“Malledy, do you understand that the acquisition of artifacts is everything? We live to pursue knowledge. We live to acquire talisman. Nothing—no man, no woman, no child, no God—stands in our way.”
“Yes, I understand,” Malledy said, trying to keep his voice from shaking because Juliette had told him that no matter what happened, he should show no fear.
“Even if I’m removed?” he’d asked his mentor.
Juliette had looked away. “Even then.”
Otto looked around the gathering of scholars. None spoke. “Then it is decided. Malledy is one of us.”
And so he was. The decision to become an Archivist hadn’t been his own, but it was all he had, as there was no family history, parents’ footsteps to follow, or other options available. So Malledy relentlessly chased a future devoted solely to research and acquisitions.
When a client decided to pursue seeds from a magical pomegranate, Malledy, by then eleven-years-old with a particular fascination with Greek mythology, was the Archivist for the job. He knew from studying ancient myths that Hades, God of the Underworld, had stolen the lovely Persephone from a meadow while she’d been picking flowers, and raced by chariot down to his dark kingdom with her. Despite Persephone’s protests, Hades had forced her to marry him. But there was a twist to the story. If Persephone didn’t eat anything in the Underworld, then she’d be permitted to return to earth. Sadly, Persephone did eat some seeds from a pomegranate and once tasted, the seeds made it impossible for her to ever return to earth, ensuring that she would remain Hade’s wife for eternity.
Zeus supposedly took pity on Persephone and broke the power of the spell on the pomegranate. This allowed Persephone to leave the Underworld. However, in order to be fair to Hades, Zeus ruled that Persephone had to eat a seed from the magical pomegranate once each year. This act would instantly return her to the Underworld and Hades for a period of six months. When it was time to leave, Persephone had only to eat another seed to return to the living realm.
If there was a legend that the magical pomegranate once existed, Malledy had reasoned, there was a chance it still did. Why a client might want those magical seeds was not Malledy’s concern. His sole focus was to track them down and acquire them.
After months of research, travel to distant lands accompanied by Juliette, and frustrating clues that yielded no results, Malledy finally uncovered a diary of a toothless eighty-nine-year-old woman living in Crete that ultimately led him to the treasure. He found the magical seeds in a blue silk sack lying forgotten in the corner of a basement on an olive plantation.
It was Otto, by then suffering from terminal cancer, who withdrew one of the seeds Malledy had obtained and placed it on his tongue. Twenty Archivists witnessed his seven-minute disappearance from bed. When Otto suddenly returned, materializing out of thin air, he was dead. But in his hand was a whole pomegranate and on his face was a smile.
Those seeds were just one of many of Malledy’s successes. Over the next five years he pursued and discovered the chain that had been used to bind Prometheus in punishment for stealing fire from the Gods. Soon after, he followed fragments of ancient conversations and cave paintings in Greece to discover the rough reddish fragment of a small trident that Poseidon, God of the Sea, had given to his half-brother, Chiron. The fragment could create massive waves on demand. And one of Malledy’s most recent accomplishments was the discovery of a platinum scepter encrusted with enormous rubies and emeralds that had once belonged to Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love and Beauty. Each stone was dazzling and unique, with sapphire, diamond, and amethyst starbursts in their centers.
Of course, all of Malledy’s acquisitions were sent to the clients who had paid dearly to acquire them, but the Archivists always retained a tiny fragment of each powerful talisman, storing them in their own vaults. The Archivists had survived through the centuries because they understood that while money was power, ancient artifacts were also power. And Malledy understood this more than most, because the moments when he was allowed to unlock the magic of an artifact and bend it to his will were the only instances in his life where he felt he had an ounce of control….
• • •
A clock in the front hall of the townhouse chimed the hour. Malledy opened his eyes. What am I now? Who am I now? Do I have any choices left or am I just a victim of Huntington’s disease?
“No,” Malledy whispered. “I’m an Archivist and I need to finish what I’ve begun.”
