Pull

by Anne Riley

  “My mother. She died when I was six.” He takes a huge bite of pizza, as if he’s trying to distract himself from what he’s just admitted.

  My heart sinks. I pop my Coke open and take a long, slow sip. For the first time maybe ever, I don’t have the urge to fill the silence.

  Then he speaks again.

  “Casey and I were absolute terrors during the summer, running amok with nothing to do but cause trouble, so Mum had taken us to Greenwich Observatory as a diversion. A huge mass of black clouds appeared as we were leaving. Mum thought we could make it home before the storm hit, but the moment we set foot on the heath, the lightning started.” His eyes slide out of focus, as if the memory is replaying itself right in front of him.

  “A bolt of lightning struck my mother as we ran across the open space. She died instantly.”

  I stare at the water. So that’s why he never mentioned her.

  “Casey and I had no idea what to do. We just stood in the rain and screamed. But then something strange happened. I was so distraught that I began to subconsciously will her alive. My hands came out in front of me as if acting of their own accord, and I knew what I had to do. I’d never done it before. I’d never even heard of it. But that afternoon, I Pulled for the first time. And then we were running across the heath again, and I was trying to shout over the sound of the storm that we had to change course, that we had to take cover somewhere, but neither of them could hear me. I tugged on my mum’s dress and tried to point her toward the trees, but she was afraid of standing too close to them in the rain.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “She thought they would attract lightning.”

  “And so it all played out again,” I finish. “You saw your mother die twice.”

  He nods, his lips tight. “I tried to Pull again the second time, but it wouldn’t work. It was like I wasn’t strong enough. Pulling takes a huge amount of energy, and doing it twice in a row is impossible.”

  “And Casey couldn’t do it yet?”

  “No. She didn’t Pull until she was ten, when one of her friends choked on a grape in the school dining hall. Dan and Isaac were ten when they first Pulled, as well. I think that must be a pretty typical age for a Servator to discover their ability.”

  “How did you manage to do it at six?”

  I’m trying to imagine a first-grader rewinding time, even by accident, and it’s impossible to visualize. He must have looked so small on the heath, crouched over his dead mother, hands out in front of him. I wonder if anyone saw him. I wonder how badly it hurt when he realized he’d managed to reverse the scene but couldn’t stop it from happening all over again.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t try it again for years after that. In fact, I convinced myself I’d imagined the Pull. That it was something my mind had constructed as a result of my panic.”

  “And the guy on the ladder was your second Pull?”

  “Yep. It was almost exactly one year before Edward spoke at our school and I began to learn who I truly was.”

  A group of skateboarders with glow-in-the-dark boards whiz past us, whooping and hollering, and the mood is broken.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Albert says, taking an enormous bite of pizza.

  “Okay. Like what?”

  “You choose.”

  I think for a minute before it comes to me. “Have you ever heard the phrase opus postremum?”

  He stops chewing and looks at me, one corner of the pizza crust poking out between his lips. “Hunngh?”

  “Yesterday, when Nana was showing me all the news stories about Papa saving people, we found it in one of the margins. She said it was Papa’s handwriting.”

  He swallows the pizza quickly. “What story was it written on?”

  “The one about a young boy, Kieran Long. Papa tried to save him, but the boy died. I couldn’t find anything about that phrase online other than its Latin translation, ‘final work.’ Why would he write that on one of his articles?”

  Albert squints at the water like the answer is written there, drifting along in the current. “I have no idea.” He pauses and tilts his head. “Surely he didn’t believe…”

  “Believe what?” My heart is racing. It feels like this is important—some clue about my grandfather’s true identity, and maybe a glimpse into his death.

  Albert’s expression is almost remorseful. “The opus postremum is the idea that after a Servator dies, their spirit hangs around to make one last save. A spectacular one, something they wouldn’t have been able to do when they were alive. Then they depart for the afterlife.”

  “So you think he was investigating it or something?”

