It was seven o’clock but Juliette didn’t wake Malledy. She settled in a chair by his bed and watched him sleep as she’d done so many times when he was a baby. His brow was furrowed and she noticed that the tremors were creeping up his arms. The disease was progressing, swallowing body parts of its victim with relentless determination. Malledy mumbled in his sleep and Juliette made sense of a few of his words.
“Lightening bolt…fille…Portland…ahhh… la clé… mmmhph…”
Juliette leaned forward. Fille was French for daughter. La clé meant key. Could it be coincidence? Could it be nothing more than the ramblings of a sick young man? Juliette felt a tingling of foreboding.
“Non, it’s impossible.” I’m so tired, so heartsick, so frustrated, that I’m overacting. But the fear inside her refused to stop growing. Have I made a terrible mistake?
Juliette had not told Malledy names or locations when discussing Pandora or the descendant. But what if he’s known all along? He had chosen his own physician who was located in Portland—was that a coincidence, too? Maybe…but how could Juliette ignore the fact that Malledy had said daughter and key in his sleep?
Malledy was still a brilliant young man. He was fighting for his life. If anyone could find out the truth, despite thousands of years of the Sect creating fictitious documents, misdirection on the highest levels, obfuscations, and false mythology (and when all else failed, countless murders), it would be him. Either way, Juliette needed to find out; she had a responsibility to find out. A wave of horrendous guilt washed over her. Have I told Malledy too much? Have I ignored who he’s become?
Juliette sat down at Malledy’s desk and opened his laptop. She felt another pang of guilt and glanced at her right palm: the P forever scarred into her skin so long ago was faded. They must be my first allegiance. She closed her eyes.
Juliette was not a young woman anymore and leading a double life had taken its toll. A member of Pandora since she was a teenager, she’d joined the Archivists at twenty-three, sought out by the Order for her ground breaking work in several long-forgotten and seemingly dead Asian dialects. Her research had been specifically designed by Pandora to interest the Order because the Sect wanted one of their members to be firmly embedded in the Archivists’ powerful organization. If, the Sect believed, anyone were to find out Pandora’s secrets, it would be the Archivists, so it was important that a woman lived within Castle Aertz to monitor the other Archivists’ work.
Juliette had never wavered in her loyalties. She belonged to Pandora and the Sect was far older than the Archivists and far more deadly. As a member of Pandora, Juliette could not think twice about protecting all they stood for. About protecting the descendant. Even now, as she asked Pandora to allow her to save Malledy’s life, she knew that she might be called upon to sacrifice him.
Why did I tell him all I did? “Because he’d lost all hope,” she whispered and opened her eyes. She began trying passwords and wasn’t surprised to see her attempts to break into the laptop fail. Malledy was a genius. If he had accomplished the unthinkable—finding Pandora and the descendant as well as both talismans, he had done what only a score of men and women had accomplished over thousands of years and none of them lived to tell the tale.
Malledy moaned in his sleep and Juliette turned to look at him. Have I put everything I have pledged my entire life to protect at risk? And if what I fear is true, will I tell the leader and sacrifice you? Do I have a choice?
Malledy began to make a strange clicking sound with his tongue. Juliette pulled out her iPhone and pressed the “record” button. “Clkkk-tkkk-phtkkk-o-kkkl-dmgkk-clkkk-b-tkick-vokk-nkkkk…” Malledy’s tongue clicked rapidly against his palate. When he fell silent, Juliette pressed the “stop” button on her phone and stood. She needed to have the Archivists’ Director of Languages download a file from the audio lab to her computer.
The Archivists’ audio lab contained every language and dialect known to the world and even some thought lost. If Juliette was right, Malledy was speaking in Clickita. He was probably the only outsider in the world fluent in that African dialect, which had fascinated him as a child. Now, as his brain was deteriorating he was reverting to languages he’d taught himself in his youth.
