by Anne Riley
Dad picks up after half a ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Dad, it’s Rosie.”
A strangled cry comes back to me. I cringe. My dad can’t even say my name before he starts sobbing into the phone.
“It’s okay,” I say, straining to talk over the lump in my throat. “I’m okay, Dad.”
The glass doors slide open and Albert walks in. He hurries over, gathering me into his arms.
“Dad, listen to me,” I say. “Are you there?”
“Yes, Rosie, I’m here.”
“We’re okay.” I sag into Albert’s chest as my own words register: We’re okay. We survived. A couple hours ago, I didn’t think it was possible. “Paul and I are fine. He’s in the hospital, but—”
“He’s in the hospital? Where? What hospital?”
“University Hospital in Lewisham. He’s stable, and—”
“We’re coming,” he barks. “Just don’t go anywhere, okay? Stay where you are. Promise me.”
“I promise, Dad.”
I hang up and pre-empt Albert’s questions with one of my own. “What did Roberts say?”
“Well, there’s a reason he didn’t bring the police car.”
“Cameras on the dash?”
“Yep.”
I drum my fingers against my phone. “So he doesn’t want anyone to know he picked us up. Which means he’s going to help us?”
“He’s going to do everything he can.”
“That’s…incredible.”
“Yeah,” he says, breaking into a smile. “If he’s successful, he wants all of us to consider careers in law enforcement. Except Casey.” He looks down. “He thinks she’s a bit too rogue.”
“Still no word from her?”
He shakes his head. “She might have gone home, for all I know.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” I ask. “I mean, about what happened at the police station and everything.”
Albert sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Well, since there’s so much video and eyewitness evidence that we broke out of jail, Roberts has got his work cut out for him as far as getting us off the hook. But the pub is a different story.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yeah. We actually drove over there just now, he and I. The place was swarming with cops, so Roberts left me in the car while he asked about what they found. As it turns out, they haven’t found anything. All the evidence burned up. The Black Swan is so isolated, stuck back in that corner of Lewisham. I mean, there are houses sort of nearby, but nobody realized what was happening until people started passing it on their way to work. By that time, the place was burned to the ground.”
I lower my voice, paranoid someone will hear us and raise the alarm. “But what about the Fiat? Surely they can trace the plates?”
“I’m sure they could,” he says, lifting his eyebrows. “If there were plates to trace.”
“The Fiat burned up, too?”
“Everything burned up. There’s still a bit of a Fiat skeleton left, but no plates. When all those liquor bottles started to break under the pressure, the fire must have spread like crazy. All the trees around the building are gone. And when Roberts asked about bodies, they said they’d found some, but there was no way to identify them.”
“No fingerprints?” This is the part I’ve been mostly worried about—that we left some glaring piece of evidence that would lead straight to us. I know fire tends to consume pretty much everything, but the people on CSI are always finding fingerprints in the unlikeliest of places.
“Not yet,” he says, and I close my eyes in relief. “I told Roberts that Gareth was one of the ones who died in the fire, and—just for curiosity’s sake—he did a little background check for me.”
“And?”
“His wife committed suicide after their son died.” I nod; I already know this part. “He was arrested several times for public drunkenness. He went to rehab for alcoholism three different times, but never got clean. He was arrested for harassment and public intoxication, and eventually subjected to a mental evaluation, which he failed.”
“It was Papa,” I say. Albert frowns, confused. “Papa’s the one he harassed while intoxicated.”
“Really?” He considers this. “Yeah, I guess that’s not too surprising. Edward mentioned Gareth every once in a while. He was tortured by his failure to save Kieran Long.”
I rub a hand over my face. “So how did Gareth get involved with the Mortiferi?”
Albert shrugs. “All I can do is guess. Want to hear my theory?”
“Sure.”
