by Anne Riley
“I wasn’t even born when all this happened.” I thumb through the rest of the book. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Nana shrugs. “I suppose we referenced it here and there, but you must not have realized what we were talking about. By the time you were old enough to understand, it was all fairly old news.”
“What about this?” I ask, pointing at the last story in the scrapbook.
“Ah yes,” Nana says. “He never quite got over this one—in fact, you heard him going on about it in the hospital, just before he passed. I wasn’t going to save the article when it first ran, but he asked me to, so here it is.”
The hair on my arms stands up as I read the headline. Boy Killed by Bus on Greenwich High Road.
A photo of the boy’s weeping parents dominates the page. The father’s arms are wrapped tightly around his wife’s shoulders, both of their faces twisted with grief. Gareth and Emily Long mourn the loss of their son Kieran, the caption proclaims.
According to the article, twelve-year-old Kieran Long darted in front of a bus trying to catch up to his friends after school. Although Papa was there to yank him back, his hand slipped on the boy’s arm, and he couldn’t grab him again fast enough.
At the very end, there’s a quote from Kieran’s father: “ Of all the times the Blackheath Savior has rescued people, he couldn’t rescue my boy.”
Maybe this is why Papa never told any of us. He couldn’t bear for us to know that he’d failed.
“The father, Gareth—his part of the story only gets worse, I’m afraid,” Nana says. “He fell into excessive drinking after Kieran’s death, and even though his wife threatened to leave him, he couldn’t stop. The drinking led to financial trouble, which led to gambling, which eventually bankrupted them.”
“So what happened then? Did his wife walk out?”
Nana hesitates. “In a manner of speaking.”
I look at her for a moment, hoping my suspicion is wrong. “She died?”
“Yes.”
“Of natural causes?”
We stare at each other. Then Nana gives me a one-sided shrug. “If taking an entire bottle of sleeping pills could be considered natural, then yes.”
A lump forms in my throat. I look at the picture again. Gareth’s face angles down toward his wife. His arm curves around her shoulders like he’s trying to shield her from their cruel new reality. It’s obvious, even from this one snapshot, how much he loved her.
Nana leans close to me. “Don’t tell your dad about this next part,” she whispers, and my stomach clenches at the dark tone in her voice. “A few days after Emily’s funeral, Gareth showed up at the house looking for your grandfather. He was drunk out of his mind and Edward shouldn’t have agreed to talk to him, but he did. For half an hour, they stood in the street while Gareth accused Edward of letting his son die on purpose. Said he had single-handedly ruined his life. His shouts were so loud that the neighbors called the police.”
“So he was arrested?”
“Yes, but not before threatening to kill your grandfather.”
My jaw drops. Someone threatened to kill Papa? Papa, in his tweed vests and his driver’s caps, with his bright smile and cheery hello for everyone he passed? The idea is preposterous.
“He swore he’d take revenge when Edward least expected it. That he wouldn’t rest until his son and wife were avenged. Nothing ever happened, though, and now that Edward is gone—” Her voice breaks.
“When did this happen? I don’t see a date.”
“About five years ago.” Her voice has reduced almost to a whisper, even though we’re alone. “Edward never told your dad about this, which is why you never knew. He didn’t want your parents to worry.”
“Aren’t you concerned that Gareth is still out there somewhere?”
“No, no.” She waves a dismissive hand at me. “They locked him up soon after the night he showed up here.”
“In prison?”
“Mental institution.”
“Oh.”
I feel slightly better, but it’s still creepy knowing there’s some guy out there with a vendetta against Papa, even if he is locked up.
“I can’t believe this,” I say. “Papa saving so many people, this man coming after him… I wish I’d known more about it.” I pause. “I wish I’d known him more.”
Nana nods. “I know, my dear. I know.”
Something in the margin of the article catches my eye. Someone’s written two words next to the last paragraph, but the tiny, cramped text is almost impossible to read. “What does this say? Opus something?”