  He shoves the rest of the pizza in his mouth and wipes his hand on his jeans. “I don’t know,” he says, his tone full of doubt. “Nobody gives the idea any credit because there’s no evidence to prove the theory. It’s an urban legend at best, one of those hypothetical ‘if the opus postremum was real, what kind of save would you want to make?’ kind of things. I highly doubt he believed it was true. Maybe he was just wishing.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment sits in my stomach like a brick. For a moment, I’d believed there was a chance Papa might still be here. But he’s gone. I watched him die and I went to his funeral. Papa is in the ground beneath a granite headstone. He can’t do anything for us, or for anyone else.

  “So this is what you do in your spare time?” I say, eager to lighten the conversation. “Hang out with girls on bridges?”

  He grins. “What, my life isn’t as glamorous as you were hoping?”

  “I wasn’t hoping for glamour. I just thought I might see you save someone’s life again. Maybe mine. You know, something boring like that.”

  “Even when I’m officially on patrol,” he says with a shrug, “it’s usually uneventful. The whole thing is a game of odds. If we happen to be nearby when someone’s in danger, or if someone at headquarters alerts us to a problem and we get there quickly enough, then we can change the event. But otherwise, there’s nothing to be done. And given that there are only four of us in the city now that Edward is gone…”

  “The odds are stacked against you,” I finish.

  “Definitely. But full moons have a way of producing more action, so the others may have a more eventful night.”

  I glance up at the perfect sphere of a moon, which casts a silver glow over the city. “Oh, right. Werewolves and all that.”

  “Yes, exactly. They’ll be out any minute.”

  Lights dance along the river’s surface, glittering in the waves of its tide. Every cell of my body is tuned into Albert—the sound of his breathing, the smell of his shampoo, the warmth of his arm against mine. I turn to him, and he cuts his eyes to me.

  “Why do I have a feeling I know what you’re going to ask?” he murmurs.

  “Because you’re psychic, obviously.” I wince. “Sorry. Pretend I didn’t make a joke just then.”

  He turns toward me fully and I mirror him so that we stand face to face.

  “I’m guessing you’re wondering why I let my sister take over for me tonight. Why I suggested we get dinner. And why I keep insisting you stay close to me.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Wow. You’re good.”

  “I can give you some space, if you want.”

  “No,” I say, reaching for his hand.

  He stiffens at first, but then laces his fingers through mine. He smiles at me—full of fire, a deep, radiating heat that melts my bones and makes my stomach all fizzy.

  “Rosie?” he says, and my heart speeds up until I’m scared it might give out. “I know we haven’t known each other long, but I want you to know—”

  Rowdy voices pierce the air and we turn toward the source of the noise. It’s coming from the docks below the bridge. There’s a patio area with a fountain of a dolphin tossing a girl into the air. And on that patio are three guys, all of whom I recognize.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I fume.

  Albert follows my gaze. “Isn�
�t that your brother?”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  PAUL STAGGERS AROUND THE FOUNTAIN WITH HIS HAND on his stomach, laughing. He’s been drinking again—I recognize all the symptoms, even from here, because I’ve seen him like this far too often. I bet he’s been at that Black Swan place again, even after my warnings to stay away from Max and Luther.

  “So these are the prats he’s hanging out with?” Albert asks, eyeing the trio below us. Max and Luther are with my brother, naturally. Just the sight of them sends a ripple of disgust down my spine.

  “Yep. There they are, in all their glory.” I scowl at the patio, where Max is lighting up a cigarette. He offers it to Paul, who accepts it and takes a long, slow drag.

  “He doesn’t even smoke,” I whimper. “At least, I thought he didn’t.”

  There was a small crowd on the patio, but the three teens in dark clothing must be giving off a bad vibe, because everyone heads back up the street to the bridge. They’re all alone down there now, just three guys and an aura of trouble.

  “Hold on.” Albert squints at Max and Luther. “They look familiar.”

  I thought he knew exactly who they were, so I’m a little surprised to be explaining their identities. “Oh. Yeah. You beat them up on the heath after they mugged that girl. That was the first time we ever talked.”

