by N. D. Wilson
“Miracle was my maiden name,” she said.
“I thought it was Greensides.”
“I changed it. Before we got married. Then I changed it again to your father’s.”
To her surprise, Alex nodded.
“So that’s where Dad got it. He gave your maiden name to Sam Miracle. I always knew he named Millie after you in those stories. He went the whole way, I guess.”
This time Millie laughed out loud. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess he did.” Reaching over, she messed up her son’s dark hair, and then grabbed the shifter and crunched the frosty car into drive.
“Let’s go find your father.”
ON TOP OF ONE OF THE DOZEN TALL LIGHT POLES IN THE grocery store parking lot, a large gray owl was perched in the cold. His eyes were closed and his shoulders up, feathers ruffling in the breeze. As the brown car bounced and squeaked toward the street, a shadow flashed out of the store, crossed the snow and ice, and circled the light pole, rising up around it in a tightening corkscrew until it disappeared into the owl’s back with a whispered whumpf.
Small feathers drifted down. The bird rocked forward, and its wide yellow eyes popped open, blinked, and focused on the car.
After a moment, the bird’s head swiveled. From the tops of six poles, six pairs of yellow eyes blinked back.
Seven owls spread silent wings, and leapt into the wintry air.
3
Services Required
ON AN ISLAND HUNDREDS OF MILES TO THE WEST OF ALEX Monroe’s sleepy street, nearly five-and-a-half decades after Alex Monroe’s strange night, a teenaged Glory Spalding kicked off her blankets and leapt out of bed. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet, but she was hot. Sweating. And her heart was pounding with panic from some forgotten dream. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling for her; these days nightmares lived in every corner of her subconscious. They most often featured a boy she didn’t recognize being devoured by shadow. Sometimes she grabbed on to him, sometimes she just watched, but always, he was pulled away and consumed.
The air was cool on her damp skin. The fire in her massive bedroom fireplace was nothing but ash. Exhaling slowly, she looked out her wall of picture windows at the Puget Sound. The evergreen islands in the distance were just visible in the pink predawn. The water was sleeping perfectly and peacefully, dark glass beneath the sky.
“Glory?”
She jumped in surprise, barely managing to bite back a scream. Jude leaned into her bedroom.
“Gosh,” she exhaled, resting her hands on her hips. “You startled me.”
“Sorry,” Jude said. “I didn’t know you were up. Something’s happened. Is Peter around?”
“Maybe,” Glory said. “But he wasn’t last night. What’s going on?”
Jude stepped all the way into the room. His curly head was freshly trimmed—thanks to Millie—and he was wearing a coat and boots.
“It’s the pigs,” he said. “I think I tried to send myself a message last night.”
Glory pulled the rubber band out of her tattered sleep ponytail, letting her hair fall over her shoulders before she gathered it back into a tidier version.
“You think you did?” she asked. “Why don’t you know?”
“Because I didn’t do it from here,” he said. “I did it from the future. Well, the past, actually. And probably even a different past. But my future is in the past. You already know that—sorry. Either way, an older me—the one that writes the books—sent a message. A story. I got some of it.”
Glory shrugged on an oversized zip sweatshirt with a fleece lining and began to dig into her dresser for thick socks. Spring mornings on Neverland island were always cold, and her body heat was already fading.
“I don’t follow,” Glory said. “How did the message come? One of your dreams? Was it about Sam?”
“The pigs busted out of the pen and were squealing all around the gardens. When Millie and I finally caught them, we saw they had writing all over their skins.”
Glory faced Jude, a sock in each hand. “Someone wrote on the pigs?”
“More like in the pigs,” Jude said. “Each letter was like a little blister under the skin. And it was typed, in straight little lines on little page-shaped rectangles. And let me say, it isn’t easy to read a hairy sow’s back while she’s upset.”
“And you think you’re the one who typed on the pigs?” Glory asked.
