Pull

by Anne Riley

  Dan bobs his head at me. There’s a scattering of freckles across his nose that darken as his cheeks flush with embarrassment, or maybe anger. “Lovely to meet you,” he mumbles.

  Albert puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to take Rosie back to our place for a bit.” He leads me toward the door, clapping each of his friends on the shoulder as we pass. “Cheers, guys.”

  “You owe me breakfast in the morning,” Dan replies with a grin. I get the feeling it’s hard to get on Dan’s bad side, and even harder to stay there.

  Isaac nods at Albert, but his lips press into a tight line when our eyes meet. I shift my gaze away from him and follow Albert out the door.

  FIFTEEN

  “I WANT ANSWERS,” I SAY AS WE SCURRY ACROSS THE road to the heath. The wind cuts across the open space as if it’s angry at us, and the smells of Blackheath cover us in a strange mixture of grass, daffodils, and cinnamon. “Specifically, I want answers about the word ‘Mortiferi.’”

  Albert is a little out of breath. “As soon as we’re safe, you’ll get them.”

  We jog about a minute to Talbot Place, a mere hint of a street with several large buildings that overlook the heath. The building we stop in front of is massive. The body of the structure is made of antique-looking bricks, the darker kind with mortar smeared here and there. The front door is black and guarded by a pair of white columns, Pantheon-style.

  “Seriously? This is your house?” The disbelief in my voice borders on disdain.

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Not the whole thing. It’s divided into flats. We live in #2.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t seen them in the darkness, but now I can tell there are other doors with columns on either side of this one. “For a second there, I thought you were disgustingly rich.”

  “That’d be nice, but no. Not even close. We all work to cover expenses. The flat is paid for, which helps.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Things are tight, but we make it work.”

  Somehow, I hadn’t considered that Albert might have a job. I guess I thought his parents supported him like mine support me. I wait tables at The Chicken Cottage on weekends, but not to pay the electricity bill. My paychecks go toward things like movies and clothes.

  Now that I think about it, Albert hasn’t mentioned his parents at all.

  “Where do you work?” I ask.

  “Isaac and I both work at the library. Casey works at a Topshop in the city. Dan does gardening on the weekends.”

  I bite back a grin. “You’re a librarian?”

  “Yeah,” he says with a smirk. “A librarian who could throw you through a wall for not paying your late fees.”

  He presses his thumb to a small electronic pad where the keyhole should be. Something inside clicks loudly and he opens the door.

  “Why do you…” I begin, gesturing at the thumbpad.

  “We need a little extra security around here. Keys are too easily lost and copied.”

  Dark wooden floorboards creak beneath my feet as I follow Albert inside. He sets his wallet on a long, narrow cabinet, its green paint chipping at the edges. An iron chandelier dangles above our heads and casts a soft yellow glow over the entryway. Right in front of me is something I’ve always wanted in my own home one day—a spiral staircase with an iron railing and wooden steps. To the left of the stairs stands a white coat rack. A colorful mass of jackets and scarves hangs from it in a cheerful tangle.

  Albert shuts the door and methodically locks a series of deadbolts.

  “There,” he says. “We’re safe now. The thumbpad unlocks them all from the outside, but only for us.”

  I nod like this is all normal and fine. Like I haven’t just been hunted down by a monster and taken inside the fortress of a time-manipulating, monster-fighting librarian.

  “Right,” he says, moving closer to me. “Tea?”

  I nod again, afraid to use my voice. There’s something weirdly intimate about being inside Albert’s flat, as if seeing his home has finally convinced me he’s a real person. That he’s not some superhero who appears when there’s trouble and then vanishes when his work is done. He has a home, and he drinks tea, and right now he’s probably relieved to be alive.

  He pushes a door next to the staircase and holds it open while I walk through. The scarred wooden floor continues into the living room, where a worn Oriental rug lies surrounded by two lumpy sofas and a sagging armchair. A large square coffee table covered in books and newspapers sits in the middle, and the whole room is dimly lit by two brass lamps perched on a couple of scratched-up side tables.

