by Kerr, Toni
Tristan blew his hair out of his face and stepped into the path of an approaching businessman. "Can you tell me where Newport is?"
"Oregon." The man detoured around Tristan without a second glance.
South! He eyed the boat again, noticing the ramp had been removed. I guess that's it then. The captain was nowhere in sight, but Oregon was the right direction.
No one is going to hire some teenager at the crack of dawn.
Tristan skimmed the people around him, unsure if the thought had been his or someone else's, since he'd been thinking to sneak aboard, not to ask for a job.
He sat against a brick wall in full view of the boat, planning to wait until dark, and froze when he caught site of an official-looking uniform—Johnny Law on a bicycle. But the policeman hardly glanced as he rode by with nothing more than a quick order to move along.
Fine. Tristan paced the boardwalk, never straying far from the entrance to the docking where the Falcon was moored.
The pier throbbed with pounding footsteps—an older, frail little man jogging along the boardwalk, wearing a pin-striped business suit, heading right for him. Tristan pressed himself and his bags against a lamppost, but the man still tripped on the duffle bag and fell, spilling a briefcase full of papers and envelopes.
"Sorry!" Tristan said, dropping to help the man collect his things. But the man shot to his feet and kept running. Crisp twenty-dollar bills fell from one of the envelopes as he swooped them up.
No one was paying any attention, and no one seemed to be chasing the poor man. Tristan stuffed handfuls of paper and money back into the case and yelled for the man to stop, needing to weave through the crowd just to catch up.
The man whipped around with bright blue eyes full of rage. Pasty looking wrinkles pressed into a scowl and snow-white hair shined so stark, it looked fake. Tristan briefly forgot what he was doing. He handed over the case and the man shrunk another few inches, throwing his head back in total frustration.
Curious onlookers formed a circle around them. A few faced outward, but still stood shoulder to shoulder. An uneasy feeling crept up his spine—they had him surrounded. Captured.
"If you go inside that bagel shop and ask for a job," the old man pointed at a nearby sign with a bagel on it, "you'll be hired. No questions."
Tristan stared speechless, unable to hear the man's thoughts or real intentions. And the man's voice didn't sound nearly as old as he looked. Something in his eyes felt familiar—maybe the color.
"You left your luggage?" the man asked suddenly, with a tone of horror that made Tristan think twice about answering.
Tristan glanced behind him, guessing he'd run half a block or less. When he turned back, the man was gone and the crowd dispersed. "You're welcome!" he shouted, furious he'd risked everything he owned for a bitter old man who…offered him a job?
Tristan shut his mouth and headed toward his bags, eyeing the bagel shop as he passed. It seemed to be doing a decent amount of business, though he didn't see any "Help Wanted" signs.
A man in dark glasses and a black suit leaned against the lamppost where he'd left his bags, reading a newspaper. Tristan stopped, the hairs on his skin standing on end. The man folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm.
"Wait," Tristan called, running toward the man when he began to walk away. "Do I know you?"
"Not in my opinion." The man disappeared in the crowd. Tristan grabbed his bags and did his best to stuff away the mounting frustration.
He found a bench near the docks and stared at the Falcon while his mind worked overtime. Was he trusting his instincts or not? Was he running to or away from something? He'd only planned to switch modes of transportation in Seattle, to make less of a trail if he was being followed. Staying was never an option.
What did the woman expect him to do with the map, and how was he supposed to find the emerald? Who was going to be forced to deal with him? Any arrangements she'd tried to make had certainly fallen though. Maybe he should've stayed in town a few days longer.
Dusk soon dwindled to darkness, bringing the rougher nightlife from dark alleys and corridors. No one approached him.
Tristan pulled a second jacket from his duffle bag and continued his internal debate. A job had fallen into his lap, but was it a real offer? The man hadn't come from the bagel shop, and there were no Help Wanted signs posted in the windows. Maybe it was a distraction to make him look, so the man could get away?