Perhaps, Juliette thought, I can learn more from his nocturnal ramblings before I jump to a conclusion. No one could fault her for being certain, could they? To bring her suspicions to Pandora and not only end her hopes for their help, but sign Malledy’s death warrant would not only be premature but unconscionable. I must be certain, Juliette thought, closing Malledy’s laptop quietly and walking toward the door. She almost felt righteous about her decision.
Chapter Sixteen
Evangeline recognized the mirror. It was the antique with hazy glass that hung over her mother’s bureau. She stood in front of it and her reflection stared back at her: blonde curls around a heart-shaped face. Strange, she’d always thought her face was oval and way too narrow. Her dark-blue eyes curved slightly up at the outer edges, just like they had in her mom’s painting, appearing feline and strangely predatory. For the very first time, Evangeline noticed tiny gold flecks in her irises. Her tongue darted out, licking her lower lip in a nervous habit she hadn’t known she’d acquired. “This isn’t me.” Her lips were still too full, but somehow they’d found a balance within the rest of her features and beneath a nose she’d always considered far too wide. Even her long neck seemed different—almost graceful instead of giraffe-like.
“This isn’t me,” Evangeline repeated. And then a red-hot poker dug into her temple. She winced, fingers flying up to press against her left eye. Evangeline gripped the edge of the bureau to keep from falling. The pain swelled, burrowing into the smallest corners of her mind with sharp claws. Evangeline’s vision narrowed, swirls and stars sparkling in front of her eyes, she opened her mouth to scream, and then, just as suddenly as it began, the agony receded, leaving her sweating and short of breath.
“What the hell?” Evangeline opened her eyes and looked at her reflection. But it was her mother’s face staring back at her.
“Help me, E,” her mother was begging.
“Mom! Tell me how!”
Her mother’s reflection pressed the tips of her own fingers into her left temple, the blue vein pulsing. The vein grew larger and bulged between her mother’s fingers, taking on a bumpy consistency, as if there was something other than blood pumping through its walls. Abruptly, her mother’s temple tore open and hundreds of tiny black spiders burst out in a stream of cherry blood! Evangeline gasped. The spiders skittered across her mother’s face—a sea of hairy-bristled, yellow-eyed arachnids—and streamed into her nose and mouth. As her mother’s eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, Evangeline punched her fist into the glass…
• • •
Evangeline woke in a burst of pain. The knuckles of her right hand were scraped and bleeding. She licked away the blood. Another nightmare. But was it? She couldn’t stop herself from wondering if what she’d just dreamed had really happened to her mom. She asked for my help. How can I help her now?
Evangeline looked around. Where am I? The room she was in was pastel-green with yellow bears stenciled along the baseboards. There was a white crib in one corner, and above it were two small paintings of iridescent purple flowers so shiny, it seemed the blossoms were three-dimensional. Evangeline recalled her mom painting those flowers a few years ago. On the far wall, beneath a large picture window, was a bureau that matched the crib. The knobs on the drawers depicted Winnie the Pooh, Owl, Rabbit, and Tigger.
Evangeline hadn’t seen any of this at four o’clock when she’d finally fallen onto a futon couch, pulled a blanket over her, and instantly passed out. She rolled off the futon, made a weak attempt to smooth down the clothes she’d slept in, and walked over to the paintings, stopping when she smelled their intoxicating scent. “They’re not real,” she said, and instantly the perfume was gone.
A man cleared his throat and Evangeline turned to
see Dr. Sullivan standing in the doorway of his kid’s nursery. “Um, hi,” she said, looking at her feet because she suddenly felt overwhelmingly awkward and self-conscious. “You didn’t tell my mom you owned some of her paintings.”
“It wasn’t pertinent.” Dr. Sullivan was already showered and dressed for work—a starched white button-down shirt, khakis, and brown leather shoes. He could be in a Timberland catalogue, Evangeline thought as she peered at him. “There’s some cereal and milk in the kitchen.”
“That’s okay—but thank you. I’ll just eat something later at the hospital.”
Confusion colored Dr. Sullivan’s expression.
“What’s wrong?” Evangeline asked, quickly looking down to make sure her shirt was on straight and the fly of her jeans zipped.
“It’s just—you look different.”