  Albert leads me to one of the sofas and offers me a soft red blanket, which I drape around my shoulders as I sit down. It smells like nutmeg and soap. I tuck my legs underneath me and lean on the arm of the sofa, which creaks in response.

  He gestures to his blood-streaked shirt. “I’ll just go get cleaned up and put on the kettle. You okay for the moment?”

  I force a smile. “Fine. Not bleeding, unlike some people.”

  “Par for the course,” he says. His eyes fall to my throat.

  “What?”

  He nods at my neck. “You do that a lot, I’ve noticed.”

  I’m fiddling with the gold rings on my necklace, but I didn’t realize it until he pointed it out. I can’t believe I still haven’t taken it off. What is wrong with me? “Oh. Yeah, it’s just a stupid habit. The necklace was a gift from…a friend.”

  He watches me for a moment. “So, how bad is it?”

  What? How could he possibly know about Stephen? I haven’t mentioned him, I’m sure of it. And unless he somehow heard about my breakup from Paul…but when would they have crossed paths?

  I clasp my hands in my lap and clear my throat. “Well, it’s—I mean, it’s not that bad, really. Not anymore. How did you—I mean, did someone tell you—”

  He tilts his head. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but I meant my face. How bad is my face?”

  Well, that’s mortifying.

  Albert touches a couple fingers to his puffy eye. “This feels fairly impressive. Is it as huge as I think it is?”

  I’m nearly overcome with the urge to throw myself out the window, but it’s only a few feet to the ground, so it wouldn’t have the desired effect of putting me out of my misery. Of course he was talking about his face. I’m an idiot.

  “Well…” I look from his swollen eye to the welts on his jaw to the gash on his arm. “You look awful, actually. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the very worst you could ever look, this is probably a seven.”

  “Am I worse than Dan? Because that’s something I just can’t live with.”

  I smile, wondering if he cracked a joke because he knows I’m on the verge of tears.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he says. “Like I said, I’m going to clean up a bit, and then I’ll bring you tea. Maybe some biscuits, too, if you’re lucky.”

  “They’re called cookies,” I murmur, nestling deeper into the cushions. Exhaustion is seeping through my bones and I’m not sure how long I can hold it off.

  “Fine then,” he says with a laugh. “Cookies. Although you know it isn’t wise to argue with someone who’s just offered you a sugary snack.”

  He disappears through the door to the foyer and jogs up the spiral staircase. His footsteps creak far above me; they sound too far away to be on the second floor, so his room must be on the third.

  When he comes back to the living room—de-bloodied, wearing a long-sleeved crimson T-shirt and a different pair of fraying jeans—the difference in his appearance is so striking, it makes me sit up.

  “Better?” he asks as he crosses to the other side of the room.

  I run a hand through my hair. “Uh, yeah. Better.”

  Something flutters inside me as he smiles—a long-dormant ripple of warmth. I shake my head and squash it back down; whatever it is, it’s a fluke. The weight of my necklace reminds me that my heart has been destroyed twice—shattered by Papa’s death, a
nd the pieces scattered into oblivion by Stephen’s rejection. A breakup isn’t the same kind of pain as losing my grandfather, but still, it hurts. I’m not ready to open up whatever’s left of me to someone else just yet.

  “Tea, then,” Albert says. “Yeah?”

  I smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  He pushes through a swinging door into a small yellow kitchen. I only catch a glimpse of the room before the door falls shut, but it looks cozy and clean, with a round wooden table and a large window overlooking the backyard.

  A sharp pain begins in the base of my skull and works its way toward my forehead. I close my eyes and massage the back of my neck, wishing more than anything that I could crawl in bed and sleep for the next twenty hours. Mom is probably expecting me to call for a ride home any minute, but I can’t leave now. Not when I’m finally going to get some answers.

  I get out my phone and pull up Mom’s number. My fictional date with James is about to run later than expected.

  SIXTEEN

  THE RUSTLE OF TURNING PAGES DRAGS ME OUT OF slumber and back to the real world, where I am curled up on Albert’s couch beneath a plush red blanket.

