And in the silence that followed her demand, Fritz’s thoughts echoed in the space between them. Behind bars, the un-evolved ape. Right where he belongs.
Martina’s heart skipped a beat at the unintentional confession. She’d heard it! She was solid and she’d heard it.
Fritz spoke aloud. “I won’t tell you where Matteo is. Not today. But after you have proven yourself useful—”
Martina nodded and several things happened at once.
Beside Fritz, Chrétien rippled solid, landing a beautiful upper cut on Fritz’s jaw.
“Chrétien?” she asked in confusion. It wasn’t possible. But it was happening.
Fritz’s head flew back from the blow, he roared in fury, and vanished.
But not before Chrétien vanished.
And not before Martina vanished.
How did you ripple? she cried to Chrétien, in shock at what had just happened.
I’ll explain later, replied Chrétien. The package?
It’s too late.
Then we must check on Pfeffer, replied Chrétien.
Wait! Hansel’s been shot, Martina said.
The clarity of the thoughts passing between them was remarkable. Their words almost, but not quite, drowned out the sound of Fritz’s thoughts, hurled in vituperative tones: The boy dies, Martina. Do you hear me? I swear he dies. And it won’t be an easy death.
Then all was quiet, except for the sound, far in the distance, of sirens approaching the airport.
43
TRIAGE
Sacramento, California
Martina didn’t know which direction to turn first.
Matteo.
Hansel.
Pfeffer.
How could she choose?
Martina? It was Chrétien.
She couldn’t choose between them, between the three most important people in her small world.
Martina? Chrétien again.
Her clinic training took over: triage was something she could do.
We check Pfeffer first, she told Chrétien. Hansel is badly wounded, but he’s invisible, so he’s stable. As for Matteo, you heard Fritz’s threat just now, I presume?
I did, replied Chrétien.
Fritz can’t act immediately against Matteo. He has to travel back to him.
Chrétien responded. I will take you most swiftly to Matteo as soon as we have helped our friends here. Mademoiselle, I must ask, is Hansel friend or foe?
Martina felt a constriction in her invisible chest wall. Friend, she replied. Friend, sibling, favorite brother. She couldn’t lose him again, but she couldn’t afford to think of him yet.
They reached the small office. When they stepped inside, it was empty.
Hello.
Empty, but not silent. It was Pfeffer’s voice. Calling out, transponder-like.
Hello. Hello?
Pfeffer is near, said Chrétien. I shall search the walls.
Martina searched the floor, the air of the room, and finally, the ceiling of the room.
I found him, she called to Chrétien. Fritz put him in the ceiling. He can’t come solid on his own.
The Neuroplex dart prevents it, replied Chrétien.
She brought Pfeffer back to the floor of the office. She checked carefully to ensure he wasn’t pushing into anything solid. And then she brought them both back to their solid form.
“Are you injured?” she asked, automatically, upon restoring Pfeffer inside his body.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Do you have the parcel?”
Martina shook her head. Chrétien hung his.
“We failed you,” said Martina.
“Never,” Pfeffer replied, a sad half smile on his face. He tried to sit up, but groaned as he did so.
“You are hurt,” said Martina, her eyes narrowing.
“Truly, it’s nothing.” Pfeffer stood. “I will have to ask for your help, however, as I cannot ripple at present.”
Chrétien responded by withdrawing what looked like an EpiPen from his pocket.
“Ah,” said Pfeffer. “One of us was thinking ahead.”
“What is it?” asked Martina.
“It is a counter to the effects of Neuroplex,” replied Chrétien. “I travel never without it. Today, I brought three.” He shrugged. “Just in case.”
“I should have thought of that,” Pfeffer said, jabbing the pen into his thigh.
“That’s how you got away?” Martina asked Chrétien.
“Indeed, Mademoiselle.”
“We need to get back to Hansel,” said Martina, her pulse picking up speed as she thought of her fallen brother. “He was well on his way to bleeding out when I pulled him to safety.”
“What about Fritz?” asked Pfeffer. “And Georg?”