Wouldn't hurt to check it out. It'd certainly be easier than sneaking aboard the ship. Golden light from the distant bagel shop flooded the shadowy night, spilling into a large span that welcomed outsiders. It was probably the only business still open on the waterfront. The Falcon sat cold and empty.
Did he have a plan for California? Not really. Warmer winters if he never found a job or a place to live.
What was the hurry to leave Seattle? He could work legitimately until he had enough money to buy a plane ticket. By then, he might know exactly where to find the emerald and what to do with the map. But people's thoughts in a city this big would drive him mad. Not to mention if the police were after him for leaving the state during a murder investigation. And what if they found the papers his mother mentioned—the ones that could have him committed to some institution? Surely after all these years, they'd retest him and he'd know how to pass.
And this obsession with ships…ongoing since childhood. That didn't make it a good reason to get on one.
Trust your instincts, Gwenna had instructed. Tristan shut his eyes, hoping to hear his own voice for a change. He took a steady breath. "Okay," he said to himself, making his decision final, once and for all.
He gazed longingly at the golden spill of light and gathered his things, then ducked under the rope that supposedly prevented public access to the boat docks.
10
- BREWING TROUBLE -
DORIAN SAT IN THE SOLSTICE MEADOW, where velvety blue violets and bright yellow buttercups peeked through the lush, late spring grass. Ardon, the great oak who'd been the Solstice Tree for as long as anyone could remember, filled the center of the clearing. Ancient limbs, some supported by the ground itself, stretched as wide as he was tall. His offspring surrounded at a respectful distance in all their glory, dutifully limiting the intake of sunlight to make the green in their leaves fade, allowing the natural yellows and reds to glow with the vibrant brilliance of Fall for the solstice event. They had plenty of time to get back on a full light schedule before Fall came in earnest.
Uncle Eric worked with a floral garland, intertwining red ribbon with lavender. Oliver transported himself back and forth from the village with crates of stained glass lanterns while Gram wove special baskets for the flower petals.
"It won't be the same with so many of us gone," Dorian finally said, satisfied with a sea of candles that would soon cover the lake.
"We'll manage," Oliver said. "Two more crates. I'll be back."
"Alice and Flynn are staying," Uncle Eric said, getting another spool of ribbon. "She said she'd bring the twins to help decorate the tree."
"We'll pray for Strength and Courage," Gram said. "Wisdom and Faith in this time of uncertainty."
Dorian wished they could be more specific and ask for someone to bring the darn fang back so everyone could forget about the cave and get back to their normal, worry-free lives. But she kept her thoughts to herself.
He returns.
Dorian glanced up at Ardon with a shiver of dread.
"What is it?" Gram asked.
"Ardon says he's back."
Eric stood with a worried frown creasing his brow. "Who?"
Ardon remained silent.
Dorian shrugged. "A client maybe?"
"No one was cleared," Gram said, getting to her feet. "Which one?"
Dorian glanced at Ardon, biting her lip as she translated his description. "He was here a few days ago, the new client who wanted items from the banned list."
"Blast." Gram scowled. "I'll go see what h
e wants before he starts snooping around on his own."
"I'll go with you."
Eric put a hand on Dorian's arm as she moved to go with Gram. "You and I should get Oliver." He glanced at Gram. "We'll meet you there."
Gram nodded and vanished.
* * *
"Would you give me some warning?" Dorian whispered, rubbing away the jolt of energy making the hairs on her arms stand on end. "You know I hate that!"
She stood, freshly transported between Oliver and Eric in a small pathway between buildings, directly across from the medicinal shop. The river-stone cottage looked quiet and peaceful on the outside. From the plants within, she gathered there wasn't much going on there, either. "Is she saying anything?"
"Not a darn thing," Oliver grumbled. "Something must be wrong if she isn't willing to drop her guard long enough to get a message out. How 'bout you?"
Eric shook his head.
"Alright, I'm going in." Oliver straightened to his full height. "If I don't send a message, stay out."
