See How They Run

by Ally Carter

  “Hey!” I shout. When Jamie shoots again, I grab the ball as soon as it drops through the net and hold it just out of my brother’s reach.

  “Give me the ball, Gracie.” It’s like he’s just now noticed that I’m here.

  “How are you?”

  “How do you think I am?”

  He’s right. He doesn’t have to answer my question. I can see the truth in his dark eyes and the set of his jaw. There’s an anger in my brother that I have never seen before. He’s pulsing with it. And a part of me wonders if that was really the pounding that has filled my head all day.

  “Spence’s parents called Grandpa today to make arrangements for claiming his body. I’m going to have to shake his father’s hand and salute his mother and … Can you imagine that? They have to bury their son.”

  Three years ago Jamie and Dad brought our mom’s remains here. To Adria. Now the Spencers have to make the opposite journey with their child. I can’t imagine anything worse. And by the look on his face, neither can Jamie.

  “I can’t tell them that their son died a hero. I can’t hand them a folded flag and say it was all in service to his country. No. He died because he trusted me enough to follow me to that island.”

  There’s a chink in Jamie’s armor now. He is vulnerable and flawed and it’s the most terrifying thing that I have ever seen. I need Jamie to be perfect. I need it so badly — so I don’t have to be.

  “Jamie, it’s not your fault.”

  “Spence was alive when I left him, Gracie. When I left him.” Jamie looks away and shakes his head. For the first time, I realize how much he looks like Dad. “I left a man behind. Do you know what that looks like? What that feels like? I’m going to have to go back to West Point and tell my teachers — tell my classmates — what happened here. Someone is dead because of me. Do you have any idea what that —”

  I do know what that feels like — better than anyone. And Jamie just remembered. “It wasn’t your fault,” I tell him, but Jamie just shakes his head.

  “He’s never been here before. He doesn’t … he didn’t know his way around.” Jamie grimaces as he remembers his friend is in the past tense now. “He didn’t speak the language.”

  “Every person on that island goes to an English-speaking school, Jamie. And you know it.”

  “He’s dead, Grace!” Not Gracie. “And when I left he wasn’t.”

  Three years ago, on a dark night in a smoky building, I pulled a trigger and someone we loved died. What Jamie did — or didn’t do — is different. But guilt isn’t smart. It isn’t logical. It doesn’t only live in the places it belongs.

  So I, better than anyone, should know just what to say to make my brother feel better. But it’s a trick question. The truth is, there’s nothing anyone can say.

  “Jamie, talk to me. Or, fine. Don’t talk to me. Talk to Alexei!”

  At this, my brother only glares.

  We’re behind the embassy, right by the wall. Alexei is just on the other side of the fence, but Jamie is acting like they’re strangers.

  “Have you talked to him?” I ask.

  “Of course I haven’t talked to him,” Jamie says, and I can’t help myself. I take his basketball and throw it with all my might, high over the fence, into Russia’s backyard.

  “Hey!” my brother snaps.

  “Alexei’s probably home.” I shrug. “Go ask him for your ball back.”

  “Brat,” he tells me, and starts toward the doors.

  “What can I say? I’m mentally unstable.”

  “Don’t joke.” Jamie is spinning on me.

  Instinctively, I step back. “You used to have a sense of humor.”

  “Not about that. Never about that,” he says. “Besides, someone murdered my friend, Grace. Forgive me if I don’t crack up.”

  “Who said anything about murder? We don’t know what happened.”

  “Oh,” he says, turning slowly to look at the Russian embassy, “I think we know a little bit of what happened.”

  I follow his gaze, but I can’t believe them — the words he isn’t saying.

  “No, Jamie. You can’t possibly think that Alexei …”

  “He never left the island. Did you know that?” Jamie turns again, this time as if he can see through Adria’s great outer wall, as if he can look all the way out to the island, back into the past. “Spence. He was killed out there.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Our grandfather is the United States ambassador to Adria, Gracie. He gets briefed on these things.”

  And Grandpa briefs Jamie. Nobody ever briefs me.

  I try to follow where Jamie’s going with this. “So Spence never left the island. Okay. Maybe he got drunk and wandered off and fell. Hit his head. Drowned.”

  “He didn’t drown, Gracie. His neck was broken.”

  “So he fell and broke his neck!”

  I am so used to Jamie being the calm one, the smart one. I’m not used to him being the cold one. But that’s exactly what he is as he looks back at the Russian fence.

  “He’d been in a fight.”

  “You can’t think Alexei did this. You can’t really, honestly think that.”