Malledy would find one last artifact for his current client—he was already closing in on success. He’d earn a final and impressive fee for the Archivists and leave Juliette proud of her one-time student and charge. “I’ll have come full circle,” Malledy murmured. Zeus’s lightning stone had been his first discovery. His final acquisition, another of Zeus’ creations, would be his last.
“I do have a choice,” Malledy’s words sounded hollow to his ears. He wondered if his cruel disease would tighten its stranglehold on his body and mind before he found what he was looking for….
Chapter Six
The last class of the day was always the hardest. Evangeline stared out her classroom window at the soccer field where kids in PE were running sprints with varying levels of intensity. Her fingers traced the key at her throat. It felt like it had always been there—like it belonged there.
“Evangeline?” Mrs. Hopkins, stood next to her third-row desk.
“Sorry, what was the question?” Evangeline asked, feeling like she’d been caught stealing. The kids in the English class laughed at her discomfort, but they stopped as soon as Mrs. Hopkins turned to them holding a blackboard eraser. She threw erasers at kids who were passing notes, whispering, or laughing and she had great aim, usually hitting them mid-chest, leaving a rectangular chalk-mark on their clothes.
Mrs. Hopkins turned back to Evangeline, peering at her through oversized horn-rimmed glasses. Her hair was pulled back severely in a low, tight ponytail, and even though she was probably ancient (at least fifty), the English teacher’s skin was unlined. “I asked what you thought F. Scott Fitzgerald meant by ‘the green light.’ So?”
Evangeline felt like she’d been thrust into a spotlight and couldn’t find her voice, instead opening and closing her mouth like a fish flopping on dry land. It wasn’t that she didn’t know the answer—she just couldn’t get it out because everyone was staring at her.
“We’re talking about The Great Gatsby,” Melia hissed from the desk behind Evangeline.
“Zip it, Melia,” Mrs. Hopkins warned.
“Fitzgerald used the green light to symbolize Gatsby’s hopes and dreams,” Lacie offered in an eager voice. “Goth Girl” rarely talked in class, so everyone turned to look at her. Lacie sat hunched in her chair, protected by her dyed black hair, black fingernails, oversized leather jacket, and clunky boots. Too much make-up made her face unnaturally white and the color of her eyes wasn’t visible beneath thick black eyeliner and mascara. “What?” she said defensively.
“That’s correct, Lacie. Maybe Evangeline can now tell us how the green light is related to Gatsby’s fixation on Daisy. Well?”
The bell rang. Thank god.
“Tomorrow there will be a quiz on the various motifs in The Great Gatsby including geography, weather, and symbols. I suggest you study for it, Evangeline.”
“Want to go to Ben & Jerry’s?” Melia asked a few minutes later as they were pulling books from their lockers and stuffing them in their backpacks. “I’ll pay.”
“I thought you and Tristin were going to hang.”
“We can hook up later.” Tristin snuck behind Melia and wrapped his arms around her waist, digging his hands into the front pockets of her skirt. He kissed her neck and Melia’s eyes closed.
“Get a room,” Raphe said as he walked up.
“Sounds like a great idea,” Tristin replied with a wink. He glanced over at Evangeline. “E, I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s different about you today.”
“I’m sixt
een,” Evangeline offered, feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny. All day she’d caught kids glancing at her and then looking away when she turned to them. Do I look that bad? Now Melia was staring, too.
“You do look different, E. You really do.”
“Quit it, you guys!” Evangeline pulled a baseball cap out of her locker, tugging it on to flatten her curls.
“Come on, E, I’ll walk you to the bus,” Raphe offered.
“What about ice cream?” Melia called out as they walked down the hall.
Evangeline didn’t answer because Raphe had draped his arm over her shoulders and she didn’t want to do anything to make him take it away. Not that it means anything. They walked down the steps outside, passing Lacie, who was sucking face with some guy in a shiny leather jacket who looked old enough to be in college.