He looks around to make sure no one is listening to us. “Remember how I told you the Mortiferi prey on vulnerable people? Well, one of their favorite places to recruit is the mental hospital. It’s full of people who’ve been crushed by life and feel like failures because they can’t overcome their problems without help. I’m guessing a Mortifer checked himself in to scout out some new recruits, and Gareth seemed like the perfect option. Gareth probably told him all about his son and wife, and how he blamed Edward for all of it. When the Mortifer figured out how much Gareth hated Edward, they struck a deal.”
We’re whispering now, and our faces are centimeters apart. “And you think part of that deal was that Gareth would remain human?”
“Must have been.” He pauses as a man and woman hurry into the hospital with urgent expressions. They stop at the reception desk, and once they begin talking with the receptionist, Albert turns back to me. “I’m guessing another part of the deal was that the Mortiferi broke him out of the mental hospital. Gareth Long was reported missing from South London Psychiatric Ward nearly two years ago.”
“But how did he become a leader?”
“Probably because he was their key to bringing down one of the most active Servatores in history. When Edward died, the Mortiferi didn’t have much of a reason to hold up their end of the deal. I bet that’s part of the reason he came after you and Paul—to reaffirm his value to them.”
“I can’t believe what he turned into,” I say. “I know he was technically human, but that guy was a monster. A killer.”
Albert shoves his hands in his pockets with a grimace. “You’re right about that. It’s amazing how un-human some people can be.”
MY FAMILY ALMOST DOESN’T SEE ME WHEN THEY WALK into the lobby. Mom is the first one to do a double-take. “Rosie!”
I’m in her arms in a second. Dad and Nana crowd around me, crying, scolding, and asking questions all at once. Dad pulls me into a hug that nearly crushes my ribcage, and Nana kisses my cheeks over and over.
“It’s such a long story,” I say. “Paul got in some trouble tonight and I— we —had to save him.”
They follow my eyes to Albert, Dan, and Isaac, who are watching us uncomfortably.
“Rosemary Eleanor Clayton,” my dad says in a thick voice, “as soon as I see my son and verify that he is alive with my own two eyes, you are telling me every detail about what happened tonight. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say. “Dad, I’m really sorry, I know—”
He holds up a hand and closes his eyes as if my apology hurts him. “Please don’t. I’m completely furious with you and completely relieved that you’re okay, and I’m not stable enough to have a conversation right now.” He takes a deep breath. “Take me to Paul. We’ll talk later.”
“Okay.” I shoot an uncertain look at the boys.
“We’ll be here,” Albert mouths to me, and I nod before getting in the elevator with my family.
FORTY
I WAKE BEFORE SUNRISE THE NEXT MORNING, BUT I can’t go back to sleep. Pushing back the covers, I pick up my phone and check the time. It’s 5:17. One new voicemail.
“Hey,” Albert’s deep voice says on the message. A fuzzy warmth blooms instantly somewhere deep inside me. “I hope you’re sleeping. Call me when you wake up. I have some things to tell you.”
I dial the number to his landline. He picks up on the first ring.
“Rosie?”
I smile. “Hey. Come get me and let’s take a walk.”
The stairs are cold under my bare feet as I tiptoe down them, careful to skip the ones that squeak. Both Nana’s and Dad’s doors are still closed. Mom spent the night with Paul in the hospital; the doctors still haven’t identified the drug in his system—not that they ever will. If the Mortiferi gave him the fiery green liquid, I don’t need to see drug test results to know it’s not your typical opiate. But they want to keep running tests, and they want to keep him under observation until he’s fully recovered.
He won’t be out for a while.
I reach the first floor and rub the goose bumps on my arms as I walk into the kitchen. I was planning to make some coffee before Albert got here, but Dad and Nana are already sitting at the kitchen table, each clutching a steaming mug. The scrapbook of Papa’s news articles lies open between them.
“Hi.” My voice seems obtrusive in the quiet of the morning. “I thought you two were still asleep.”
Dad pushes a chair out with his foot. “Want to sit?”
