Thomas didn’t know how to respond. He just said, “Huh?” and hoped his breathing wasn’t audible.
“Read your mind,” she said. “I can’t do it anymore. FYI.”
“I’m leaving,” said Thomas, suddenly desperate for fresh air, to be away from this wretched place and from this horrible girl who had caused him so much grief last year.
Is Tommy scared? What’s the matter? You don’t like our house?
“Don’t go,” Valentin said. He sounded sad, even a little pleading. “Maybe hang out for a little while?” Thomas turned and looked him in the face. They had never been friends, but Thomas had seen a lot of Valentin last year, and seeing him without his signature bravado and confidence made Thomas feel sorry for the guy. He was twitching.
“Why aren’t you in Geneva?” he asked again.
“Geneva?” said Victoria. “We never left this apartment.”
Thomas looked around again, at the grimy walls, the branching hallways, the broken table, and the hellish light emanating from the blobs of wax. “This can’t be the same apartment.”
Victoria laughed. “Why not? Because pretty things are pretty forever?”
I like her. You know what, Tommy? I think we should stay.
Thomas tried not to shake. “Where’s Belle? And Christian and Bicé?”
“Long gone,” said Valentin. “The three of them ran off and left us here. You’ll never find ’em. Wish I’d gone, too. . . .”
“So why don’t you leave?” said Thomas. It was hard not moving toward the door every few seconds. He had this strange feeling that the exit might suddenly disappear.
Valentin gave a mournful, sardonic laugh. “You can’t just walk out of prison. She’s holding us here. . . .”
“But the door opened so easily —” said Thomas.
Valentin looked around with hungry eyes. What he said next made Thomas want to turn and run and never come back. Valentin looked at the air just behind Thomas and said, “What door?” His expression was innocent and hopeful.
Nice one, Mom.
Now Thomas had to sit down. He dropped to the filthy floor. He rubbed his aching forehead with both palms. “Tell me about her,” he said. He knew he didn’t have to explain any more. Everyone in town knew that his father had recently married the governess. Victoria and Valentin must realize that Thomas, too, was in her clutches now.
“She’s no governess,” said Valentin. He had a faraway look in his eyes. The Valentin that Thomas knew was no longer there. He was a dead thing. A half zombie.
“No!” said Victoria. Thomas saw her scoop up a few dead bugs from the floor and whisper to them as if they, too, had a say in this decision. “Don’t tell him anything!”
“Shut up,” said Valentin. “Thomas, just stay away from Vileroy. She can do a lot of . . . bad things . . . very bad things to you.”
“She’s some kind of witch, isn’t she?” said Thomas. “Black magic and all that. . . .”
Valentin shook his head. He stepped closer until his face was just a few inches from Thomas’s ear. Then he whispered, “Not a witch. . . . She’s a demon.”
The chill that passed through Thomas’s body might very well have frozen his organs and all the blood in his veins. How could that be true? It must be a game, or a dream, or hallucination. But, then again, how had the apartment changed so much? How had Victoria read his mind at last year’s debate competition? How had the five Faust children accomplished so many extraordinary things in the short months that they’d been at Marlowe? He remembered now that Bicé spoke dozens of languages — a thing that had seemed only slightly odd back then because of all the time she spent studying — and that Christian had pummeled everyone in every sport he tried. That, too, hadn’t seemed so strange at the time.
“Why . . . ?” He trailed off, not knowing how to finish.
“Because,” said Valentin. “We sold our souls to her.”
Now all Thomas could do was laugh. “You’re kidding, right?” When Valentin didn’t laugh, Thomas inched toward the door until he had one foot outside.
Valentin eyed him hungrily. “I can’t see your foot anymore,” he said, his voice now dreamy, as if in a trance. “Is that where the door is?”
Victoria, too, had now jumped up and was moving toward Thomas. “Yes!” she said. “That’s the door! His foot is through the door.”
Thomas was panting. “You . . . you really can’t see this door?”
The two prisoners shook their heads. “Just walls,” whispered Valentin.