Eric nodded and Dorian pursed her lips, taking in the description of the man from the pansies hanging in a flower basket by the front door. The client did not appear to be angry, but carried something in a black bag that couldn't be identified. Dorian shook off Eric's hand and headed across the courtyard for the storefront.
"I'm not letting you go in there until we get the all-clear," Eric insisted, doing his best to regain hold of her arm.
Oliver held the door open for her with a look that might kill, but he would have stopped her if he thought it was truly dangerous. She stepped in and spotted Gram, relief flooding through her at the sight of the client. She'd half-expected to see the man who'd taken the sand as an antidote.
This man carried a stiff looking hat with both hands. Formal black clothing brought out the blue in his veins. The plants had mentioned he looked unhealthy, but she wasn't prepared for seeing it. She almost asked if he knew what was wrong with himself.
"This is Dorian," Gram announced.
"Ahh." The man smiled, examining her as thoroughly as she had him. "I thought you'd be...older." He shook his head. "Regardless, I was just saying that you've supplied me with faulty materials. I request an exchange."
"I didn't catch your name," said Dorian.
"Tynan." The man bowed at the waist, keeping his hat level with one hand and sweeping the other to his chest.
Dorian narrowed her eyes, more suspicious about the bag the plants had mentioned. "Nothing here is ever faulty, Mr. Tynan."
Tynan drew a small black object from beneath his hat and tossed it to Dorian. Eric dove into her, pushing her out of harm's way, while Oliver caught the bag.
"What are you trying to pull?" Oliver asked, glaring at the man.
"Open it," Tynan said. "It's what's left of the supplies I purchased from this very establishment."
Oliver felt the contents through the fabric as Dorian and Eric approached the counter. He dumped three vials of oil and two of black powder into a small wooden bowl.
Dorian raised an eyebrow, studying the items. "They're dead."
Tynan didn't say anything, keeping a wary eye on Oliver and Eric. Gram kept her hands clasped comfortably in front of her. "Of course we will exchange it," Gram said.
"Why?" Dorian asked, almost stopping at Gram's look of warning. "I'm positive they were fine when they left. What happened?" Someone requesting these kinds of items should know what they were doing, but now she wasn't so sure. She picked up one of the lifeless vials to inspect more closely. "This is…done. Dead. Sterile. It's not going to work for you. What are you trying to make, anyway?"
"What I'm making is none of your concern. The problem, however, is. I tried a small batch and it had absolutely no potency whatsoever. These items remain sealed. Yet they are individually equivalent to dust and water. Test them yourself."
Dorian stood speechless, examining the contents of the darkest vial. "I can tell from here." She took a basket and walked the aisles, gathering replacement items, wishing she knew what they were for. "My plants are among the most potent in the world, Mr. Tynan." She handed him the basket of new supplies. "They are not suicidal. So if these don't work, I suggest you look to your environment."
Tynan's blank expression shifted to what might be anger, but he remained silent.
"I don't mean to be insulting, but something killed this stuff. Radiation? I have no idea what would cause such…deadness. And so quickly. This isn't a case of old age." She stood between Eric and Oliver before speaking again. "I won't replace these items again, because right this minute, they are perfectly healthy and willing to work."
"I'll have to take your word on that."
"Good. Don't come back," Dorian added.
Tynan bowed slightly, redirecting his attention to Oliver. "It is not difficult to return, as you have clearly seen."
"We have the right to refuse you," Gram said.
Dorian let out her breath, relieved that Gram supported the way she'd handled the situation. Oliver would stand with Gram, and Eric with Oliver. She could play nice if she had to, but not with the reputation of her plants at stake.
"I would caution you, that would not be wise. My master will simply send another if I am banned. One, perhaps, who is less considerate."
"Who are you here for?" Gram asked.
"Lazaro Barese Sabbatini."
Oliver's face and fists tightened. "Get off my island."
Tynan bowed his head again. "If this fails again, I apologize in advance for what will happen."