On the bus, they talked about World Cup Soccer—loved it; Adele’s voice—insane; their dislike of biology and cut flowers—a shame because you were really just killing them; how Ben & Jerry’s ice cream was always better than Haagen Daz even when it was just plain vanilla; and why they thought dapper old Gatsby was totally stupid for pursuing the flighty Daisy. When the bus dropped them off at their stop, Raphe walked Evangeline all the way to her house and somewhere along the way, their fingers ended up woven together.
Is this really happening? Evangeline wondered as her pulse raced. Am I holding Raphe’s hand too tight? Too loose? Please don’t let my hand start sweating! Raphe is holding my hand. Things like this just don’t happen in my world.
“I’ll see you later tonight,” Raphe said.
“What for?”
“Talladega Nights. Remember? Mind if I come for dinner, too?”
“Course not—your mom out of town again?” Raphe’s mom was in pharmaceutical sales and she traveled a ton. His parents were divorced and his dad was out of the picture.
“Yeah—four more days. She wanted me to stay at the neighbors, but the dad smokes and it messes with my asthma.”
Raphe still hadn’t let go of Evangeline’s hand. Suddenly he leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips. After she got over her shock, she kissed him back. Velvet lips…a hint of wintergreen. Then it was over and her friend was tossing his skateboard onto the pavement.
“What was that for?” Evangeline blurted out.
“Your birthday.”
“So, it was just a one time thing.” Evangeline muttered under her breath, but Raphe heard her.
“I sure hope not.” He was grinning. “I’ve liked you for a long time, E, but since you never noticed, I gave myself the deadline of your birthday to do something about it.”
“Why?” Stupid! Don’t point out your faults or he’ll change his mind!
“Maybe cause you don’t know how great you are.”
Evangeline felt her cheeks warm but she didn’t mind.
“That okay with you?”
“Yeah.” Evangeline was grinning now, too.
“Good.” Raphe stepped on his skateboard and she couldn’t help but notice how his jeans hung off his hips and the thin band of skin that showed beneath the hem of his shirt. Raphe waved, and rolled away.
Evangeline stood on the porch watching him until he disappeared around the corner. Sweet sixteen and kissed—Raphe has liked me for a long time?—Can life actually start to be getting good? Sweet sixteen and kissed!
“Hi, I’m home!” Evangeline kicked the front door closed behind her. She tossed the baseball cap onto the hall bench, kicked off her Adidas, and padded into the kitchen. Usually there was a snack for her on the counter, but today there was only a vase with some flowers that had been wilting when she’d left for school but that now looked freshly cut. Her mom sure had a green thumb.
Jasmine was perched on her favorite window ledge and Evangeline scratched the cat behind one of her drooping ears until she purred. “I’m sixteen and I’ve been kissed,” she whispered to the tabby. Jasmine yawned and closed her eyes. Supposedly the cat had belonged to her grandmother, Cleo, and was at least sixty years old. The vet didn’t believe it and neither did Evangeline, but her mom always swore it was true. Regardless, the ancient tabby had probably been kissed a few times in her day and wasn’t impressed at all by Evangeline’s news.
Her mom wasn’t in the kitchen, so she stepped down into the sunroom that doubled as an art studio. An overwhelming, intoxicating perfume greeted her, so thick it was almost palatable. Evangeline wandered into a sea of canvases, some finished and resting on the floor, others sitting on easels half-done or waiting to dry and be transported to whatever gallery was currently showing her mother’s work. On every canvas was painted a flower. What made them different from the work of other artists was that these flowers, in vibrant shades and jarring color combinations, didn’t exist anywhere in the world—only in her mother’s mind. But for some reason they still seemed, well, possible.
A strange notion came to Evangeline. No, I can’t be smelling mom’s paintings, she thought. They’re not real in any sense. She touched the electric purple flower on a canvas, tracing the hard ridges and swirls of paint. For a heartbeat the petals softened into velvet. Gasping, she snatched her hand away.
There was a canvas set on an easel in the corner of the sunroom that was covered with a paint-splattered drop cloth. It was the painting her mom had been refusing to show her. Evangeline glanced over her shoulder, and then quickly lifted the cloth.