Out of sheer pity, Thomas put his foot back in the room. “Will you guys help me figure something out?” he asked. “I think she’s drugging me. I can’t remember things anymore . . . and that night, when I came to dinner . . .”
Valentin didn’t take his eyes off the spot. “She made you forget. She has potions.”
“What kind of potions?” Thomas asked.
Victoria shrugged. “Ones that change your face and body, like the one Belle used. Ones that make you young, like the one Bicé used. Val and I never took any of her serums. You’d have to ask Belle and Bicé . . . but, like Val said, you’ll never find them.”
Already Thomas knew that he had to find them. There were so many questions unanswered. He knew now that what happened at the dance — that horrible moment when his beautiful girlfriend had become a monster — was a result of Vileroy’s magic. He knew also that at various instances in the last year (who knows how many times), his own body had been infected with her serums and potions. He felt violated, though he realized the irony of it. He had put plenty of dangerous substances in his own body. Even now he held on to his new treasure, the bottle of W, like a security blanket.
Still, he was determined to find some answers.
He promised himself that he would find Belle and Bicé.
“I gotta go,” said Thomas. “I’m sorry.” He tried not to look at their desperate faces as he rushed toward the exit. But before he could leave, Thomas remembered something. “What about her son?” Thomas asked.
Victoria laughed.
Valentin’s eyes widened at the horrible possibility — a reaction that made Thomas a hundred times more curious. “No way,” said Valentin. “I’m her favorite. If she had a son, I’d know about it.”
They all say that.
“How did the Egyptian girl lose her immortality?”
“Why are you so obsessed with these old stories, my friend? You’ve asked so often I think maybe this is the only reason you come to see me.”
“I’m sorry. But I have to know, and you’re the only bookseller who’s read it all. Just tell me how to —”
“How to what, Bicé? These are just old legends. They mean nothing. But every time you come to my library, you are interested in only this one old myth.”
“I’m curious. What do the legends say about how to kill a demon like her? I mean kill her for good.”
“Oh, there are so many theories. Some said a simple crucifix to the eye would do it, but that only left her scarred. Some call on God and the angels. Others say it is a matter of human will. According to legend, she’s hidden her life source in serums and potions over the millennia, but the last of it is now tied to her son.”
“So what’s the answer?”
“Nothing. She has found a host for her son’s soul. He is weak, confused. Soon Hyde will return, and so will the demon Vileroy.”
For days after the visit, Thomas was frantic. Should he call the police? Would they believe him? Clearly Vileroy was holding Valentin and Victoria by using some kind of magic. What could the police do against a demon? I have to get out of town.
But where? Thomas considered his options. He could visit his great-aunt in Berlin, or, better yet, his cousin who was a lawyer at the international criminal court in The Hague, or just go to some beach for a mini-holiday.
The thought resurfaced that the only way to be free from Edward and Edward’s crimes was to find Belle and her twin sister, Bicé.
N
ow he was sure that all of these magic dusts had to be linked:
Bonedust and Bicé’s potion both brought youth.
W and Belle’s potion both altered physical appearance.
W and bonedust both healed wounds.
That made a full circle. All of these formulas must have the same source, or at least similar ones. According to John Darling, bonedust belonged to the missing school nurse, which was a dead end. He was left with Belle and Bicé. The thought of those happy months dating the beautiful Belle Faust sent a shiver of sadness through his body. He shook it off, summoning all his courage. He would have to find the missing Faust twins, wherever they were hiding.
He jumped up from his bed and plopped down at his desk, his foot tapping the floor as he waited the four seconds for his computer to turn on. He opened an Internet browser, but when he put his fingers on the keys, he realized he had no idea what to type. How do you search for three missing kids who may not want to be found? He searched some local missing children agencies but realized that no one would be looking for the Fausts. Their governess was the only person they had. His mind began to wander to Belle’s room and all the beauty contest photos and clippings, and his fingers typed the words beauty contest winner before he snapped back to attention and chuckled at the stupidity of such a search.