11
- STOWAWAY -
TRISTAN ANGLED HIS WATCH toward the nearest light, finished with second-guessing his plans when the security guard passed his hiding spot. 11:17pm—a fine time to break the law.
He tossed both bags to the deck of the small ship and stretched across the water to reach a dangling rope. Nearby thoughts were not dwelling on him personally; it was all he could hope for as he climbed up and over and dropped to his belly. He set to exploring with an agreement to himself to abandon ship if he couldn't find a suitable place to hide.
Only a few of the doors were locked. Tristan found a flashlight clipped to a wall in a galley and used it to pillage through plastic containers of sealed snack foods. In a hall, he found a narrow flight of stairs descending along a wall of nooks and crannies packed with life jackets, various tools, and odd equipment. He pocketed a spool of line and a grimy bag of rusted fishhooks, and nearly tripped on a handle nailed to the landing at the bottom of the staircase. Fumes lofted out when he lifted the trapdoor. It had to be a compartment for the engine, accessible by a rusting metal ladder.
Tristan sat on the bottom stair, staring at the opened trapdoor, trying to think of other options. Not an inch of storage space was available on the ship, leaving no chance of shifting things from one cupboard to another to make room for himself. Even the space under the stairs sat crammed with engine parts.
He climbed down the ladder to explore the compartment more thoroughly. A slight alcove behind the massive engine caught his eye, its walls glistening with black grease. To the left, he spotted what might be a crawlspace leading to the backside of the engine and squeezed through halfway. If his bags fit, there would be no other choice.
Satisfied with the hiding spot, Tristan disregarded the lengthening list of everything that could go wrong and left his bags to raid the galley again. He stuffed his pockets with granola bars and potato chips, and took an old blanket from a hatch along the stairwell.
He made it down the ladder and squeezed through the passage. The duffle bag sat propped against the wall and he leaned against it, glad the ship's blanket was large enough to cover everything, including himself. After making sure nothing physically touched the engine, he laid in total blackness, gripping his flashlight in case of emergency.
Creaking noises and other strange sounds nibbled at his nerves. The blanket made him itch beyond belief and the smell of mold and moisture overpowered the engine fumes. But no matter
what excuses the voices of doubt came up with, he'd keep to the plan. No matter what.
* * *
The boat swayed and knocked with people boarding. Footsteps thundered down the stairs and he quickly arranged the blanket over his head. The trapdoor fell open and he held his breath to keep from panicking. Someone approached with a dim light, whistling while adjusting parts on the engine.
"Crank it!" a man's voice shouted, making Tristan jump. The command was repeated from a higher deck and the engine started with a massive roar, much louder than Tristan ever expected. He slapped his palms over his ears and the flashlight crashed to the floor beside him. The blanket slipped, exposing his face to the light, but the man was halfway up the ladder and hadn't heard a thing.
The first hour deafened every fiber in his body. Tight quarters got tighter and his insides sloshed from side to side at a steady tempo. Reality set in—he'd be stuck in this position for at least three days before Newport.
What on Earth was I thinking?
Tristan clicked on his flashlight to check the time: 4:21am. He directed the light toward the engine to make sure the blanket kept away from any moving parts, then turned it off after finding a granola bar. He tried to calm his frazzled nerves and waited, ignoring the thoughts of how toxic the fumes from the engine might be.
4:28am.
Three days may as well be forever. Tristan cursed the bird for making him choose this particular ship and wondered why the hard way always seemed better than the easy way.
The engine's rumble dropped an octave. Tristan frantically covered his head with the blanket in case someone came to fix something. No one did. The drone of the engine continued for a while longer before clanking into a higher gear. Every muscle resisted the vibration. He forced himself to relax and focused on various thoughts from above.
I want to be just off Valerian Point before dropping nets-
If he had a wife and kids, he wouldn't come out this far.
It's ideal, worth any risk. I'll circle around and take a few extra days. Tristan assumed these were the captain's thoughts intertwining with the others, planning a route.