  The first time I ever saw his pale green eyes. The first time I watched him willingly put himself in danger for someone else. The first time I learned things are truly not always what they seem.

  “Ah,” he says. “Yes, I remember. So why is your brother hanging around with them?”

  “He thinks they’re cool,” I say in a weary voice. “I told him what I saw, but he thought I was making it all up. He’s really sensitive about being told what to do.” I kick at the wall in front of me. “He’s so freaking stubborn.”

  Albert lets out a long breath. “Stubborn, or desperate?”

  “Both.” My stomach sinks a little. It’s much easier to be angry with Paul than to empathize with him.

  An elderly man and woman straggle in from the other side of the docks, but as soon as they see the three drunk guys, they hurry past with their heads down. The old man throws a glare over his shoulder and mutters something in Luther’s direction.

  Whatever he said, Luther didn’t like it. He looks at Max and then nods toward the old man’s back. Max grins. Paul misses the exchange because he’s staring into the fountain.

  “Albert?” I say. My voice carries a warning tone.

  “I know,” he mutters. “I’m watching.”

  Luther darts toward the couple while Max watches with a smirk. Luther grabs the old man’s arm and pulls him back toward the fountain, making him stumble. His wife screams and reaches out for him, her fingers grasping nothing but air.

  “Oh, no,” I breathe. “No, no, no.”

  When they reach the fountain, Luther pulls a knife and holds it to the man’s ribs. Max gets in his face. The old woman falls into hysterics, sobbing and reaching for her husband.

  “Come on!” I shout, taking off toward the road. But Albert grabs my arm and pulls me back.

  “Not yet,” he says. “Hold on.”

  Hold on? What in the world does he want me to hold on for? A small crowd begins to gather around us as people notice the scene. Someone needs to do something.

  “What is wrong with you?” I jerk my elbow out of his grasp. “We have to help them!”

  He leans close to me. “Wait,” he says. “Can’t you trust me after all we’ve been through? After all you’ve seen?”

  I blink, letting my eyes fall away from his face. “Of course. But—”

  “Then wait.” His voice is rough. “Let me do this the right way. If I Pull at the wrong time, I won’t have the strength for a do-over. It’s wise to wait until we know what happens for sure.”

  I turn back to the scene below. Logically, I know Albert knows what he’s doing. This is the kind of thing he deals with multiple times a week. But my body is raging with the impulse to do something now, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold myself in check.

  “What’s going on down there?” a woman to my left cries out. “Somebody call the police!”

  Even though the action centers around Max, Luther, and the old man, my eyes drift toward my brother. He hovers at the perimeter of the patio, hands traveling from his back pockets to his hips, uncertainty radiating from his entire body. Then he crosses his arms and glances up at the bridge. Does he see me? His stare is so empty.

  A jagged scream pierces the air. Luther’s knife has found its way into the old man’s ribs.

  He sinks to the ground, blood sprouting across his shirt, eyes blank with shock. His wife falls to her knobby knees and crawls about two feet before collapsing on the ground. People fly into an uproar around us; shouts fill the air and fingers zoom over cell phones. A couple of men start running in the direction of the fight. Luther looks over his shoulder and scowls at the crowd. He slides his knife out of the old man’s ribcage and takes off with Max, who grabs Paul’s arm and drags him along.

  “Albert!” I scream. Whatever he was waiting for, whatever cue he needed to spring into action, this has to be enough.

  “I know,” he says, checking his watch. “It’s time.”

  He draws in a deep breath, holds his hands in front of him, palms up, and closes his eyes. His fingers never move, but I can tell when he starts to Pull because of the suctioning in my gut. The vortex strengthens, just as it did on the heath and just as it did in the pub. It feels like my body is going to rip itself to shreds, and right when I think I can’t handle the pressure anymore—

  A blinding flash of light.