  My eyes fly open and I push myself to a sitting position. The pain in my head is still going strong, but that’s not the worst of it. Memories of what happened in the pub explode in my mind all at once, like the finale of a fireworks show on the Fourth of July. I let out a small moan, closing my eyes to block the images. It doesn’t work.

  “Hi there,” Albert says. His voice is doing that rumbly thing again. I swear I can feel vibrations in my bones when he speaks. “I was wondering how long you’d sleep.”

  I heave one eyelid open. He’s sitting in the armchair across from me with an open book on his lap. Something looks different about him. Not his hair, not his clothes—

  “You wear glasses?” I say.

  “Only late at night, when my contacts get dry.” He slips them off—simple black frames—and rubs at the lenses with the hem of his shirt. “Why? Do I look funny in them?”

  “Late at night?” I echo. “Wait—what time is it?” Before he can answer, I grab my phone off the table. “Twelve-thirty? Holy crap! I bet my parents are freaking out right now!” I leap from the couch, but my ankles get twisted up in the blanket and I barely avoid tumbling into the coffee table.

  “I don’t think they are, actually,” he says as I struggle to free my tangled feet. “Your mum texted ten minutes ago asking if you were still at the movie with James. I texted back ‘yes’ and she responded with a smiley face.”

  He was looking at my phone. That’s kind of weird, but at the same time, he saved me from causing Mom and Dad any more grief.

  I sink back into the couch. “Oh. Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He seems relieved. I bet he expected me to be angry that he’d picked up my phone while I was sleeping. I still have a bunch of texts from Stephen— irrelevant things, like logistics for getting dinner before prom and whether or not we wanted to go to the afterparty. I hope he didn’t see those. And I especially hope he didn’t see the texts Stephen sent me the night I caught him with Rebecca in her bedroom. There are only two of them, and although the first is fairly repentant, the second simply says, “Maybe we should break up.”

  Amazing how it took us six more weeks to actually get there.

  I run my bottom lip between my teeth. “James is part of my alibi for tonight, which I’m sure you’ve figured out. My grandmother’s friend set me up with him. I think he’s a jerk, but my family doesn’t know that.”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation,” Albert says.

  He’s right, but somehow I want him to know anyway. “So nobody’s freaking out about how late I am?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I still need to go home soon.” Truth be told, I’d rather stay here. Albert’s house might be drafty and filled with thrift-store furnishings, but it’s cozy and it smells a little like coffee.

  “I’ll drive you,” Albert says.

  Is he kidding? He’s got a bandage wrapped around his forearm and more bruises than I can count. “It’s not that far. I can—”

  “You’re not walking home.” His tone is final. The rebel in me rises up indignantly, and my body follows suit, lifting me to my feet and squaring my shoulders.

  “Listen,” I begin. “There’s no reason for you to—”

  He stands up and walks toward me, limping just a little on his right foot. “I can tell you’re not the kind of person who likes to be ordered around, but the thing is, I’m absolutely not letting you walk home on your own. It doesn’t matter how close your place is. You can fight me on anything else, but don’t fight me about getting you home safely.”

  The irritation that had sprung up in my gut retreats like a wounded soldier. I cross my arms, trying to maintain my tough exterior. “Fine. But I don’t believe for a second that you’ll be able to drive with your arm like that, so why don’t you let me do it?”

  A slow grin crosses his lips. “It’s a manual. Five-speed. Stick shift. Can you handle it?”

  I once learned how to drive a stick shift. The car was a Volkswagen Rabbit with a diesel engine, and it belonged to a guy I dated briefly (without telling my parents) in ninth grade. He turned sixteen that spring and thought it’d be cool to be my driving tutor on our secret dates. I destroyed his clutch and he broke up with me shortly thereafter.

  “I’ve driven one before,” I say, but my voice is so empty of conviction that we both laugh. “Okay, no, I can’t handle it. But can you really drive like this?” I wave my hand from his head to his feet. The puffiness around his eye has gone down a bit, so I suppose he’ll be able to see, if nothing else. There’s an icepack on the table next to his chair; I guess he was icing it while I slept. Beads of condensation drip off the plastic onto the wood.