“Actually, I’m going for a walk.” I eye the French press on the table. “With some coffee.”
Dad and Nana look alarmed.
“You’re going out by yourself?” Dad says. “I don’t think you should—”
“No!” I laugh. “No. With Albert. He’s coming to get me.”
Albert met my family briefly in the hospital, and although he sort of explained who he was and how he knew Edward, he left out a lot of details. They know he helped to save Paul’s life, but other than that, I think they’re still pretty confused.
“Are you going out in your pajamas?” Nana asks in a scandalized tone.
I grab a mug from the cabinet and head for the table. “Nobody else will be out, and Albert won’t care.”
Albert. Every time I say his name, that fuzzy warmth spreads a little further.
“Your mum texted me a few minutes ago,” Dad says. “They’re going to evaluate Paul at eight. She says he’s looking better. More color in his cheeks.”
“Good.” I pour my coffee and stir in some milk and sugar. A soft knock sounds at the front door. “That’s him,” I say. “I won’t be gone long.”
Dad stops me before I leave the kitchen. “Rosie?”
I look back at him.
“When you get home,” he says, “you’ll explain everything. About the…what was it you called them at the hospital?”
“Servatores,” I say. “And yes. I’ll tell you everything.” I look at Nana, whose eyes are filled with eagerness. “I’ll tell both of you.”
THE HEATH IS BEAUTIFUL ANY TIME OF DAY, BUT AT dawn it is spectacular.
Fog drifts across the ground and veils the church’s steeple as the sun bursts over the skyline in pink and orange streaks. Albert’s arm is curled around my shoulders, keeping me warm against the early-morning chill. Our shoes collect bits of wet grass and leave dark footprints in the dew. I breathe in the cool air and take a long sip of coffee, closing my eyes for a second as it warms its way into my stomach.
Unlike me, Albert changed into real clothes before going outside. He’s wearing his tattered jeans—the same ones he’s been wearing all week, which calls his laundry skills into serious question—and a gray Millwall Football Club T-shirt.
Millwall and Crystal Palace don’t exactly like each other, but I haven’t trash-talked him yet. I’m biding my time until next week’s match, when I’ll get to shock him with my detailed knowledge of the league.
As we near the center of the heath, Albert says, “Guess who came home around three o’clock this morning?”
“Casey?”
“Yep. Dan found her wandering around Hither Green Cemetery and brought her back. He’s with her now.”
It doesn’t bode well for her emotional state if she was hanging out in a graveyard all night. “Is she okay?”
“Not really. I think she’s second-guessing herself quite a bit.”
I can’t even begin to imagine how Casey is feeling right now. Even though I know she’s killed Mortiferi before, it must be very different to kill someone whose soul is intact.
“I don’t know if she regrets shooting Gareth or not,” he says. “To be honest, I would’ve shot him in the pub if I could have. Or in the underground lair, or anywhere else. The only reason I didn’t kill him there at the end was because he was injured, and I quite liked the idea of watching him rot in prison. Casey just wanted him finished at any cost. But now, I think she might feel guilty for shooting him when he was down.” He stops walking and tugs a thin section of newspaper out of his pocket. “Have you seen this today?”
“No,” I say, coming to a stop beside him. “You get a newspaper delivered to your house? That’s so grown up.”
He laughs. “Yes, I’m very mature. Have a look at the front page.”
I set my coffee cup on the grass beside my feet and angle the paper toward the pale morning light. Fire rages in Lewisham, reads the headline. Black Swan pub destroyed, dozens found dead inside.
“Wow,” I say. “You weren’t kidding about everything burning up.”
The photo of The Black Swan is unbelievable, like a poster for a disaster movie. The entire building has been reduced to a pile of black wood. There’s no hint of the building’s former shape, or the nasty paint on the door with the suspicious stains. All of it is gone—lost in an inferno caused by an angry Servator with Molotov cocktails.
“What about the underground lair?” I say. “Did they find it?”