Belle is ugly now.
What trace of herself would a girl that used to be beautiful leave on the Internet? How would you catch her scent? A good investigative lawyer would know exactly what to look for. A girl obsessed with beauty. A horrible face. Probably no money or resources. Probably living in a sleepy little town with low prices — somewhere no one from New York City would go. He began searching beauty forums where desperate women share low-cost tips. There were so many anonymous girls there, with names and concerns like hers. Any of them could have been Belle.
BelleF303: I feel so ugly.
Bellissima22549: How do I make my nose look smaller?
LadyBella.xxx: Any tips on covering blemishes on a budget?
BBNewJersey5: Can you get crow’s-feet at 17?
IsabelleW623: Who will love me now?
It was exhausting reading their posts.
“Searching for beauty tips?”
Thomas jumped up and clasped his chest. He turned to face his best friend, Connor. “How did you get in?”
Connor shrugged. “I rang the bell. And then I knocked on your door. Why so distracted?” He peeked over Thomas’s shoulder at the screen again.
Thomas sighed. No point in hiding everything. “I’m looking for Belle.”
Connor’s jaw dropped open. “Why? . . . And how? . . . And, also, WHY?”
“Never mind,” said Thomas, turning back to his chair and the computer screen. “Look, I’ll call you later.”
“Hey, now,” said Connor. “Look, if you need closure, I get it. Let me help. Did you try Geneva?”
Thomas shrugged. Connor leaned over Thomas’s shoulder and stared at the chat-room conversation for a few seconds.
“Maybe it’d be better to search for Christian instead,” he said finally. Thomas could hear in his put-on casual tone that he hated mentioning his old athletic rival. Connor continued, “He was always in the school paper for wins or records. Remember when he broke the record for longest drive? He ended up in city papers, too.”
Of course. Christian’s golf drive was so long he could have played in the Masters. Thomas remembered the fun they used to have, playing golf and making fun of stupid things. He held his breath as he typed, Newcomer high-school champ breaks record. A thousand hits. He scrolled through them one by one — each of them in a different state, different city — looking for someone with a cluster of wins in several different sports. Some stories had pictures and he could eliminate them quickly. Others had names that Connor entered into Facebook on his phone to make sure they weren’t Christian.
“You know what?” said Connor, an hour and two sandwich breaks later. He was leaning back on an ergonomic desk chair in the corner of Thomas’s room, tossing and catching a tennis ball. “Christian hated sports.”
Thomas turned in his chair. “I know, but he’d still play, right?”
Connor shrugged. “Maybe not. He’s free to do whatever he wants, right?”
Thomas had never considered this — maybe because at Marlowe no kids got to choose what talents they didn’t pursue. There were too many parents and counselors and teachers pushing them forward. Was it like that in the rest of the country? Probably not.
Last year Connor had almost drowned in a swim meet, and Christian hung his head and said he wished that they would just eliminate the sports program. He used to spend all his free time writing poems.
Connor jumped up from his chair and watched as Thomas typed, Newcomer wins high-school poetry prize. He scrolled past an article about a Chinese girl in Raleigh who taught herself English, past a thirteen-year-old boy from San Francisco and an angry girl with long hair looking disdainfully at her medal. Again, he focused on the ones in which one kid had won lots of different contests in one town.
Then, a photo from the Sandy Cove Times caught his eye. A boy with long reddish hair hanging over his eyes, just barely touching his gaunt cheeks, looking away from the camera as the school principal gave him a trophy. He seemed desperate to get off the stage. From the surroundings in the photo and the principal’s shabby suit, he could tell that this was a small, overlooked town bordered by prettier cities. Every state has one — a Podunk place everyone else can look down on and feel lucky they don’t live in. The picture was from a second-rate high school in a drive-through town on the way to somewhere better. He read the article out loud. The town was in Maine somewhere, and the boy was named Jamie West. Could this Jamie kid really be Christian Faust, his old friend, the Marlowe superstar? “Is it him?” he whispered, chills running down his back as he waited for Connor to respond. Connor only stared and shrugged.