“No doubt.” Jude nodded. “Remember how Dervish could send messages into skin? Well, I’ve been planning on trying it with the pigs. I figured that if I made vellum from the skins after Millie made the bacon, and then saved blood to mix with ink, then it could be possible to send a message back to myself from the future if there was some super emergency I needed to know about. Something we had to avoid now.”
“And you did it?” Glory asked.
Jude laughed. “Apparently I figured it out. And with a typewriter, too.”
“So what did it say?” Glory asked. “Why are you in here telling me?” Dropping onto the edge of her bed, she pulled on her thick socks and hopped back up.
“The future is tricky,” Jude said. “It’s slippery, not always true, because it doesn’t stay put. Of course, you know that already.”
Glory moved toward the door. “I need breakfast. Tell me now or follow me down and watch me eat.”
“It was a part of a story,” Jude said. “Millie and I shaved three of the pigs and read as much as we could. But then something happened: the letters boiled and seemed to steam away, and the pigs completely freaked out and broke loose again.”
“Spit it out, Jude,” Glory said. Her voice was flat. “Just say it.”
Jude cleared his throat. Glory watched his expression sink. He had been delaying for her sake, not his.
“The Vulture has an heir.” His voice was tight. “A kid. The part I read was pretty awful.”
“El Buitre’s son?” Glory asked. “Who is he? Why didn’t we know?”
“Not his son,” Jude said. He bit his lower lip and then sighed. “In the story . . . Dervish picks him. Plants the watch chains in his heart. He’s just a little bit Navajo, and there are some ancestral owl guardians that I don’t understand. And then it’s . . . well, I’d say World War III, but it’s more like a complete and total unhinging of history.”
“What’s his name?” Glory asked.
Jude wiped his mouth.
“Jude . . .”
“Alexander,” Jude said. “His name is Alexander.”
“Of course it is,” Glory said. “My brother.” Her head fell forward and she stared the floor. “And he wants to conquer the world, no doubt.”
“I’m sorry,” Jude said. “Not your brother. Worse. That part was clear. Dervish is going to hunt down your son, Glory.”
Glory dropped back onto the edge of her bed.
“My son?” She blinked. Were her nightmares warnings? Was the boy she didn’t recognize her son? “Jude, tell me everything you read. Tell me now. Future you wouldn’t have sent the message if we couldn’t stop it.”
ALEX SAT AT HIS DESK, PENCIL IN HAND, STARING UP AT HIS calendar, trying not to listen to his parents talking in the living room, but also holding perfectly still so that he could hear every single thing. After he had relayed everything from the night before to his father, he had been sent to his room.
Thank goodness for hollow bedroom doors and terrible construction.
“Listen to me,” Jude said to Millie. “That was me calling the grocery store, not some villain. Me. I wasn’t trying to scare you, but it was urgent.”
“They called me Millicent Miracle. Right on the loudspeaker.”
“I needed your attention. My memories were changing. And so was my last manuscript. Someone is messing with our timelines. And I saw an owl. On a streetlight across the cul-de-sac. And not a normal owl; the color under the wings was bluish.”
“You think it was the old man?” Millie asked. “The one who gave Sam his snakes?”
“Don’t know. B
ut if any of the dream-walkers have an eye on us, then trouble is coming for sure. Peter’s family never plays at lifeguard for no reason. I hope it was one of them, and not one of those other flying . . . things.”
Alex began to shade in a shape on his paper, a winged shadow. He used the pencil gently, so he could still hear.
“We didn’t run from the store because of my old name,” Millie said. “There was a flying shadow, Jude. And I didn’t see any owl feathers. It was like a smaller version of those awful Tzitzi demons that came after us in Neverland. And that means she found us. If your memories are changing, then it must be her.”
“But why?” Jude asked. “We’re nothing. We don’t have anything. The Vulture is dead, and Sam and Glory have been missing for years.”
“We have Alex,” Millie said. “Peter’s family would care a lot more about him than about us. That would explain the owl. And if that woman has Alex’s blood, she can reach him anywhere.”
“But why would she?” Jude asked. “After all this time? What would she want with him?”
