting Dan die. Horrified, Jonah had quit. He remembered how relieved he'd felt in
that moment, telling his mother he was done with hunting Clues, done with threatening his relatives, done with lying and keeping secrets. In that moment, he'd pictured the rest of his life as one long, happy concert, one great performance after another--fame and fortune without a single complication.
But his mother had told him no. She'd said he couldn't quit. She'd said --
Broderick's BlackBerry beeped, signaling an incoming text. He read it, then held out the BlackBerry for Jonah to see.
"This is what your mother wants you to do tomorrow afternoon," Broderick said.
Jonah braced himself against the back of the seat. He narrowed his eyes to such tight slits he could barely
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read. He'd stayed away from his mom for the past several days. He'd ignored her messages. He'd let her think whatever she wanted. But was this it? The moment when he'd have to choose?
He'd worked so hard to make his mother proud of him. He was Jonah Wizard, international star. Was tomorrow the day she'd also expect him to become Jonah Wizard, murderer?
* * *
"Father-son bonding time!" Eisenhower Holt screamed at the top of his lungs. He gave his son, Hamilton, a punch in the gut that would have felled most grown men. But Hamilton had been on an Olympic-style training regimen since he was two. He merely grinned at his dad.
Eisenhower was looking around at the spectacle before them. Down on the field, men in red-and-white uniforms were chasing a swiftly rolling ball. In the stadium around them, thousands of people rose and cheered, moving almost as one.
"Brits!" Eisenhower yelled. "The best soccer fans in the universe!"
"We call it football around here, bozo," a voice growled behind them.
Eisenhower and Hamilton both turned around. Eisenhower Holt was six foot five, and Hamilton was nearly that tall. But the man behind towered over both of them. He was shirtless, revealing muscles that
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probably would have looked like rock if they hadn't been covered --like his stony face --in red and white paint.
Eisenhower grinned at the man.
"Sure thing!" Eisenhower agreed. He gave the man a chest bump, his muscular chest hitting the other man's like giant boulders crashing together. "Go, Manchester United!"
It took a minute --stone moves slowly. But then the man grinned back at him.
That's my dad, Hamilton thought proudly. He knows how to handle any situation having to do with sports.
Eisenhower and Hamilton turned around to watch the game again.
"Dad," Hamilton said after a few minutes. "You don't mind too much, do you, that, um, we kind of lost our trail? In the clue hunt, I mean?"
"We'll find it again," Eisenhower said confidently. "We Holts specialize in come-from-behind victories."
Hamilton nodded, as he did any time his father imparted Holt family wisdom. Even when he didn't quite believe it.
That had been happening more and more lately.
"Besides," Eisenhower said. "Your mother needed time to buy new tracksuits for Reagan and Madison. The way those girls are growing -- they might even end up taller than me!" He beamed proudly. "And how could I come to England without going to a soccer--er, football -- game with my son?"
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"You couldn't," Hamilton agreed.
The two of them watched the fancy footwork down on the field in silence for a moment. Before the Clue hunt, Hamilton would have savored one-on-one time like this with his dad. But something was nagging at him tonight.
With the clue hunt... Sure, I want to win as much as Dad does. But the way we've been trying to win ...
Ever since South Africa, any time Hamilton closed his eyes, he pictured the same image: a man in a bowler hat--Alistair Oh --sweating. Sweating because Hamilton's dad was threatening to kill him.
Sometimes when Hamilton saw that, he imagined himself standing up to his father, yelling, "Dad, no! You can't kill Alistair!"
Sometimes he imagined Alistair dying.
What had actually happened in South Africa was that Hamilton had intervened secretly, without his father knowing. Hamilton and Dan Cahill, working together, had saved Alistair's life.
I had to! Hamilton thought. That was my only choice! It doesn't mean I betrayed my family! Reagan and Mom didn't want Alistair to die, either!
But that wasn't the only time Hamilton had gone rogue. His father didn't exactly know how often Hamilton had teamed up with Dan and Amy, how much Hamilton had tried to help them rather than his fellow Holts.
Am I a traitor? Hamilton wondered. Or just... doing the right thing?
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Before the Clue hunt, right and wrong had seemed so simple to Hamilton. Right was doing what his father wanted him to do. Wrong was everything else. Complexity was for football strategy, not ethical decisions.
But what if ... when it came to the Clue hunt... Hamilton's dad had been wrong from the very beginning?