The painting was of Evangeline—or at least of the daughter a mother saw through her own eyes. Using all the vibrant colors she used for her flowers, her mom had fashioned bold brush strokes and sharp edges into a beautiful face. Evangeline stared at the image’s eyes. Instead of being too big, they looked feline, slanting slightly upward at the far corners. The blue irises she’d always called eerie were the color of a storm-filled night sky. Her out-of-control blonde curls looked like a lion’s mane (like Raphe had said), and her lips, which were still as wide as a jack-o-lantern’s, seemed soft and provocative—like they had a secret they were about to share.
“It’s me, but it’s not me,” Evangeline said quietly, absently caressing the black key in just the way her mother had always touched the necklace. Why had her mom made her look like someone she wasn’t; someone she was never going to be? The painting felt like a big joke at Evangeline’s expense and she ached with humiliation.
Evangeline plucked up a small card resting at the base of the painting and opened it: To my daughter, Evangeline, who has made my life full of colors I never imagined. I love you, mom. Instantly she felt ashamed. I should be thankful that she loves me enough to paint me at all.
Evangeline raced up the stairs two at a time. “Mom!” she called. “Where are you?” She walked through the upstairs hall, the walls lined with black and white baby photos: Evangeline on a pony; on her mother’s shoulders; in Samantha’s embrace; at her third birthday; swimming in a pool. “About the painting—I hope you’re not planning to hang that monstrosity in a gallery,” Evangeline said aloud, trying to keep her tone playful even though she didn’t feel all that light and lovely. “If people see your version of me, they’ll think you need glasses. Serious, coke-bottle glasses. Mom?”
No answer.
She looked in her bedroom. No mom, just twin beds with green comforters, an antique roll-top desk they’d found at a garage sale, and posters of faraway locales like Bali, Greece and Africa—all places Evangeline hoped to visit when she finally blew out of the fleece-loving, Keene-wearing Pacific Northwest.
She checked the bathroom, hoping she wouldn’t find her mom freaking out again. Her mom’s weird waking nightmares were really starting to worry her. If it kept happening, she would definitely press her mom into seeing a doctor, which would be kinda hard, since neither of them even had one.
“Where are you?” Evangeline called, opening her mother’s bedroom door. She stepped inside and her stomach twisted violently. The mirror had been shattered and bloody glass shards were jumbled on top of the bureau. One white sneaker wa
s poking out from the far side of the bed. She looked away, not wanting to see her mother’s thin ankle. But it was too late. Evangeline slowly walked around the side of the bed, heart pounding in her ears, mouth suddenly bone-dry.
“Mom?”
Her mother lay on her stomach. Her right hand was cut along the knuckles and covered in blood. Did she punch the mirror? Evangeline knelt down and brushed the hair off her mother’s face, fingers resting on the soft skin of her neck. She had a pulse. She wasn’t dead.
“Mom?”
Evangeline shook her mother’s shoulder. And shook it again, harder. Her mom didn’t stir or open her eyes. Evangeline pulled out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1, gave the operator their address, and told him that her mom was unconscious.
“Is she breathing?”
“Yes, but she won’t wake up!” Evangeline’s voice sounded like a little kid’s. She went back to her mom’s side and took her left hand. “Please hurry,” she said into the phone.
“Hang in there. You’ll hear the ambulance really soon,” the operator promised.
Evangeline strained to hear the sirens. But when she finally did, she didn’t feel any relief because her mom looked so tiny and broken and she didn’t understand how this had happened. It should not have happened! Her mom was really young and healthy. She was also the only family Evangeline had, so she needed to wake up.
“Oh god, please wake up. Mom, can you hear me? Mom? Please—please—please wake up!”
The paramedics put Olivia on a gurney. One of them put an IV line into her hand and hung a bag of clear liquid from a pole at the top of the gurney. “Does your mom do any drugs?”
“What? No! No way!”
“Has she been sick? Cold? Flu? High blood pressure, cancer, kidney, lung or heart problems?”
“No, no, none of that! My mom’s super healthy! She’s going to be okay. She has to be—she will be! Right? Right?”
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