“Oh.” Jeremy looked surprised. “No, I’m homeschooled. I use a syllabus online.”
“Seems like you could skip it if you don’t like it.”
Jeremy shook his head. “I have to stay disciplined, or I’ll never learn anything.”
His tone was heavy, taking down the whole tone of the conversation, and Luke couldn’t figure out how to answer. Instead of waiting, Jeremy ducked over to the open box Luke was working through and loaded jars into one arm, picking around in a brisk, practiced way. He took them to the same spot on a shelf and leaned all the way up on his toes as he unloaded again.
There was something about the way he moved, a combination of expansiveness and precision, that touched a nerve at the back of Luke’s brain. When Jeremy’s arms were empty, he whisked his bangs off his forehead and caught Luke’s eye, and Luke thought, I wonder if he’s into guys.
Not that it mattered. Luke took a gulp of water. “Here to supervise?”
“What?” Jeremy turned to him with a quick hop, mouth falling open. “No. I’m not your boss.”
Luke’s jaw tensed, and he kept it closed—Jeremy might not be his actual boss, but it was a close enough thing he shouldn’t talk back.
“I’m just working,” Jeremy added. “The same thing you are.”
The same? No. What was Jeremy trying to prove? Something must have shown on Luke’s face, because Jeremy said tightly, “This is my job, too. If you weren’t here, I’d be doing this by myself.”
“I thought you were family.”
Jeremy turned toward the shelves and away from Luke. “I am. My family works.” He punched at his phone until the audiobook jumped back to the beginning of their conversation.
Boss or no, Luke took the hint and finished his chicken nuggets in silence.
After another round of jars, Jeremy paused and scowled up at a light bulb. He cupped his hands to his face and blew into them like they were cold—once, twice, three times, with big inhales between each.
He opened his hands in front of his chin and blew again. Small globes of light danced away from him, swirling in the current of his breath and finding their own smooth trajectories. They perched on the shelves and hovered in the air to fill the room with a cleaner, mellower gold light.
He kept avoiding Luke’s eyes, pressing his lips together to suppress a smile at his own conjuring. Luke blinked, adjusting to the glow as if it were a glaring spotlight. He sipped his water and said, “Huh.”
“Dark in here.” Jeremy risked a quick glance Luke’s way and broke out in a satisfied grin. “You going to help or just sit there?”
Luke got up and back to work. The light did no favors to the storage up close, illuminating dirt, dead bugs, and some arcane bits floating in murky jars.
When a chapter of his book ended, Jeremy switched it to music—electronic alternative, bright and synthetic. The atmosphere lifted, and it started to feel natural to pass back and forth as they moved between the shelves and boxes. He didn’t know anything about Jeremy Kovrov, but now that he thought about it, he had a scatter of old memories of the time they’d spent together as kids, playing games or doing little herb magic gigs in back rooms, just like this, while the grown-ups worked.
Luke took another stab at conversation. “What protection spell did you do on that candle?”
“Not a spell.” Jeremy’s voice was far away in the warehouse. “Just a prayer.”
Luke crushed a stray twig of rosemary between his fingers. He’d allowed that magic into his ritual, with his sister and Max. It hadn’t felt nasty enough to be worth lying about, but Jeremy must be. “Seemed real powerful.”
“I pray like anybody else, and I light the candle like anybody else.” Jeremy’s voice followed the lilting rhythm of a well-worn argument. “I don’t know why it looks different. Sergei says praying gives me a special focus, and Alexei says maybe I have a guardian angel.”
Alone in the row, Luke grinned. That made more sense, and although it was definitely the focus one, it was also clear which explanation Jeremy preferred. “Sounds like somebody’s looking out for you.”
“That would be nice.” Jeremy was closer now—his head popped around the end of Luke’s row. “That uncrossing was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He disappeared again.
That was a lie. Of all the people in the world, Jeremy Kovrov had seen some wild mojo. But another part of Luke, a smaller but truer place right inside his heart, thought, Yes. I know.
“This is cool.” He gestured to one of the little globes of light, which quivered as his hand passed. “The light.”