Evangeline shrugged, trying to flatten her hair. Maybe I look different because I watched my godmother try to murder my mom last night—that’ll change a girl quick.
“It all really happened, didn’t it?” She forced her eyes to meet the doctor’s.
“I’m sorry—yes. Detective Morrison called. Samantha Harris’ office and apartment were totally cleaned out. Morrison said whoever did it was a professional and didn’t leave a fingerprint or anything else that could identify Sam. And there’s no Social Security number for any Samantha Harris. So, according to Morrison, your godmother has vanished without a trace. I’m so sorry.” Dr. Sullivan walked back into the hall. “Morrison said to bring you by the station so he can fill out paperwork and someone can take you to a group home.”
Group home? What does that mean? “Will I still get to see my mom?”
Dr. Sullivan ran a hand through his short hair. “I really don’t know.”
Don’t panic—don’t panic—think. “You have to go to the hospital every day, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then can I—can I please stay with you a little bit longer, just so I can spend time with my mom?”
Dr. Sullivan shook his head. “Sorry, but no can do. You really should eat before I take you to the police station.”
Evangeline pushed cold cereal around a blue ceramic bowl in the kitchen of Dr. Sullivan’s modern house. She noticed that there was a large pile of unopened mail on the counter and a lot of gift-wrapped boxes and pink gift bags on the floor. Dirty dishes filled the sink. Pictures of who Evangeline quickly surmised was Dr. Sullivan’s gorgeous wife were stuck with magnets on the sub-zero refrigerator. In one, the woman was in Middlebury sweatshirt riding a bike, her brown ponytail flying. In another, the couple was grinning on a red-plaid picnic blanket. A third shot showed their wedding day. They looked like the couple on top of a five-tier cake. There was also a black and white sonogram on the fridge door.
“So, are they on a trip?”
Dr. Sullivan’s pager went off and he pulled out his cell phone to dial a number. “Dr. Sullivan…Yes…Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen.” He hung up and looked at Evangeline.
No more bad news, Evangeline prayed. No more.
“One of your mother’s kidneys has stopped functioning. The other is working at thirty percent.”
Evangeline’s fingers darted to the key. The smooth stone gave off tiny prickles of electricity. She had the strange notion that maybe the feeling was her mom reaching out—but that was crazy. Quit it! Crazy is the last thing you need right now.
“Dr. Sullivan, can you explain to me what the kidney thing means?”
“The part of your mom’s brain that regulated her kidneys isn’t working anymore. We’ll monitor her still-functioning organ and put her on dialysis if necessary. But—”
“But, what?” Why do I keep asking questions when I don’t want to know the answers?
“I’m sorry—but when this happens to the kidneys, it’s the first step in her body breaking down.”
“Let me go with you to the hospital!” Evangeline begged. “Please!” A shiver ran down her spine and she recalled the childish idea that a chill meant someone had just walked over the grave of a person you loved. “Please! I need—I deserve the chance to say goodbye, don’t I?”
Dr. Sullivan hesitated, then grabbed his keys and headed to the door. “Okay. Let’s go.”
They rode in silence for a while.
“Why did you help me last night?” Evangeline finally asked.
“Because no one should be all alone at a time like this—especially not a kid.” Dr. Sullivan reached below his seat and pulled out a silver thermos. He put it between his knees and unscrewed the top, took a swallow and then screwed the cap back on.
“We can swing by Coffee People and get you fresh joe,” Evangeline offered, figuring the stuff he was drinking would have to be pretty nasty from being in his car for who knows how long.
“I’m fine.”
Evangeline nodded, but she had the distinct impression that Dr. Sullivan was lying.
Chapter Seventeen
Juliette watched Malledy put books and folders in his black backpack—the backpack he’d insisted on buying to attend classes that were so remedial for him as to be ridiculous.
“I want to experience what it would’ve been like to be a normal kid,” Malledy had said, “while there’s still time.”