  Albert holds up a hand, palm-out, like he’s being sworn into office. “I’m fine. It’s not the first time I’ve been in a fight.” The hand drifts to his face, where he runs a finger absentmindedly along the scar by his ear. How did he get it? He sees me eyeing it and gives me a knowing smile.

  “It happened at a party a couple years ago. This wanker was snogging Casey in the kitchen, but when she wanted to stop, he wouldn’t back off.” He swallows, and it’s like he’s seeing the guy again, feeling that fury he must have felt watching his sister get harassed. “She hit him a couple times—she’s good at that—but it wasn’t enough. I told him to get away from her. He took a swing at me, missed, and decided it would be more effective to come at me with the scissors that were lying on the counter.”

  My jaw drops. “You got stabbed in the face with scissors?”

  “He caught me off-guard.” His fingers fall away from the scar. “I was trying to get Casey out of the kitchen and didn’t see what he was doing until—well, you know.”

  “Until he stabbed you in the face with scissors,” I say. “What happened then? Did you beat the crap out of him?”

  “I, uh…” He clears his throat. “I handled the situation.” I feel one side of my mouth tug upward. “Which means?”

  “Okay, yes, I ‘beat the crap out of him.’” He echoes my words in a terrible impression of a Southern accent and then groans. “That was awful. Remind me never to do that again.”

  “Jolly good, right you are, mate,” I say in an equally bad English accent.

  We laugh, but fall silent quickly. Albert brought me here to tell me about the man—men?—hunting me, and the word “Mortiferi,” yet we haven’t discussed either. I hope he’s not planning to put it off until another time, because I’m not leaving this house without answers.

  “So,” I say. “About tonight.”

  He inhales a long breath, all traces of humor erased from his expression. “The man who came in the pub was the same man who attacked you on the heath. But you already know that.”

  I nod.

  “We thought we had him under control after the attack on the heath, but before we could disp
ose of him at our flat, several of his friends showed up. My mates and I can handle a lot, but this was over our heads. We had no choice but to release him and bar the door.”

  Wow. So Albert and his friends aren’t as bulletproof as I thought.

  I rub a hand over my arm; it’s cold without my blanket, but I’m afraid that any extraneous movement could ruin this moment. I’m getting answers, and I’m not willing to risk losing them. “Who is he, though? Do you know?”

  “He’s part of a…gang, I guess you could say. A huge, very dangerous gang.” Albert’s eyes seem to darken as he speaks. “And if this one man is after you, I’d wager they’re all after you. The Mortiferi.”

  Something curdles in my stomach. How did Papa know about them? And why would he say that word into my mind in his last few moments of life? I want to ask, but Papa’s final warning echoes in my mind: Protect our secret. The secret must be his ability to speak into my mind. But am I supposed to protect it from everyone, or only from the Mortiferi? And perhaps more importantly, can I speak into minds now? Was that the talent he gave me?

  I lock my eyes onto Albert’s and try to direct a single thought at him.

  Can you hear me?

  He lifts his eyebrows and my heart rockets into my throat. But then he says, “Why are you staring at me like that?” and I look away with a sigh.

  Maybe it just takes practice.

  Pieces of the puzzle swim around in my mind—Papa, the Mortiferi, the attack on the heath, the attack on the pub. My thoughts are so jumbled; all I see are images of the would-be shooting combined with Papa’s frantic expression as he died. There are so many questions I could ask, but the only one I manage to whisper is, “What do I have to do with all this?”

  My question was directed internally, but Albert answers. “I’m not sure.” His eyebrows pinch together. “There’s a reason they’re targeting you; we just have to figure it out.”

  Albert and his friends have saved my life twice now, and I barely know them. Isaac doesn’t even like me. I don’t understand why they’re going to all this trouble, and the uncomfortable truth is, I don’t know if I would do the same for someone else.