  “Alexei’s been doing a lot of things I never thought he’d do.”

  “Like what?” I demand.

  “Like you guys got close.”

  “You’re the one who asked him to look out for me.”

  “Did he take advantage of you?”

  “Did he … Ew. No!”

  “Don’t lie to me, Gracie. I see the way he looks at you. How you two are together.”

  “Spence is dead and that’s awful. It is so, so awful, and I’d give anything to go back and change that night. I know you would, too. But we can’t. Spence is gone. But if you don’t stop this you’re going to lose Alexei, too. And that would be tragic. Because that is something that you can still stop.”

  “Maybe some men deserve to be left behind.”

  I know this isn’t just some army thing, some West Point thing. Spence was alive and now he’s not, and Jamie isn’t mad at Alexei. He’s mad at himself. Alexei is just the closest target.

  Alexei is my brother’s Scarred Man.

  “Spence was an adult, Jamie. He could take care of himself. He wasn’t your responsibility.”

  “Like you’re not my responsibility?”

  “No,” I tell him. “Don’t you remember? You gave that job to Alexei.”

  “Well, then I guess I’ve made a lot of bad decisions this summer.”

  Jamie is my family. My blood. If I ever need a kidney, he is totally my first call. But we have never been so alike until this moment. He is changed. Broken.

  It’s the one thing I had hoped we would never have in common.

  “Ms. Chancellor?” I say. She’s in front of one of the big round windows upstairs, looking out onto the street, when I find her. Dusk is falling, but she holds a coffee cup with both hands, slowly sipping. It’s the middle of summer on the Mediterranean, but it’s like she’s standing beside a pane of frosty glass, watching it snow. I can feel the cold descending.

  The crowd is smaller now, here at the end of the day, but there are still protestors chanting, clogging the street and blocking off Embassy Row. Are these people angry with us or the Russians next door? Sometimes it’s hard to say. Some people, after all, don’t care who they yell at as long as they have a reason to keep shouting.

  “It’s not going to go away quickly, is it?” I ask, staring at the crowd.

  Ms. Chancellor takes a sip. “No, dear. I don’t believe it will.”

  “That’s why the prime minister was here, wasn’t it? Because of the crowds?”

  “Because of what they represent, yes.”

  That’s when I realize Ms. Chancellor isn’t looking at the street — not at the protestors or the massive television trucks that stand right behind the barricades. No. Her gaze is locked on the building next door. There’s an almost identical window on the Russian side o
f the fence. I half expect to see Alexei standing there, staring back.

  On the street below, people are pushing through the crowds, going somewhere. There is a charge in the air, and even inside I can feel it. The sun begins to dip below the horizon and the shadows come to Embassy Row.

  “You know Alexei didn’t do it,” I tell her, but I’m still surprised to hear her say, “Of course.”

  “Do you know who did?” I ask.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting her to say, but I’m disappointed when she shakes her head. “No, dear. I do not.”

  I think about the secret rooms and tunnels and the memory of Ms. Chancellor in a nearly abandoned street, holding a smoking gun.

  “Ms. Chancellor, about the prime minister …”

  “Alexandra Petrovic is acting prime minister, dear.”

  “I wasn’t asking about her.”

  Eleanor Chancellor isn’t a cold woman. But the look she gives me might turn the Mediterranean to ice. But I can’t stop — not now.

  “About what happened … did I ever say thank you?”

  For being there. For believing in me. For saving my life.

  “Really, Grace.” The smile she gives me is almost blinding. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  But she does know. Of course she does. But the truth is one more thing that I know she’ll never say.

  “Now go on,” Ms. Chancellor tells me with a playful push toward the stairs.

  “Go where?” I ask.

  “Out. The Festival of the Fortnight begins tonight, you know.” She looks at me over the top of her glasses. “Oh, Grace, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. It’s a very important part of Adrian history. And a very big party.” There is an uncharacteristic twinkle in her eye. I think for a moment that she might be teasing. Then I think better of it. Eleanor Chancellor does not tease.

  “I’m not in a partying mood,” I tell her.

  “I’m not asking, Grace. You need to get out of this building and enjoy yourself for a little while.” She points toward the stairs. “Now go. Your guests are waiting.”

  Is she speaking as my grandfather’s chief of staff or as my surrogate mother? Or maybe this is part of the Society. Maybe I’m not supposed to know.

  Then I wonder, What guests?

  When I reach the entryway, Megan and Noah are already there. She is leaning against his shoulder as they both look at her phone. His cheek touches the top of her head. Their embrace is so comfortable, so easy, that I almost feel guilty for having seen it.