“They departed,” said Chrétien.
Martina listened for several seconds. “Yeah,” she said. “Still gone.”
Outside, the sirens were growing closer.
“We must retrieve Hansel swiftly,” said Chrétien.
The trio vanished and sped to the plane. Bowing beside Hansel’s invisible form, Martina spoke her thoughts to him.
Hansel, it’s me. I’m sorry I had to be away so long.
His reply came slowly. Not … lll … ong.
As before, Hansel’s speech was slurred. It didn’t make sense.
Beside them, Pfeffer stirred, moved, shifted.
What is he doing? Martina asked Chrétien.
You described the loss of blood as considerable. He is a physician. He is attempting to assess the health of the patient.
Martina didn’t think she could have done that, but Pfeffer knew of so many things she’d never been taught.
After less than a minute had passed, Pfeffer rippled in the quiet plane.
“I’ve come solid because I wish for there to be no mistake as to what I am saying, Martina,” said Pfeffer. He paused. “Hansel is caught between life and death.”
We have to get him to a hospital! Martina threw the thought at Chrétien.
Pfeffer spoke again. “He cannot live, Martina. I am so sorry to be the one to tell you this. Even the best hospital can do nothing for him now. He’s lost too much blood.”
Martina rippled solid. Her face was pinched with pain; tears sprang to her eyes. “What are you telling me?” she asked, swiping at her tears.
“My dear, dear girl,” said Pfeffer, a hand reaching gently for her shoulder. “We must allow him to leave us. Caught as he is apart from his body, he cannot die.”
He cannot die. The words reverberated in her mind. He cannot live. Pfeffer’s first words.
“But I will not force you …” Pfeffer broke off. And then, in a whisper, he spoke again. “Once, I tried to prolong the life of one caught as Hansel is, between death and life.” He shook his head. “Ask him. Ask him what it is he desires. Then make your choice.” Pfeffer was silent.
Martina slipped back into invisibility, her tears vanishing with her body.
Hansel. She called his name softly. Hansel, it’s me. Martina. Pfeffer says you’ve lost too much blood. She glanced at the pool of red on the aisle floor and knew Pfeffer was right. So much blood. So much. She felt the urge to weep, but she couldn’t—not in this state.
Let … me … go. Hansel’s voice was soft and seemed to be pitched higher, as when they’d been children. I see … light. And then, once more, her name: Mar-tina. And then, as though with great effort: Find me … one day.
She responded. I will always find you, Hansel.
A sort of sigh. Hansel would say no more. Martina knew it.
I loved you best of all, Hansel.
The sirens were growing louder and louder.
“We must depart,” Pfeffer said, returning to his invisible friends. “Chrétien, take my hand before I vanish.”
Martina presumed Chrétien complied; a moment later, Pfeffer rippled invisible.
Mademoiselle, called Chrétien, We must depart. Will you not bring Hansel along? Outside there are quiet field
s….
Yes. Martina did not trust herself to say more.
Together, the group of three ghosted away from the airport, Martina carrying Hansel invisibly alongside. After several minutes, they came to a field where a narrow canal ran with swift water. Crickets sang, a thousand-thousand wings brushing together.
When the four came solid, Martina, Pfeffer, Chrétien, and Hansel, the crickets stopped chirping, paused, and resumed. Overhead, the stars pulsed bright and innumerable.
“Look, Hansel, look,” whispered Martina.
One glance at his face and she knew he could not hear her. He was past hearing, past saving, past everything, gone within a second of coming solid.
Pfeffer had been right. Martina had seen death often enough to recognize it. No hospital on Earth could have saved you, my brother. She reached up to close his eyes, to kiss his forehead, to set his hands to rest upon his still chest. So quiet, so still.
Martina wept.
Chrétien spoke to her, low and urgent. “One dear friend is lost to you, but I fear we must depart now to save Matteo.”
Martina nodded, still crying.
“Do you know where Fritz has placed Matteo?” asked Chrétien.
“In a prison,” she replied.
