by Jeff Altabef
I wouldn’t mind riding the subway all day, but when we reach our stop, we shuffle off and find a map of the surrounding neighborhood. A few minutes later, we stroll down a tree-lined street with townhouses on both sides. The Village feels totally different from Midtown where New Beginnings is located. A slower more measured pace replaces the tense frenetic midtown vibe that surrounded the homeless shelter. We pass mostly townhouses, but a few bars and restaurants fill out the neighborhood.
“How are we going to send word back home that we’re all right?” Troy asks as we look at building numbers. “We don’t want to leave any trail that could get our families in trouble.”
“My father has a burner phone. He got it before we left just in case we needed to call him.”
Troy stops. “A burner phone?”
“Yeah. It’s a prepaid phone that no one can trace to him or us. We’ll get one here. He learned a few things while doing time over the past 16 years.”
The court convicted my father of manslaughter before I was born. Although innocent, he did sell drugs and had committed some terrible acts. He wrote me a letter once a week while away, but Mom hid them from me and made me believe he wanted nothing to do with me. She figured he would be a bad influence, and that I should have nothing to do with him, without ever asking my opinion, which I’m sure she would’ve disregarded anyway, doing whatever she wanted because she always knows what’s best for me. I thought I had forgiven her, but my hands ball into fists just thinking about it.
We stop in front of 156 Perry Street, a six-story stone townhouse with a red door and a copper sign that hangs from a rusty metal bar. The sign is almost identical to my drawing.
Troy glances at me, a worried look on his face. He knows I’m conflicted.
Part of me wants to run, but I’ve already made the decision to follow this destiny to the end, and I can’t go back now. Besides, they’ll find us soon, and I’d rather be the hunter than the hunted.
“I hope they have room service.” He shifts the duffel on his shoulders.
“Do you always think with your stomach? You’ve just eaten your second lunch.”
He shrugs. “I’m like a Lamborghini: at my best when fully fueled.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s about all you have in common with a Lamborghini.”
“Hey, no need to be nasty.” He feigns a hurt look.
The wind gusts and I smell the city—part sweat, trash, and decaying food, but also part electric and part sweet from flowers in a window box and pastries from a nearby bakery, which creates an odd mixture. Now that my sense of smell is getting stronger, I breathe deeply and smell pansies from a house halfway down the black, and wrinkle my nose at a suspicious paper bag left on the corner that I’m sure has dog poop in it.
The wind rustles Troy’s shirt. “The Great Wind Spirit has spoken. After you.”
He’s only half kidding. He finds signs in the smallest things: wind gusts, animals, clouds, and once in the weird shape of a taco.
Those are just coincidences to me, having no more meaning than the day of the week.
The crimson door takes a firm yank to open. The small lobby has black and white alternating tiles on the floor, mahogany paneling, and a small chandelier that hangs from the ceiling. A curved staircase to the right leads upward, and to the left sits a cherry desk with an old-fashioned reading lamp and an open guest registry.
An odd-looking man sits behind the desk, nose firmly planted inside a romance novel. When Troy shuts the door behind us, he glances over the edge of his book. His red hair and beard twist into tight curls. The big jowls on his fleshy face make him look doughy, and he has a sharp pointy nose, narrow hazel eyes, and thin blond eyebrows that point upward and form an arrow.
His expression morphs from mild annoyance to intrigue in a heartbeat, as if a switch has been flipped, and a new light shines behind otherwise dull eyes. He stands but it doesn’t gain him much height. He’s shorter than I am, maybe five-foot-four, with a few extra inches padding his middle. He wears a black collared shirt and black pants, and pulls on his beard with fingers that have highly polished nails. A gold ring on his right pinky with the Inn’s symbol on it catches the light and sparkles. He smiles at me by turning up only the edges of his lips, as if unsure if he’s happy or annoyed.