“Yeah.” He scans the article over my shoulder. “Just there, toward the end. ‘The fire exposed a mysterious underground space that may have been an unlicensed club. Traces of an unidentified chemical were discovered in various locations within the space.’” He looks up at me. “The green stuff, I’m sure. Anyway, it goes on: ‘Everything inside has been confiscated and destroyed, and its singular entry has been permanently sealed shut.’”
I look at Albert. “Do they really think it was just a club?”
“Well, that’s what it looks like, you know? Unless you saw those blokes drinking the green stuff, you’d think it was just a rave or something.”
“Right,” I say. “Anything else about Max and Luther?”
I don’t really care about Max and Luther, but I’d like to know where they are. They weren’t fatally injured in the fight by the fountain. If they’re still in the hospital, that’s great—but I’ll need to know where they go after that.
“We haven’t checked with the hospital again,” Albert replies. “After all that's happened, my guess is that they’ll relocate to another part of the city. Or maybe a different city entirely. They’re easily spooked, the Mortiferi. Don’t like to feel threatened.”
“You think they’ll leave town because of what happened last night?” It’s a nice thought, but it doesn’t seem likely.
“Maybe,” he says. “Whenever your grandfather eliminated a Mortifer, a lot of others would relocate for a while. So they’ll probably go to Manchester or Birmingham. Find another group of Mortiferi to run around with for a few months. There are plenty more of them in London, though. Our problems don’t go away just because Max and Luther leave.” He rolls up the paper and stuffs it back into his pocket, squinting at me in the growing sunlight. “It’s good to see your face again, Rosemary Clayton.”
“We’ve only been apart for a few hours,” I say, but I can’t keep from smiling.
“I know.” He squeezes my shoulders. “Are you saying that’s acceptable?”
His tone is light, but I arch an eyebrow. “Is there something we should talk about?”
“Ah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, there is, actually. I’ve been thinking, and…well…”
I give him a playful punch in the stomach. “Spit it out.”
He grabs my hand and locks his eyes onto mine. A grin tugs at one corner of his mouth. “I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Real
ly.” The warmth in my gut breaks free of whatever was left of its restraints. It unfurls into my chest, into my arms, and all the way down to my toes.
“Yep, really. In a dating sort of way.”
I clear my throat and try to salvage whatever coolness I can. “So you’re asking me out on a date?”
“I am.” He smiles. “A second date. And hopefully one that doesn’t end in liquor-fueled fire and emergency rooms.”
I laugh, but my heart feels like it’s slipping into my stomach. How could I have forgotten? How could I have thought this could ever possibly work?
“What’s wrong?” His smile fades. “If you don’t feel the same way, then—”
“No!” I cry out. “I mean—yes, I do. It’s just…” I rub my eyes. “This trip to London is only for the summer. When August rolls around, we’ll go back to Nashville. I’ll start my senior year. I don’t know when we’ll be back. Nana is talking about moving in with us. Which would be great, but I don’t know how often we’ll be here if she’s living with us in Tennessee.” I look down. “Which means I don’t know how often you and I will see each other.”
The warmth begins to retreat, leaving a cold, dead feeling in my fingers.
His expression sags. “Oh.”
We stand in silence. I stare at my shadow, stretched out beside me.
“Nashville,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s where Vanderbilt is, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I shake my head with a laugh. “How do you know about Vanderbilt?”
“Well, you probably don’t know this—between fighting for our lives and saving your brother, we somehow never talked about it—but I’m starting University this fall. I’ve been researching schools for the past year or so.”
“Oh,” I say, picturing Albert cavorting around pubs filled with beautiful college girls. “Where have you applied?”
“Several places. St. Andrews and King’s College here. Michigan, NYU, and a few other schools in America. My dad may be a deadbeat as far as parenting is concerned, but he is loaded, and he’s offered to pay my tuition for any school that accepts me. Casey, too. Assuming we’re not in prison, of course.”