“Nice has only one Maison d’Arrêt,” said Pfeffer.
“We can do this, Mademoiselle,” said Chrétien. “We can arrive before Fritz, if we depart swiftly. By means of the téléphone cellulaire, I have discovered a flight which will take us swiftly from San Francisco.”
“We would have to get to the airport,” said Martina, wiping her eyes. “Is it far?”
Chrétien released a small laugh. “Far enough that Fritz cannot arrive in time to take the flight we shall take. I am much the swifter of the two of us.”
“I’d like to accompany you,” said Pfeffer. “If you will allow it.”
A sad sort of smile tugged at one side of Martina’s face. Pfeffer, asking what she would allow? “Please. Come with us.”
They left Hansel’s body, burying it invisibly, deep in the earth below the stars, beside the swift water and the singing crickets. And then they departed for the airport.
44
MEMORIES OF HIS VOICE
Nice, France
Martina, Chrétien, and Pfeffer approached Nice from the north. Rather than awaiting a flight from Paris Charles de Gaulle, Chrétien sped them overland, swifter than the bullet trains they passed along the way.
Nice smelled the same (stone and herbes de provence and the tang of the Mediterranean) and looked the same (idyllically awaiting a summer about to burst forth) and sounded the same (the barking of small dogs and the crash and tumble of rocks dragged in and out by the tide.)
Everything was as Martina remembered, but it was no longer home. It was a time bomb counting down an unknowable number of seconds remaining. Prison Nice was located well inland from the Baie des Anges. Pfeffer provided directions. Martina began listening, hoping against hope to hear Matteo’s thoughts as they passed the Centre Hospitalier Sainte Marie, where she’d done a bit of fée marraine work last week. It felt like years ago, now.
Pfeffer, familiar with Martina’s “range,” called out approximate distances from Prison Nice. From two kilometers away, she could not hear Matteo. From a kilometer away, she could not hear Matteo. Now she began to grow desperate, replaying her memories of his voice for Chrétien so that he, too, would recognize the sound of Matteo’s thoughts.
I hear him not, mademoiselle, was Chrétien’s oft-repeated response.
Guided by Pfeffer, the three approached the Maison d’Arrêt, a squat, ugly building with wings splaying out in several directions. Martina attempted to damp down the sounds of all voices but the one she sought.
Before they reached the walls to push through, Chrétien called to Martina.
Mademoiselle, I hear your friend.
You’re certain? asked Martina and Pfeffer, at the same time.
Martina listened, but she could not hear Matteo. She began to panic. I don’t hear him, Chrétien. Are you sure it’s him?
Mademoiselle, I am quite certain the voice I hear is the same one you played for me in your own thoughts. But he is not here at the Maison d’Arrêt, Mademoiselle.
Martina stopped short of the building. What? Matteo has to be here. He must be.
Mademoiselle, said Chrétien, you would hear him yourself were he within these walls. He must be within the walls of some other house of arrest.
There is no other one, said Pfeffer. Not in Nice.
Martina felt a desperation building inside. Where else might Fritz have traveled? Not far—he’d been able to set up that one minute video chat with only an hour to get himself to Matteo’s location. Unless he’d moved Matteo. Martina was certain Matteo had not been hidden within the cells of Dr. Gottlieb’s villainous lair. She would have heard him there.
So where was he? And how was she supposed to get there before Fritz arrived?
45
I DON’T DO DOUGH
Las Abuelitas, California
Sam chewed on her thumbnail, sitting beside Gwyn inside the now-empty Las ABC. They occupied Sam’s favorite booth. Favorite because it was the booth she’d sat at the first time she and Will had met to discuss Ripplers Syndrome. It hadn’t been a date, exactly, but it had good memories and Sam sat here whenever it was free.
The café was warm—almost sticky inside now that all the doors and windows had been closed for the night. In spite of the close air, or perhaps because of it, the café smelled of fresh sourdough bread and snickerdoodles and pie-crust roll-ups, something new Bridget had invented.