His voice sounds strangely high-pitched and bubbly like a carbonated drink. “My, my, my. I was going to tell you we were full. What a mistake that would have been! The Host would have been so cross with me. Oh my, my. I’ve narrowly avoided quite an unforgivable mess with that one.”
I step closer to him. “You know who I am?”
He speaks quickly, as if his internal thoughts fizz out of his mouth without a filter. “What a question. Oh yes, that is a deep one, very deep really. How does someone know another person? I don’t think we should dive into those waters just yet. Not just yet. Let’s just say I was expecting you. Yes, that would be quite enough for now. You’re the Twisted Arrows. Yes?”
I nod, because I can’t think of what to say, and try to tune into his mind and unlock his secrets. I really don’t like to do this—it feels wrong, like reading private emails, but he could know something important about me and the other Chosen. Information he might not be willing to share. I concentrate hard but get nothing; just white noise, which is odd, but it’s not the first time I’ve drawn a blank. Some people are harder to read than others. I don’t know why—either they don’t have anything on their minds, or their brains work at a frequency outside of my ability to detect.
Some of the bubble fizzles from his voice when he turns toward Troy. “You, I was not expecting. Very handsome and all, but we have no rooms for rent. No rooms at all. I can call around and find you somewhere else in the City to stay. Maybe the East Village?”
Troy starts to snarl at him.
I step in between the two. “He’s with me. He’ll stay in my room.”
He pauses for a second and bunches his eyebrows together. His uncertain expression changes into a sly smile that I don’t like. “Of course, of course. It is your decision. If you think that’s wise, then stay in your room he shall. Yes, there’s plenty of space in the suite. Plenty. You are in charge, after all.”
He pushes his hand toward me. “My name is Stuart. I’m the Innkeeper.”
His grip is warm and mushy like freshly baked bread warm from the oven.
“Where’s the Host? I’d like to meet him.”
“The Host, your benefactor, your patron? Yes, I’m sure he’s anxious to meet you. Very anxious, but he’ll want the other three to arrive first and they’re not here yet. One grand meeting for the first time. That would be his style, certainly.”
Troy leans forward. “Do you know when the others will arrive?”
“Oh no. Sorry no. I know very little about the other Twisteds.”
“Twisteds?” Troy scowls.
Stuart raises both of his hands to his cheeks and forms a circle with his mouth. “Did I say that out loud? I’m so sorry. Yes, very sorry. I meant no offense. I just know the symbols. Yes, just the four twisted objects. Let me show you up to your room. You’re the first of your party to arrive. You’ll be staying on the top floor in the Arrow Suite.”
He leads us to an elevator on the back side of the staircase. When the elevator stops on the fifth floor, we disembark and he opens a door with the twisted arrows symbol carved into the wood. The room is a blizzard of white—walls, carpet, furniture—everything snow-white except two framed paintings of red rock formations that hang over the couch.
“I hope you will like your stay with us. Yes, I’m sure you will. I live on the first floor. If you require anything, just ring.” He smiles with his full face, half bows as he shuffles backward, and closes the door.
Troy frowns. “There’s something about Stewie I don’t like.”
I grin. “He seems harmless to me. Of course he did say you were handsome, which probably means he has some type of vision impairment. Maybe that’s what you picked
up on.”
I expect Troy to crack a smile or laugh but the lines on his face stay serious. “How did he know you were a Chosen and not me?”
“Oh, well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re just a handsome, not quite Chosen type of guy.”
He grins, but I freeze as my blood turns to cold slush. A leather journal sits on top of the four-poster bed by the pillows. It’s the same type of journal that Sicheii gave me—old with cracked leather—although this time it has the twisted arrows symbol carved into the cover instead of the slanted rectangle for the Wind Spirit.
Troy follows my gaze. “Did you know there was another book?”
I shake my head and lift the leather object. My fingers tremble. It’s sealed with wax that I cut away with my thumbnail. A crystal vial inside contains a liquid, just like the last two “books” I discovered. I touch the crystal.