“Party trick,” Jeremy’s voice said, right behind him. He turned, startled, and Jeremy was grinning again. “I’m not trying to sneak up on you. You’re too easy.”
“Party trick?”
Jeremy didn’t answer. A magician would have to be so powerful to blow off an unaided charm like that. Luke had forgotten that Jeremy was a Kovrov, what that meant. He walked back to the boxes and pulled out a fresh one. These jars were painted black and unlabeled, hiding something secret. He lifted one, testing—heavy, for its size. “What is this?”
Jeremy pulled his lower lip sideways. “I’ll get those later.” He took the jar out of Luke’s hand to gingerly replace it before taking the box cutter and checking the labels on the remaining boxes. He sliced one open. “Last box,” he said, although it wasn’t.
They unpacked the box and listened to Jeremy’s whiny-voiced singers. Jeremy lip-synced along silently and made a funny little sneer over every cuss word, curling his upper lip. Luke had known him for years and somehow learned more about him in one afternoon than all that time put together. It seemed he couldn’t remember what they’d talked about during all those lunches and parties, and suddenly he was full of questions.
He came back from placing a last armful of spice-scented red candles to find Jeremy crouched over the jars, pulling his mouth back and forth through different grimaces as he turned one in his hand. “Ugh. I might just deal with these after dinner.”
Luke nodded and stopped short. “Wait—you live here?”
Jeremy lifted his gaze halfway, still distracted by the jars. “Yeah.”
Luke’s mind spun, trying to catch hold of some memory of that. How could he possibly have not known that? “How are you related to the Kovrovs, anyway?”
Jeremy paused, eyes on the jar, then stood slowly, unfolding from his crouch. He looked slightly to the left of Luke’s eyes. “I’m Sergei and Alexei’s brother. I was adopted when they were teenagers.”
“Huh,” Luke said. “Why?”
The shatter of glass was muffled by a thick glop of congealed liquid. Jeremy gasped, jumping back, but he was splashed with red-black, and pieces of the jar he’d been holding littered the floor around a pool of blood.
“Whoa!” Luke stepped back, lifting his palms. “Oh no, I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s animal blood,” Jeremy said quickly. “It’s fine.” He wiped his hands down his hips and looked frantically back and forth. “I’ll just get a mop, it’s fine.”
“Let me,” Luke said.
Jeremy’s voice was flat. “I think you should go home.”
Luke swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “That was the rudest question, I—”
“It’s not that.” Jeremy focused on that spot next to Luke’s head again. “Nobody’s ever asked me that before.”
Luke’s stomach dropped, like he’d stepped on something rotten instead of firm ground, but the squirmy sickness of it rose when it should have ended. It was wrong, a worse feeling than fear even as the two mixed together—it was magic.
He’d done magic.
No questions had been the first goddamn rule, and he’d done nothing all afternoon but ask question after question—about magic, about the Kovrov family—and his question must have broken a spell hiding one of their secrets. “Shit.”
Jeremy’s chin tilted, his whole face firm. “Just go, I’ll—”
Befo
re he could finish, the door opened, Sergei’s body silhouetted in the brighter light of the hall. Though they hadn’t been standing close, Jeremy started and jumped farther away.
“Jesus,” Sergei said.
“I’m cleaning it up right now.” Jeremy whirled and walked back into the warehouse, leaving Luke and Sergei alone.
Sergei regarded Luke quietly, his face hidden in shadow, and finally said, “That’s enough for today.”
Chapter Seven
Marta leaned so far over the kitchen counter her pale hair brushed the granite, running her fingers along the inside of Sergei’s arm. Jeremy recognized his own pitiful attempts at flirting in her posture, but of course Marta was already in. She’d been with Sergei forever, and they had three kids. Honestly, it was pretty gross that she bothered flirting at all.
Sergei would not appreciate being made to wait, so Jeremy walked into the kitchen still covered in old blood. Marta looked up and lifted an eyebrow. “Looks like someone had a fun afternoon. How’d it go?”