She leans over the scrapbook to peer at the words. “It’s in Edward’s handwriting. Opus postremum. Wasn’t there the last time I flipped through these articles, I don’t think.” She sits back, staring at the tiny note. “What could it be?”
I shake my head. “No idea.”
But knowing Papa, I bet it’s important.
TWENTY-FOUR
MY FAMILY IS DOWNSTAIRS, INCLUDING PAUL. HE’S sulking in a corner of the couch, glaring at the TV like it’s a teacher who’s just given him detention. Britain’s Dance-Off Champion is on. A girl in ripped jeans and a tank top is doing ballet while the judges beam at her. Paul looks like he wants to set her hair on fire.
“I’m going to bed,” I announce.
Dad tosses the remote on the coffee table, where it lands with a clatter. “Don’t blame you. Think I’m heading to bed myself.”
He gives me a hug—more abrupt than usual, but at least he’s somewhat participating in conversations again— and then heads for the stairs. I kiss Mom and Nana before touching Paul’s shoulder. He squirms beneath my hand.
“Hey,” I say. “We haven’t really talked today. How was SPARK?”
He blinks and sighs loudly. “Fine.”
Everything about his body language screams that he doesn’t want to talk to me. I don’t know why he’s even down here; maybe Mom threatened to take away his rap
T-shirts if he didn’t spend some time with the family. His eyes are heavy with shadows.
“Are you sure?” I mess up his hair with a swish of my hand. “You look really tired. Have you been sleeping—”
“I said I’m fine, Rosie!” He jumps to his feet and shoves past me so hard I stumble into the sofa.
Mom’s jaw drops. “Paul Clayton!”
Nana watches my little brother with arched eyebrows. I open my mouth to shout at him, but he’s already out of the room and clomping up the stairs.
“Wait for it,” I say to Mom and Nana.
Slam.
“Sorry. I guess I pushed him too far.” I give them a half-hearted wave and head for the stairs.
Paul and I aren’t on the best of terms right now, but it still hurts that he can’t realize we’re all on the same team when it comes to grieving for Papa. He acts like he’s so alone in all this—like he’s the only one who’s upset over what happened to Carter, the only one who loved Papa, the only one who feels overwhelmed and frazzled.
I still want to reach him. I still desperately want my brother back. But I’m feeling more defeated by the moment.
My bed creaks when I tumble into it and my eyes fall shut almost instantly, but my brain is whirring away like a helicopter preparing for takeoff. The things I saw in the Batcave flip through my mind like a bizarre slideshow— the blue lights that first struck me when we entered the crypt, Albert’s smile as he showed me around, the screens on the wall, the records room with the pressure that bore down on my chest.
Sleeping tonight without some kind of sedative is about as likely as sprouting wings and flying back to Nashville.
As I’m considering the likelihood of coaxing my mom to part with one of her precious Ambien, there’s a soft knock at my door. Paul pokes his head into the room. Something is different about his face—there’s an alarm lurking in his eyes that has replaced the sulkiness I saw downstairs.
“Hey, buddy, what’s up?” I haven’t called him “buddy” in y
ears. That nickname died when he entered puberty and no longer thought I was cool. I guess I’m using it now because I want him to feel safe with me, like he used to.
He loiters in the doorway like maybe he wishes he hadn’t done this, but it’s too late now. I leap out of bed, pull him into the room, and shut the door.
“Sit,” I say, and he perches on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands along the tops of his thighs as if he’s trying to get warm.
“Well?” I ask. I don’t want to jinx this by speaking too much or too soon, but someone has to say something.
He opens his mouth, then closes it and licks his lips. “Max and Luther,” he says in a voice that’s just above a whisper.
My heart rate speeds up. “What about them?”
He darts nervous glances between his moving hands and my bedroom door. Suddenly, he goes still and cocks his head, listening. I strain my ears but don’t hear anything out of the ordinary, just the murmur of the TV downstairs and water in the pipes as someone flushes a toilet.