“She claims it’s just pie dough and cinnamon sugar,” said Gwyn, choosing to avoid the subject they were both worrying over. “But the way customers are buying them, I’m convinced there was animal sacrifice involved.” She nodded knowingly and Sam raised an eyebrow.
“As if your mother would harm an animal,” murmured Sam. “Please.”
Gwyn shrugged. “She’s very driven to run a prosperous business. It’s a Chinese thing.”
Sam shook her head. Anytime Gwyn wanted to disparage some trait of her mother’s—usually a perfectly good trait, Sam noted—Gwyn said it was a Chinese thing. As a result, Sam had no confidence in understanding one single real thing about Chinese culture.
“Ma wants to teach me to make them,” continued Gwyn. “Me, Sam. I don’t do dough. Of any kind.”
“You work in a bakery, Gwyn. You are surrounded by dough twenty-four-seven.”
“I know. Do you have any idea how hard I have to work to avoid anything requiring or pertaining to dough? It is not easy. Trust me.”
“You helped Will make pizza dough,” Sam said.
Gwyn rolled her eyes. “Sam, Sam, Sam. That was different. I was trying to get him to spill on whether or not he had a thing for you.”
Having said this, Gwyn brought her fingernails to her mouth and began chewing them. She sank a few inches lower in the booth seat across from Sam.
“I’m sure Chrétien’s fine,” Sam said. “Sir Walter wouldn’t have sent him if he felt any worries.”
“Sir Walter should have gone himself.”
“Gwyn, that’s not fair and you know it. You asked him to stay to keep evil Fritz from descending unannounced.”
“I don’t have to be fair. I can be as unreasonable as I want. The man I love is far away, and possibly in mortal peril, and I don’t even have one of those clocks like Mrs. Weasley has to warn me.”
“Mrs. … Weasley?” asked Sam.
Gwyn rolled her eyes dramatically. “Harry Potter and the Something of Something. Ron and Fred and George’s mum. Honestly, Sam. How can you call yourself a book nerd and not remember who Mrs. Weasley is?”
Sam wasn’t sure she’d ever called herself a book nerd, although Gwyn had called her that when Sam started reading The Lord of the Rings with Will.
Sam switched seats, joining Gwyn on her side of the booth. She draped an arm around Gw
yn’s narrow shoulders and hugged her tightly. “I’m sorry, Gwyn. But I’m sure he’s safe. Absolutely no mortal peril is happening.”
Gwyn sniffled back a few tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My Gwynitude must have forgotten to call in sick this morning, ‘cause it sure as heck didn’t show up for work today.”
Sam gave Gwyn another side hug. “Let’s go eat something made with lots of butter and sugar, okay?”
“No,” said Gwyn. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s bring something made with lots of butter and sugar over to Sir Walter. That tea salon of his doesn’t see nearly enough action. And he could probably use a bit of cheerful company while we wait for his son to come back from saving some weird girl’s boyfriend.”
“Gwyn!”
“I just call ‘em like I see ‘em. Martina is definitely weird,” said Gwyn. “You seem to have forgotten that in the Queendom of Gwyn, weird is not a bad thing.”
Sam laughed and together they packed up three boxes full of things on doilies with enough calories to power an entire cross country team.
46
MAISON DES SINGES
Nice, France
Martina was about to suggest they come solid to consult with Pfeffer when Chrétien spoke.
Mon Dieu, said Chrétien. He is at prayer. He is making confession of his sins. I cannot, mademoiselle, in good conscience continue to eavesdrop.
Chrétien! Don’t you dare stop listening. You can ask his forgiveness after we find him. I’m sure he’d be fine with a little eavesdropping if he knew there was a good reason for it.
Pfeffer added, At any second he could reveal his location.
Martina heard what sounded like a heavy sigh. I will do as you both suggest.
Relief flooded her invisible pores. But where was Matteo? She’d been so certain Fritz had imprisoned him in a cell. She thought once more of Fritz’s response when she’d asked the question: Behind bars, the un-evolved ape. Right where he belongs.
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