Jeremy wiggled around them to the fridge for a glass of water, moving slowly and casually though his heart scurried. “We let the blood sit too long, so it thawed out. I threw it in the freezer anyway, but I don’t know if it will work.”
“We let it sit?” Sergei raised his heavy brow.
“I let it sit.” Jeremy let his tone sink, sullen, because Sergei hated that. “I know.”
Marta wrinkled her nose. “Eww. You know what I mean. With Luke.” She said it like Lu-uu-uke.
Jeremy hovered next to the fridge, avoiding the walk past them again, and hooked a finger under one rubber bracelet, twisting it.
“Get a hobby,” Sergei said.
“Katya told Alexei to get a life,” Jeremy said.
Sergei grunted. “I hope she tells him that every day.”
Marta looked hurt but recovered with a big pout. “We’re just having fun.”
“I’m not having fun.” Sergei took a long drag off his beer, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. He would not like having to ask. He’d respect Jeremy for stepping up—for carrying himself like a Kovrov.
Jeremy cleared his throat. “He asked how I was related to you.”
They looked at Jeremy with mirrored slow turns. “What did you tell him?” Marta asked.
“He said I’m his brother, of course,” Sergei answered, fast and only half-attending to her. “Listen, I’ll talk to Alexei—”
“No!” Jeremy was too loud, his ears full of his own pounding blood. He took a breath and started over. “Let me? I can tell him what happened or talk to him if he calls.” He could, maybe, understate it a little. Not a big deal, the tiniest thing, Luke hadn’t even noticed what he’d done. He’d figure out a way to say it so no one got hurt.
Sergei nodded. “That’s your responsibility, then.”
Marta sighed. “Why is this so complicated? Can’t you just, like, grab him and smack one on him? I mean, what’s the worst—” She sealed her mouth shut.
Jeremy’s mind reeled away from the worst that could happen so hard that he took a physical step back. Quickly, he listed lesser horrors: “Total rejection? Crushing humiliation? Having to listen to you people have opinions about it?”
She laughed a little, more to glide past the awkwardness than out of any real humor, and that should have been the end, but Sergei just couldn’t let it go. “No, see? The little princess—” he gestured to Jeremy with the neck of his beer—“has to let him come to her.”
A freeze zipped down Jeremy’s spine, but before he could say anything, Marta snapped, “Sergei!” She rubbed one finger between her eyebrows. “Don’t you two start. J, cupcake, could you please go check on the boys? I thought I heard little feet.”
Jeremy nodded stiffly and moved back around them. He paused in the living room, just out of sight, and listened to them hissing whispers at each other. Sergei’s voice was low and short, and Marta spoke longer and higher with every sentence. Finally, Jeremy made out her words: “He’d be safer if you sealed him in bubble wrap! He’d also die of suffocation.”
Jeremy’s life was full of untranslatable concepts for which they used close-enough words, like pochemuchka or schadenfreude. Like adopted and homeschooled. Like brother.
When Jeremy was a baby, his nighttime cries had made their father angry and mean. Sergei, then fifteen, had not wasted time waiting for someone to help or wondering what to do—he’d dragged his mattress into Jeremy’s room and kept it there for years, between Jeremy’s little body and the door, until Ivan died.
It was only when Jeremy was older, when he and Sergei were fighting, that Alexei had told him about that. “I know he’s hard to like,” Alexei had said, “but he loves you.”
There was nothing as simple as a word for that.
Marta and Sergei fell quiet, and Jeremy turned to get up the stairs before they caught him eavesdropping. He scurried up one level—the babies slept silently; Marta had invented those little feet—and trudged more slowly up two more, to his own room in the attic. He thought of words for Sergei the whole time. Brother. Keeper. Monster.
Chapter Eight
Luke spent a couple days sweating—every ding of the doorbell or beep of his phone could be Alexei Kovrov, coming to demand restitution for whatever Luke had broken.
Max, his favorite tormentor, must have used some drama-seeking sixth sense to discover that Luke was finally waiting for something besides one of his messages, and promptly texted.
What are you up to this weekend?