Hamilton glanced at his dad again.
"Dad," he began, "do you ever think--"
"Nope," Eisenhower said quickly. "I try to do that as little as possible. Gets in the way of muscle development." He laughed at his own joke.
"Seriously ..." Hamilton tried again.
"Seriously?" Eisenhower lowered his voice. He glanced around, as if to make sure that no one could overhear. "Seriously, I'll tell you something nobody else knows about me. I'm not very good at thinking. Never have been. But I want better things for you and the girls. That's why winning this clue hunt is so important."
Hamilton gulped. Now how could he say what he was going to say?
Eisenhower's cell phone rang just then, cutting off the conversation.
He lifted the phone to his ear. "Yes, sugarcakes?" he said into it.
Several people nearby turned around, snickering. But Hamilton glared down all of them. There was
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nothing wrong with his parents using sticky-sweet terms of endearment with each other. Nothing.
The other people quickly looked away.
"Really?" Eisenhower said into the phone. Then he cheered, "Yahoo!" He put his hand over the phone and said to Hamilton, "Didn't I tell you? The Holts are back in the game! Your mother and the girls found a lead!"
He did a little victory dance, right on the spot.
Evidently, Hamilton's mother was still talking on the other end.
"Okay, okay, you got a phone call, and ..." Eisenhower said. Then he almost dropped the phone. "We have to go where?"
* * *
Ian Kabra sat in the midst of dozens of manila folders. He'd hoped that everything would be computerized in the Kabra secret wing. That way, he'd just have to decode a secret password, download everything to a flash drive, and then browse through the info in the privacy of his own room. He'd forgotten how paranoid his parents were about computer hackers. Having to sort through paper files meant he was completely vulnerable to being discovered.
Ian sighed and resolutely picked up the next folder. Massacres authorized, betrayals approved ... thousands and thousands of people sent helplessly to their deaths by generation after generation of Ian's family.
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Ian supposed that most people reading these files would be horrified. He supposed that whenever Mum and Dad planned to show him these files -- when he turned eighteen, maybe? --his parents would expect him to be proud. The files around him recorded dazzling tales of power. Raw, throbbing power, wielded brilliantly, century after century.
But Ian felt neither horror nor awe. He simply felt... unsurprised. He'd always known that his family was both powerful and ruthless. It truly was the Lucian way. In his turn, Ian would be expected to act just like his ancestors. He'd already demonstrated -- on his preschool playground, at those ridiculous Cahill family reunions in New England, in the Clue hunt as his parents' emissary--that he was perfectly capable of living up to his Lucian heritage.
What exactly was he questioning now?
Ian realized that the folder he'd just picked up held a newe
r label: The Hope Cahill and Arthur Trent Situation.
Ian's heartbeat quickened. He recognized those names. They were Amy and Dan Cahill's parents, people who had died in an accidental fire years ago.
Or maybe not so accidental.
Ian quickly scanned the papers in the file. They were mostly letters. He could see the skill with which his parents had organized the other branches of Cahills -- a Janus, Cora Wizard; an Ekat, Alistair Oh; and two Tomas, Eisenhower and Mary-Todd Holt--to confront Hope Cahill and Arthur Trent about Clues
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they'd gathered, advantages they'd gained. It was brilliant the way Isabel and Vikram Kabra had drawn sworn enemies together for a common goal.
But the confrontation itself had gone badly. Isabel Kabra had struck a match, intending to force Hope and Arthur to play by her rules.
And ... Hope Cahill and Arthur Trent had died rather than give Isabel Kabra the total power she wanted.
Ian felt the papers slip from his grasp.
My mother caused the deaths of Amy and Dan's parents, he thought, horror finally catching up with him. Another wave of horror hit him with his next thought: Do Amy and Dan know?
Ian thought about the way Amy had smiled up at him back in Korea, the way she'd let him flirt with her, the way she'd blushed and stammered over his suave overtures. She couldn't possibly have known the truth then.
And afterward?
Certainly Amy--and Dan --had been a bit cold to him since Korea, but he'd mostly thought that was because he himself had betrayed them, making it look like he was leaving them to die. Not that they were really ever in any danger. (Were they? Would he have cared if they were? Was he any different from his mother?)
Of course they know that's just how things go on the clue hunt....
The 39 Clues Book 10: Into the Gauntlet Page 3