Alex stopped shading his drawing and looked up, holding his breath, waiting for a reply, or for some explanation. He wasn’t sure that he trusted what he was hearing. He’d assumed his parents would be discussing reality, but it sounded more like a discussion of one of the Miracle manuscripts.
“Jude,” Millie said. “That woman is patient. How many times was I killed, just to get at my brother? I remember, because I still dream every one of them. If she’s after Alex, it will be because she has a plan to hurt his parents in some way worse than we could ever imagine.”
And then silence. No. Not quite. Whispers. Completely inaudible.
“Come on,” Alex said, frustrated. He was done. This was all too weird. He wasn’t gonna let them keep him out of it. Dropping his pencil he pushed back his chair, stood up, and headed for his door before he had a chance to change his mind.
“Hey!” He stepped out into the hall and headed for the living room. His father was sitting on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, leaning toward his mother. She was on the couch, both hands on her face. Alex was hot, heart jumping, blood pumping.
“Could someone please tell me what’s going on? The truth, please. I’m not a little kid. I’m not going to sit in my bedroom while you talk. Who took my blood? Why was the book burning in the yard?”
Jude ran his hands through his ragged curls. Millie tucked her thumbnail between her teeth. They looked at each other.
Alex waited, but not for long.
“Mom, you said that burnt page wasn’t typed on paper and it wasn’t in ink. So, what was it? Let’s start there.”
“Pigskin,” Jude said suddenly. “Vellum. From a pig.” He gestured at the couch, next to Millie. “Sit.”
Alex wasn’t sure he wanted to, but his dad had a firm look in his eye and his sharp jaw was set, so he dropped down next to his mother. She immediately grabbed his knee.
“First,” Jude said. “We don’t know who came in the house last night, and we don’t know if they’re hostile. And we don’t know if they’re connected to the shadow you saw at the store.”
“They took blood, Jude,” Millie said. “Not friendly. And neither are any of the flying shadows I’ve ever seen.”
Jude raised his hand until she finished. “We don’t know.” He shrugged. “We just don’t. Second, and far more importantly, Alex, it’s time you learned a little bit more about yourself.”
“And us,” Millie added.
“And us,” Jude agreed. “But you already know a lot more than you realize. You’ve read about Sam Miracle.”
Alex nodded. “Not the new one, though, you wouldn’t let me.”
“Well . . .” Jude and Millie glanced at each other.
“They’re true, honey,” Millie said. “The stories are true. And they’re our stories.”
“Mostly true,” Jude said. “All the major points.”
Alex cocked his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Father Tiempo,” Millie said.
“Peter Eagle,” Jude said, nodding. “Very, very real.”
“And he’s one of your great-uncles,” Millie said. “With more greats than I can count. He cares about you.”
“Time travel?” Alex asked. This had to be a joke. He felt like a fool, like a trap was closing in on him and at any minute they would all start laughing and he would officially be the stupid one. But these were his parents, not punks at school. His mom didn’t do jokes. And his dad only wrote them.
“Time travel isn’t pleasant,” Millie said. “But it’s real.”
Alex felt the room swaying under him. The couch was riding waves. He looked at his mother and his eyes went blurry. The stories were playing out through his mind. The Vulture hunting Sam and kidnapping and killing his sister Millie . . . over and over again. Mrs. Dervish the witch. All the Lost Boys and Manuelito and Speck and Cindy. A graveyard half filled with . . . his mom’s grave?
He blinked his eyes into focus. “Mom? That was you? Dying all those times . . .”
Millie smiled, tight lipped. Then she nodded. “It was all pretty awful. But it’s over.” She glanced at Jude. “At least, it was.”
Alex craned his head back, staring at the ceiling. If he hadn’t seen the sky fire and the burning pages, if he hadn’t felt the arm around his throat, if he hadn’t just seen the winged shadow in the grocery store . . .
“I’m related to Sam Miracle,” he said blankly. “Sam Miracle. With the snakes. For real? He’s my uncle? Is he dead? Where is he?”