Luke, sitting behind the counter in the store with his coffee, said:
Working
At the store? Can I come bother you?
Store and Ks. Still working on schedule. Never a bother.
Cool. I have a thing in the city tonight. I could crash with you after.
Luke put his phone down on the counter gingerly, the way Jeremy handled those rotten-smelling jars. He was tempted to pick it up and scroll back through Max’s texts, counting the endless iterations of thing in the city and crash with you, Max’s favorite words.
His phone buzzed, skittering on the counter, and Luke jumped. It wouldn’t be like Max to send another text so fast—and it wasn’t Max, but an unknown number.
This is Jeremy. Alexei asked me to ask you if we can pick you up around 1:30 for a job.
Instead of something normal, a thumbs-up or a “k,” Luke wrote out a proper, enthusiastic answer.
Sounds great. I’ll be ready. Excited to get to work today.
He was aiming for coolly professional and self-controlled, but all Jeremy texted back was OK.
Three hours later, a small horde of rockabilly girls took over the store, and it took Luke too long to notice one of them was lounging against the door, not shopping. She wore black leather pants, and her top hung over her hips in a way that might be hiding a gun. He noticed way too late that she looked familiar.
“Katya?” Luke asked tentatively. He was not on a first-name basis with Alexei’s driver and had never been alone with her before.
The woman stood up straighter in surprise but smoothed her face and extended a hand. “Natalya. I work with Sergei. Katya’s my sister.”
“Gotcha. I see it,” Luke said. “Let me go get Camille to cover this zoo.”
When he returned from the back, Natalya was still standing by the door, examining her reflection in the glass. “Do you really think I look like my sister?”
“You have the same—” Luke opened the door for her and looked at her face as she walked past, but he’d lost the resemblance. She was not as pale as Katya, more golden, and—he was probably supposed to have noticed—much prettier. “Vibe,” he finished.
That wasn’t right, either. Little Katya could kill him with a well-timed flick, and Natalya’s smile glowed.
“Sure we do,” was all she said.
Sergei’s black Escalade waited on the curb, basking in sunshine and stares. Natalya took the passenger seat and Luke got in the back. He found Jeremy, who thre
w him a “Hey” without looking away from his window.
“Hey!” Luke said, too enthusiastically, and brought his voice down. “How’s it going?”
Jeremy turned toward him a little more. “Good. How are you?”
His smile was vague but encouraging, and an outsize relief washed Luke. “I’m always good.”
Something about seeing Jeremy reminded him he’d never responded to Max. So, while no one told him where they were going or what they were doing, he pulled out his phone.
I could crash with you after
Luke wrote: I’ll let you know the schedule
The first of Max’s two virtues was that he never pretended he wasn’t sitting by his phone. He wrote back fast: You work too much, it’s grim
Luke smirked. He wrote: Going to be grim with the Ks now, and put his phone away. He laughed to himself, and Natalya twisted in her seat. “Jokes are for sharing, yeah?”
He laughed his nerves and searched for help, but Sergei had his eyes on the road and Jeremy was looking mildly at Natalya.
“The joke is me, I think,” Luke said.
Natalya reached back and slapped his knee. “Now you have to tell me. I give the best advice, ask anybody.”
Luke turned to Jeremy, face bright, to lure him into the conversation. He would still have to apologize for what he’d asked about the Kovrovs, but half the work was getting Jeremy to act normal. “Is that right?”
He only shrugged. “Is this about that boy who was at the uncrossing?”
Luke couldn’t figure out how to answer, which was an answer. Jeremy widened his eyes, which was another question, and Luke snorted, the answer.
“Everyone knows the story except me?” Natalya exclaimed.
“I don’t know or care what any of you are talking about,” Sergei said.
Jeremy knocked the back of Sergei’s seat and kept his fist there, tapping as he glanced back and forth between Luke and the window. “To be honest, I didn’t think he was very nice to you.”
“That’s just how Max is,” Luke said. “He’s all right.”
Natalya laughed, a musical peal. “You don’t need advice. You need balls.”
The Uncrossing Page 4