Clasping my hands in front of me, I pin him with what I hope is a firm, yet kind, stare. “Paul, what is it?”
But he’s shaking his head. He’s about to bail.
“Nothing, forget it.” He rockets halfway toward the door like I’ve scalded him. He’s fast, but I’ve always been faster.
“Nuh-uh,” I say, blocking the exit. The time for walking on eggshells has passed now that he’s attempted an escape. “Tell me about Max and Luther.”
He runs a hand over his head and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s probably nothing. But…” His hands twist together and then dive for cover inside his pockets. “The other night, at the pub, they introduced me to some guys. Older guys, probably in their twenties. They asked me a lot of questions about myself.”
“Like what?”
“Where I was from,” he says to the floor. “Why I was in town. They asked about my family. And I told them—” he swallows “—I told them about Papa. And then they asked about you.”
Every drop of blood in my veins freezes. “You mean, they asked if you had any siblings?”
“No.” He licks his lips and blinks. “They asked about you by name.”
My heart is screaming in terror.
“And then,” he goes on, “Luther said something to Max—I couldn’t hear exactly what, but I heard the last part, and it was something about ‘when we become’ something. And then Max hit him on the arm and looked at me like he was afraid I’d heard.”
“When they become what?” I say. My voice has been reduced to a whisper.
He shakes his head. “M—something. More. When they become more?”
Mortiferi.
Could that have been what they said? Could Max and Luther have become Mortiferi in the past few days?
Snippets of conversation tear through my head, things I was told by Albert and Casey.
The Mortiferi are all monsters.
These soul-darkened people were called Mortiferi, and once they were in, they could never get out.
They like to remain anonymous.
I remember the way they looked at me when we met, the way their presence seemed to darken the whole house. And my brother has slowly been attaching himself to them, all in the name of belonging somewhere.
I try to keep my breathing slow and my expression calm, even though it’s all I can do not to freak out and shake him by the collar for not telling me this earlier. “Paul, don’t ask me how I know this, but you need to stay away from Max and Luther completely. I know I’ve said that a million times before, but it’s different now.”
A loaded pause stretches between us. Paul frowns. “Do you know what they were talking about?”
Thank God he’s listening. If I weren’t so desperate to tell him what I know, I’d probably collapse in relief. “I know it sounds nuts, but they’re not—well, they’re not regular people.”
His brow crumples in the middle. “What do you mean, not regular?”
How can I explain what I know without sounding like I’m making stuff up? “You just have to trust me. I could be wrong, but I think I know what they are.”
“ What they are?”
His expression has closed off just a little. My hands are trembling. “They’re not exactly…”
He stares at me. “Normal,” I finish lamely.
His eyes are blank. He’s sorting and processing everything I’ve just said, weighing it on a scale that will determine whether or not it’s crap.
Finally, he blinks. “Whatever happened to your mugging story?”
I freeze. “What?”
“First, you told me Max and Luther mugged a girl on the heath.” His voice has an edge to it that wasn’t there a minute ago. “Now they’re just ‘not normal’?”
This is exactly what I was afraid of—that he would stop listening when I couldn’t give him straight answers. “First of all, I stand by the mugging story because it actually happened. Secondly, you’re just going to have to trust me that Max, Luther, and anybody else they associate with are dangerous people. They’re pure evil, Paul.” I rub a hand across my face. “Like, not-entirely-human pure evil. Which I know sounds crazy, but if you keep hanging out with them, I’m afraid—”
“Not entirely human?” He scoffs. “So they’re what. Aliens?”
“No, that’s not—”
He holds up a hand. “Here we go again with the melodramatic lies. Okay, then. If Max and Luther aren’t human, then your date with James took place at Cinderella’s castle, and your friend Albert is actually a unicorn in disguise.”