  We’re standing on the lookout point, holding hands. The patio is empty; Paul and his friends haven’t arrived yet. But the panic I felt only moments ago—or moments in the future, I guess—hasn’t changed at all. I don’t know how any of the Servatores think clearly in these situations, knowing what’s coming and what they have to do. I think I’d crack. The only thing keeping me from crumbling right now is the guy next to me, standing rigid with determination and blowing a soft stream of air through his lips.

  I turn to him. “How much time do we have until they stab him?”

  “About four minutes. Stay up here, okay?” He drops my fingers. “I’m going down to the dock.”

  “No way. He’s my brother. I don’t sit on the sidelines anymore, remember?”

  He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it and pulls his lips into a tight line. “Fine. But if I tell you to run, you run. Got it?”

  “No problem,” I lie.

  We sprint back past the crowd of onlookers and hang a right down the small access road that leads to the docks. Strada, the pizza place we ordered from earlier, sits on our left. Only a few minutes ago we were walking along the bridge, and I wasn’t thinking about anything. I was just enjoying the evening. Enjoying Albert.

  And now the night is tainted with blood.

  “How are we going to stop them?” I ask, panting.

  Albert’s breathing is much steadier than mine. “I’m going to intercept the old couple before they get to the fountain, but I’ll have to cross the patio to do it. Hopefully I won’t run into your brother and his friends. The Mortiferi know who I am. If they see me, they’ll recognize me.”

  Just before we emerge into the open, I hear the laughter—deep, loud, full of malice. My stomach plummets all the way to my feet.

  They’re already here.

  Albert skids to a stop and swears under his breath, then tugs me into a small parking lot to our left. We squat between a van and a convertible. “I thought we had more time before they showed up,” he says, and grits his teeth with a growl of frustration. “I didn’t Pull back far enough.”

  “It’s okay.” I nod, willing myself to believe the words I’m about to say. “We can still do this. You’ve dealt with worse before, right? At least these guys don’t have guns.”

  “Not that we
know of,” he mutters.

  We press ourselves against the van’s cool metal and peek around the front bumper. Max and Luther are only a few yards away, and suddenly I notice something about them that makes my breathing stutter.

  There’s a faint orange glow in their pupils. If it wasn’t so dark, I probably wouldn’t be able to see it. But it’s there—just like the orange glow I saw in my attacker’s eyes on the heath.

  “Their eyes,” I croak.

  Albert follows my gaze. “They’re Mortiferi. Recently changed, from the looks of it. When black magic enters a soul, it leaves a burn trail on the inside of the person’s body. You can only see it in the dark.”

  “A burn trail?” I never thought of sorcery as a tangible thing, an object that could physically manifest on someone’s flesh. The idea makes me clutch my knees to my chest.

  “I can’t take them on my own,” he says, and lifts the collar of his T-shirt to his mouth. “Hey lads, you there?”

  I lean in to hear Dan’s voice in the com. “Yeah, mate. You all right?”

  “I’m going to need some help, soon as you can get here. Just below Tower Bridge, by that dolphin fountain you’re always making fun of.”

  “What’s up?”

  Albert licks his lips. “Trying to keep two Mortiferi from murdering an old man, and I’ve got to get Rosie’s brother away from them. We think they’re trying to recruit him.”

  “Right. I’ll head that way, but it’s gonna take me a few minutes. I’m just leaving Canary Wharf.”

  “Where’s Isaac? Is he closer?”

  Isaac answers, his voice deep and serious. “I’m near Hyde Park.”

  Then Casey: “And I’m in Stratford. We’ll get there as soon as we can, but Dan’s your best bet.”

  Anxiety crosses Albert’s face. “All right. Hurry, Dan.”

  “On it, mate.”

  He drops his collar and shifts his weight, steadying himself on the van behind us. “You said Paul met them at his reform camp?”

  “Yeah. SPARK.”

  He nods. “That’s the kind of place the Mortiferi go to recruit. Reform camps, AA meetings, psychiatric wards… anywhere there’s a good chance they’ll find broken people.”