“There’s something else we need to tell you,” Millie said. “And there’s no easy way to do it.”
“You’re adopted,” Jude said.
“What?” Alex lurched upright. “Adopted.”
“No, that’s the wrong word,” Millie said. “Not adopted.”
“What’s the right word?” Jude asked. “I’m pretty sure that’s the only word.”
Millie focused on Alex. “We love you so very much. It doesn’t matter that my belly didn’t carry you.”
Alex blinked. At his mother. And then his father.
“You’re our son,” his mother said. “For real and forever . . . or for as long as you need us.”
Millie continued, but Alex didn’t hear another word. His mind was sputtering at the impact of what he’d just been told. The fact that his mother was from another time and had time traveled and had lived in the old west and had a superhero brother was all still barely processing. And just when it was starting to, it turns out she wasn’t his biological mother at all?
“So, I’m not really related to Sam Miracle,” Alex blurted. “Not by blood.”
“Yeah, kiddo,” Jude said. “You are.”
Millie tucked her legs up onto the couch and put her hand behind Alex’s head.
“He’s your father. I’m your aunt. But he and Glory asked us to be your guardians.”
“Glory was my mom?”
Jude shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. One quick sniff and he looked back up. His voice was brittle.
“Glory Spalding. Millie and I were in the wedding. Two years later, we were your godparents. That lasted one more year. And then Sam and Glory disappeared, and you became our son. And like your mother said, we love you very much.”
The front doorbell rang.
“Hello?” Chong-Won’s voice followed. And then his knuckles, rapping in quick rhythm. “Hello? Food is ready!”
“Oh, no!” Millie rocketed off the couch. “We’re booked to eat next door! I was going to bring something! That’s why I went to the store.”
“Honey,” Jude said. “Maybe we should cancel.”
Millie looked appalled. “Gi-Hung has been working all afternoon. We can’t!”
The doorbell rang again. “Hello?”
Millie slid to the door, pushed her hair back, and pulled it open.
Chong-Won and his daughter, Rhonda, stood on the front porch. He wore a wide smile. Rhonda could
have been a wax statue.
“I’m so sorry we’re late!” Millie said. “I’ve been so looking forward to tasting your wife’s cooking. We’ll be right over.”
Chong-Won beamed, bowed slightly, and stepped back off the porch.
Rhonda stepped back with him. Alex met her bored look, and saw surprise flash in her eyes. He wiped his own eyes quickly. No tears. Good. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to be feeling, but he didn’t want a girl from school to see him emotional no matter what he’d just learned. Especially an older girl with herds of cool friends, a girl who could spread word of his weeping like wildfire once Christmas break was over.
Millie shut the door and spun back around. “Shoes, quick! Alex, get out of those sweatpants. Jude, what can I bring? I have to give her something.”
Apparently, Alex thought, I’m supposed to eat Korean food with a girl who won’t even speak to me at school. That’s the appropriate response to this whole situation.
“I don’t want to go,” Alex said. “I’m gonna stay here and just . . . think.”
Jude slapped Alex on the knee and stood up. “You’re coming. I’ll give you the manuscript to read afterward. The one from this morning. It’s already been changing, so once you’ve read it we can talk about your parents and how much I think is still true. You need to get to know your mom better. Sam was something else, but Glory was her own kind of awesome. There’s nothing I can do about the story that burned but wait for it to come back to me.” He tapped his temple. “Some things I type come and go like dreams. It’s always been that way.”
“But how could your manuscript change?” Alex asked.
“Easy,” Jude said. “Things in my past with Sam and Glory—which will happen in the future, actually, because that’s where my past is—must have changed. Which means that what I typed changed, as well.”
Alex blinked and shook his head, trying to process. “Do I have to go?” he asked. “Can’t I stay here and read it now?”
Jude looked for Millie. She leaned in from the kitchen and shook her head. “We all have to,” she said. “And I don’t want Alex here alone right now.”