“You know what, Paul? You came to me for help. I’m trying to help you, and you’re making fun of me. There’s a lot I know that you don’t.”
“How?” he says.
I stop. “How what?”
“How do you supposedly know all this about Max and Luther?”
“Oh. Um…”
There’s got to be a way to divulge my insider information without mentioning Albert or the Servatores. If I bring up the Batcave under the North Greenwich Library, I’m officially toast as far as my credibility is concerned—not to mention it might make things more dangerous for Paul if he knows about it.
“You need help,” he says, standing up. The disgust has returned to his eyes, and my heart sinks. “I’m totally cool with the possibility that Max and Luther are on drugs, or that they’re alcoholics. I mean, they’re at SPARK, right? So obviously something is off.”
“Paul—” I start, but he shakes his head at me.
“They’re screwed up just like I am, and I know that, so telling me they’re not perfect isn’t going to scare me.” He throws his hands out to his sides. “But really, dude. Not human? Do you even hear yourself?”
Words churn in my mind— just listen, give me a chance to explain more —but I can’t make myself say them.
“Right,” he says. “Maybe Mom and Dad can find a reform camp for compulsive liars, and then we can both spend all day playing name games and hating our lives.”
He slips into the hallway and shuts the door behind him.
I drop onto the bed, rubbing my face with my hands. How is it possible that my relationship with Paul just got worse? I thought we’d already sunk as low as we could.
There’s only one person who would know what to do with Paul’s information, and I’ve got to get to him as soon as I can.
TWENTY-FIVE
I’M PACING ON THE SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF ALBERT’S house at an absolutely ungodly hour. We are not good enough friends for me to be knocking on his door at the crack of dawn, but after what Paul told me last night, I couldn’t wait. Mom thinks I’m getting coffee in the village, which is a stark contrast to my actual mission— stopping my brother from associating with soul-darkened monsters.
The door opens and Albert appears. He’s wearing blue-and-white striped pajama pants but no shirt, and his hair sticks straight up on one side. Creases from his sheets line his skin.
“Oh,” I say. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything but jeans and a T-shirt. Seeing him all rumpled makes me feel…
…something.
I clear my throat.
“It’s six-fifteen,” he says, squinting at me.
I force myself to look him in the eye, which is hard because this is beyond embarrassing. “I know. I’m sorry.
How did you know I was out here, anyway? I didn’t ring the doorbell.”
He points to the wooden arch over the door. There’s a small black box attached to its top. “Camera. It’s hooked up to a computer that alerts us if someone hangs around too long. I’ve been watching you skulk around my doorstep for the last five minutes.”
Perfect. I’m sure I haven’t looked like an idiot at all.
“Listen to this,” I say, ignoring the yawn he doesn’t bother to hide. “Paul came into my room last night and told me he heard Luther say a strange word that started with M. And apparently, a couple older guys asked about me by name. All this happened at a shady pub in Lewisham called The Black Swan. Ever heard of it?” I’m talking fast. Too fast.
His eyes narrow to green slits. “How much coffee have you had?”
“A lot. I didn’t really sleep last night. So? The Black Swan?” I hear the shrill tone in my voice, but I’m powerless to stop it.
He holds the door open and steps aside to make room for me. “Yeah, it’s a dodgy place, all right. Can I get a shower and some breakfast before we dive into this investigation?”
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound patient. “There’s something else, too.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I want to try to Pull.” I haven’t said it out loud until now, and as the words leave my mouth, something inside me flutters. It’s like I’ve done something very, very right. Something I didn’t know I needed to do until this moment.
“Ah.” He looks down. “Well, the thing is—”
“I know,” I say, deflating a little. “You already said I’m not one of you. But I can feel it, right? And so could you, before you learned to control it. And Papa told me he was passing his talent on to me. What else could he have been talking about? I mean, I guess he could have meant the telepathy thing, but I already tried that and it didn’t—”