Nothing happens. The liquid doesn’t turn red and the top of the vial doesn’t disappear like it did with the other two. Without an opening, there’s no way for me to drink the liquid inside and gain whatever knowledge it contains.
I glance at Troy, shrug, and slip the small glass bottle into my pocket.
“There’s a note under the vial.” He hands it to me.
The handwriting is a fancy cursive.
You are the Alpha. This responsibility and knowledge is for you alone. When you are ready, the vial will open and you will learn all you must know. Be brave, for the only chance to save your world and their kind lies within you.
The note dissolves into thin air.
Troy’s breath brushes against my lips. “What did it say?”
“Nothing really. The vial will open when it’s time, but we should keep this secret from the others.”
I’m not sure why I don’t tell him the whole truth, but the last phrase in the note cracks my heart.
It said their kind, not your kind.
Blake meets his parents in the immense foyer, his shoulders folded and his hands stuffed into the front pockets of his khakis. He feels small, as if he’s nothing more than a statue in a museum—an insignificant statue. The mansion has that effect on him.
A massive crystal chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, and a black Steinway grand piano stands to his left. He assumes it works, though he can’t remember anyone ever playing it. The music room has a Steinway of its own—that one definitely works.
He faces his parents with his back to the front door. He doesn’t want to turn around, doesn’t want to leave. Bad things wait for him out there, dangers he’d rather not face, and a future his active imagination could never have dreamed of only a few weeks ago. He might feel small, but he’s safe inside the house.
He shudders at the thought of leaving. “I don’t understand why you’re throwing me out like the trash. Can’t I just stay here?”
His mother’s expression turns to stone and his father shakes his head. “We’ve been through this already. You are Chosen. It’s time. You must fulfill your destiny.”
Jiles and Rachel Richards, were crew stars at Harvard twenty years ago, and still look much the same as they did when they competed. Jiles with his wide shoulders, chiseled arms, and well-muscled legs could still lead a team. Perhaps he’s a little thicker in the waist than he had been, but that would hardly slow him down. Rachel, a coxswain in college, hasn’t changed since. Slim and petite, her steely voice could make hardened criminals jump to action.
Blake wonders for the millionth time how these physically perfect people could have created him. He’s sure he was adopted, and even confronted his father about the possibility, but Jiles dragged out the photo album that clearly showed Rachel’s pregnancy and everyone in the hospital when he was born. He even produced Blake’s birth certificate when he continued to ask more questions.
Yet Blake still has doubts whenever he looks in the mirror. To be generous, he usually describes himself as lanky. Others might say he’s rail thin. His eyes are small and black, his shoulders slim, and his feet way too big and always tripping him up. Unlike his parents’ straight blond hair, his black curly locks threaten to frizz into an afro at any time. The situation becomes alarmingly desperate during the summer when he’s forced to use handfuls of styling gel to tame the beast.
Summer is his least favorite season. He rarely goes outside, not because of his hair, although that would be reason enough, but summer is hot and sweaty and filled with bugs. A few cases of West Nile virus have already been reported in neighboring Massachusetts, just one state away from his home state of Maine. It’s only a matter of time before infected mosquitos find him, and West Nile is only one of many different types of diseases he could get—and not nearly the most dangerous. Malaria and Ebola are admittedly less likely, but how can he rule them out completely? Leprosy is a distinct possibility. His acne had vanished just two weeks ago, so it would be perfectly ironic for chunks of his face to fall off now. The world works that way. Win the lottery and a truck is sure to run you over.
“I don’t understand all this talk about destiny.” Blake’s voice raises a pitch. “I thought my destiny was to assume control over Richards Medical Equipment one day. That’s what you’ve always said. We’re creating an empire, and I would become the next CEO.”
Jiles stares at him with emerald eyes, as finally honed as scalpels. “That’s later. Right now, you have a more important destiny. You must defeat the devil so the gates to heaven can stay open.”