I believed him, Juliette silently thought, because I wanted to believe. Just as I wanted to believe that his choice of a physician practicing in Portland, Oregon was a coincidence. She had left Castle Aertz and flown with Malledy to Portland seven weeks ago so that Malledy could be poked, prodded, imaged, and treated like a guinea pig by Dr. Aali, the specialist he’d said might be able to find a cure, or at least give him more time.
And Juliette had let Malledy attend a local high school, even though he had to take a triple dose of anti-spasmodic drugs so his tremors wouldn’t be visible to the other kids. All because he’d wanted to be live out a fantasy of what life would’ve been like if he hadn’t been brought to the castle; if he hadn’t been a genius accepted into the Order.
“You look exhausted,” Malledy said, hoisting his backpack over one shoulder. He wore the New York sweatshirt he’d insisted on buying when their plane had landed at JFK airport, jeans that hung off his hips, and Nikes.
“I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Maybe you should take a rest—”
“I know.”
Malledy looked at her quizzically. “Juliette, are you okay?”
“Last night I translated words you mumbled in your sleep. You were speaking Clickita.”
Malledy’s raised his eyebrows. “I was? Okay, but why would you do that?”
“Don’t you want to know what you said?”
Malledy walked over to the window by his desk and stared out at Mount Hood. “It’s not much of a mountain compared to the Italian Alps, is it?” He turned back to Juliette. “Say what you want to say.”
“I couldn’t translate all of it, but I got enough. Mother. Key. Daughter. Box. Need both.”
“What does that mean?” Malledy asked, appearing confused.
Juliette wasn’t buying his act. She was not a genius, but she, too, was brilliant. “That you know that there are two descendants; that you know that there are also two artifacts; that you are trying to acquire both of those talismans!”
Malledy shrugged and sat down on the bed. “Isn’t that what we do, Juliette? We’re Archivists. We acquire, through any means necessary, talisman for our clients. You taught me that.”
Juliette felt her blood run cold. “Why would you hide your work from me?”
“I wanted to surprise you,” Malledy said earnestly. “To make one final acquisition for you to be proud of before I lost the ability to walk, let alone talk and think.”
Juliette’s heart felt like it was literally being torn in two. “Malledy, don’t you understand that I was placed into the Archivists’ Order by Pandora to guard against this instance?”
Malledy stared at the carpet, unable to meet Juliette’s gaze. “But I�
��m dying.”
“You are playing a deadly game.” You are losing your mind. Juliette sat down next to Malledy and took his hand. “So much can go wrong, mon fils.”
“Listen to me,” Malledy said, squeezing her hand. “I don’t want the artifacts.”
“Liar.”
Malledy looked truly wounded. “In another life, maybe, but I just want to live. At first I was just looking for Pandora’s Box for a client—I swear. Finding the key was a means to that end. But then you told me about the descendant and her ability to heal me. You gave me hints—you practically led me to the Sect!”
Juliette felt like she’d been punched in the gut. For a moment she couldn’t breathe and an intense wave of nausea washed over her. He’s right. I’ve betrayed Pandora. How can I make this right?!
Malledy rushed on. “Listen, Juliette, please! You’ve said yourself that the chance that Pandora will allow the girl to heal me isn’t a given. So I need to have a fall-back plan. If I have the artifacts, the Sect will have to make the descendant heal me! Once I’m better I’ll give both talismans back. I swear it! And I’ll tell the client that I hit a dead end and couldn’t find the box. Don’t you see, using the box and key as leverage are my only hope!” Malledy began to cry. Embarrassed, he turned away.
“Don’t,” Juliette said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Malledy grabbed her wrist, his grip tight as a vice. “Then tell me where Pandora’s Box is hidden—your Sect must know!”
“You’re hurting me,” Juliette said, wincing.
Malledy immediately let go. “I would never hurt you. Never. But time is running out for me. Every day it’s harder to make my muscles respond. Soon the disease will attack my brain and if I haven’t located the box, then there’s no hope for me.”
“What about the key?” Juliette demanded. Malledy met her gaze. He knows where it is. “I don’t know where the box is,” she admitted. “I’ve never had the need to know.” This was the truth and she could see that Malledy believed her by the crestfallen look on his face.
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