There was no way to be sure. Jamie was so thin, the lines of his chin and jaw sunken and bony. He definitely didn’t have Christian’s Super Bowl build. In fact, he was swimming in his jeans and red button-up flannel shirt.
But that was definitely Christian’s red hair.
“What about that one?” said Connor, pointing to another article in the Google search. “Try it.” It was a local poetry and prose contest in south Texas, in a town called Midfield, and the big winner of the day was a boy named Christian Ford. Strangely enough, the boy refused to have his picture taken because of some crazy belief that the photos would suck out his soul and he would no longer be able to write.
Connor burst out laughing. “Are you freaking kidding me?” he said. “That’s him. It has to be him!”
“No way,” said Thomas. “That kind of fauxhemian creative crap doesn’t sound like Christian at all.”
“The name sure does,” said Connor.
Thomas nodded. Didn’t Valentin and Victoria say that they had sold their souls to Vileroy? Besides, if the Fausts were hiding from their evil governess, wouldn’t Christian need some excuse to avoid being photographed? He almost wished he could tell Connor these last details.
As Thomas’s thoughts drifted between Christian Ford and Jamie West, he thought of Belle again. Beautiful Belle weeping somewhere, hiding her face from the world, pouring her sorrow into some anonymous beauty chat room. Was she in Sandy Cove, Maine, or Midfield, Texas? “Hey, I have another idea,” said Thomas. Hands shaking, he opened a news search engine and typed in, Girl without face.
“Crap! Look here.” Connor pointed to the fourth hit. “That’s just creepy.”
Girl in Burka Refuses to Relent: Two months and still without face.
The story was about a brother and sister who had moved into a sleepy town and enrolled at the local high school. The girl wore a burka to orientation and again on the first day of school. When her teachers complained that they couldn’t teach a girl whose face they had never seen, a small controversy arose. During the first month of school, the debate was
quashed by many fervent references to freedom of religion and expression. But then someone found out that the girl’s family wasn’t Muslim at all. Strangely, the article said, the girl’s brother was an agnostic of Scottish descent, and her single mother was just an old coot with a sweet smile and an optimistically oblivious attitude to the hereafter. Still, most school officials sided with the girl, claiming she could have her own personal beliefs. But then sparks flew once more, when they put the girl in an all-girl classroom and she still refused to take off the burka.
Thomas scanned the page for a photo. There was nothing helpful — just a snapshot of a figure with black coverings draping all around her as she glided through a hallway of lockers, a dozen eyes on her as she went.
The article was from a town called Sandy Cove, Maine.
The girl’s name was Isabelle West.
As his father’s private jet sped down the runway and tilted upward, Thomas began to relax. He sipped sodas with Connor, crunched on some crushed ice, and thought about what he would say to Jamie and Isabelle — aka Christian and Belle. His foot continued to tap on the carpeted floor, half from nerves and half from the excitement of having cracked such a gargantuan mystery.
“You know,” said Connor, “I’ve never seen a guy go to so much trouble just to get closure. Are you sure you’re telling me everything?”
“I never tell you everything,” said Thomas.
“Any more pita chips over there?”
Thomas tossed him a fresh bag from a minibar beside his chair. He was jittery with excitement. He had spent the better part of a day glued to his computer, reading article after article, and he had finally pieced everything together. When he asked his father if he could use the plane, his dad laughed and said, “No way,” until he heard Thomas was going on a day trip with Connor. “Really?” he said. “You’re hanging out with Connor again? Good, good. Yeah, have fun.”
Then Thomas had spent another two hours researching and prepping what he would say to his old friends when he found them. It was hard work, but completely worth it. He promised himself that he would do this again, maybe in a few years, when he was interning at a human-rights project, or later, as a junior lawyer in a firm dedicated to pro-bono humanitarian cases. He would pay his dues and crack tough cases, just as he had today. He would be exhausted and hungry and it would feel so good.
Another Jekyll, Another Hyde Page 14