“We don’t know who these other Chosen people are. Maybe they’re the wrong sorts of people. How can I possibly go out there with all those common people and rely upon strangers?” Blake waves his arm toward the door and the numerous dangers out there.
His mother speaks in a chuckle, as if the words are laughed from her lips. “Wrong sort of people, dear? God wouldn’t choose the wrong sort for something so important.”
Blake refuses to look at her. As tough as his father is, his mother can crumple Jiles into a tinfoil ball and toss him to the floor with one flick of her wrist. His only chance is to turn his father around, and those odds, never high to start with, are fading fast.
Blake crosses his arms over his chest. “What if one of these Chosen is an Excelsior Man? I refuse to work with someone from Excelsior. That’s unreasonable.” Excelsior is the dreaded archrival of his own private prep school, Cordwell Academy, where young men from his family have attended for over one hundred years.
“I wouldn’t worry about Excelsior.” His father frowns. “It’s time for you to go. Stop stalling.”
“But don’t you want to know where I need to go? I’m—”
“Stop that!” His mother screeches.
He cringes as her voice knifes into his back and carves a small path down his spine. He couldn’t continue if he wanted; she’s simply too powerful.
She continues in a softer tone. “We want to know, dear, but we can’t know. That would put you in danger. What if the devil’s minions find us? You’re not to contact us until this is finished.”
Blake swallows the last bit of hope he had left and realizes what he really knew all along—he’s doomed. He’s on his own, which probably means he’s a goner. “Well, this is shabby treatment for your only son.”
He picks up the handle of his carry-on luggage. He wants to bring two other full-sized bags, so he can be more prepared for the plethora of dangers he imagines, but his parents limited him to the carry-on and the laptop bag. He stuffed the carry-on with so many different medications, none of which he really needs, there isn’t much room for anything else—except for the ridiculous crystal hilt with the blade that appears every time he touches the darn thing. He keeps hoping it will stop working, so he can prove he isn’t chosen to do anything, but so far no luck.
Resigned to his fate, he rolls the bag toward the door, stops at the marble pedestal table, pulls out an anti-bacteria wipe from the box perched on top, and vigorously rubs his hands.
His father hands him the box. “We only keep this around for you. Joffr
ey will take you to the private airfield. You’re to tell Carl where you want to go.”
Blake frowns. “You know how much I hate flying in the private plane. It’s like a bus with wings.”
His father slaps him on the back. “What do you know about buses? You’ve never been on one.”
“I’ve seen the stories on the internet. They’re always getting into accidents. The bus driver either falls asleep or a truck T-bones them. Everyone dies.” Blake sullenly glances at his father and sees nothing but certainty. No cracks have formed in the emeralds that stare back at him.
“I don’t think Carl’s going to fall asleep, and there are no flying trucks to crash into the plane. You have two credit cards that are linked to trust accounts. There should be enough funds for you to do whatever you require.” Jiles grabs him by the shoulders. “I know you don’t see it now, but you’re stronger than you think. You’ve always been special. It’s time you lived that out. Everything will go back to the way it was when you finish and come home, I promise.”
“Well, right, if I come back.” Blake spots the tiniest trace of moisture in his father’s eyes and feels bad; his dad is only doing what he thinks is right, what he had been taught is the only way.
He glances at his mom, who looks like a drawn bow about to spring. He closes his eyes, feels the energy around him, and creates a sharp gust of wind that rustles his parents’ perfect hair. When he opens his eyes, both of them are smiling. His ability to summon wind always brings a smile, and it does come in handy when he sails.
“You see?” His father opens the door. “You are Chosen.”
Blake suspiciously eyes the front walkway to the black Bentley.
His father kisses him on the forehead and his mom gives him a quick hug. When they separate, she nudges him out the door, or at least that’s what it seems like to him.
He sighs, scans for mosquitoes and creeps toward the car, moving forward as if the ground has been transformed into a frozen lake and he’s unsure whether it will hold his weight.