  “Hey,” Noah says when he sees me. He doesn’t pull immediately away from Megan, though — as if they’ve been caught. They aren’t doing anything wrong, I guess. Technically, there’s no shame in being happy.

  “Awesome. You’re here,” Megan says, and Noah reaches for the door. “I told you not to underestimate Ms. Chancellor,” she tells him before stepping outside.

  “Come on,” Noah almost yells over the chants of the protestors. “Let’s go.”

  I haven’t seen him this excited in ages. Not since the night we met, when he took me to Lila’s party on the cliffs. It was only a few weeks ago, but it seems like a lifetime. It was Before.

  Before my brother came and his friend died. Before the streets were filled with protests and cries. Before I knew the truth about my mother and what I did.

  Before I figured out that I am the villain of my own story.

  I want to pull away from Noah, go back inside. But his grip on my hand is too strong as he loops an arm around Megan’s shoulders and leads us out beyond the gates.

  Dusk is settling over Valancia, and the crowd is smaller. But barricades still line the sidewalk, keeping the protestors in the street. Adrian police officers rush toward us, ushering us farther from the embassy, away from the chanting mob.

  We walk through the bright lights that shine upon the reporters who stand in the street with US and Russia over their shoulders, the embassies spotlighted in the glare. It’s the middle of the day in the States, I have to remind myself. And cable news isn’t going to let this story die. Not yet. We live in a twenty-four-hour news cycle and this story has only begun.

  When we reach the edge of the crowd I know I’m safe, but I have to look back — like Lot’s wife. I’m almost afraid I’ll turn to salt. But I don’t see the city burning. No. I see a boy with black hair and blue eyes standing before a second-story window of the building next door.

  Alexei raises his hand in something that isn’t quite a wave but isn’t a salute. It’s more like he’s pushing me away, telling me to save myself.

  So I look straight ahead. I swear I won’t look back again.

  When we reach the Israeli embassy we turn and start up the street that rises steadily to the palace and the center of town. The farther we get from Russia, the more the city seems to change. The angry cries grow fainter, but the streets are anything but empty, and the closer we get to the palace, the rowdier the crowd becomes. We are surrounded by laughter and talking, big raucous groups of tourists and older couples who walk together, hand in hand. It’s like all of Adria is heading toward the palace.

  Then I think about Alexei — about Jamie.

  Well, almost all of Adria.

  “So what is all of this, exactly?” I ask.

  Noah turns, walking backward for a moment, shocked indignation on his face. “You spent every summer of your childhood here and you don’t know what tonight is?”

  It’s like I’ve just told him that I think all puppies are evil.

  “You never came to the Festival of the Fortnight?” He gapes.

  “No,” I say.

  “Never?” Noah asks, not letting it drop. “Little Grace never crawled out of her window and ran away to see the bonfire?” he teases. “Or set the bonfire … or tossed petrol upon the bonfire …”

  “No,” I say, sounding almost defensive of Past Me. “Mom would have killed me.”

  There’s a huge group of people coming up behind us, singing songs I’ve never heard. Noah and Megan and I step aside to let them pass, but one of them knocks into me anyway. He mumbles something, slurring his words, and his breath smells like liquor.

  As the drunk moves along, I look at Noah. “Mom said it wasn’t exactly ‘kid friendly.’”

  Noah nods. “I can see her point.”

  When we reach the streets that surround the palace, the crowds grow thicker, heavier. Somehow hungrier. We are tossed and pushed and shoved. Noah holds both of our hands, keeping us lashed together, until we finally find a place beside one of the barricades, right in front of the palace. I turn and look up at the tall iron fences, the almost impenetrable facade.

  “You do know about the War of the Fortnight, don’t you, Grace?” Megan asks me.

  I look at the palace and try to recall the night last month when I accompanied my grandfather to an official state function. I remember walking through the ornate ballroom, studying the walls that were covered like patchwork with priceless paintings of kings and queens. That night, the prime minister told me the story of one of those kings. But at the time that same prime minister was also trying to kill me, so, in hindsight, I’m not exactly eager to take his word for it.

  “Remind me,” I say, and Megan and Noah share a look.

  Noah rubs his hands together, trying his best to be dramatic.

  “Okay,” he says. “Picture it! Adria. Almost two hundred years ago. A terrible drought has crippled the land. Rivers are dry. Crops have failed. The people are hungry — literally starving for revenge. And since they can’t take it out on God, they go after the next best thing …”

  Reverently, Noah turns, and we all look at the palace. I can feel his countenance change. He isn’t teasing; no one’s laughing anymore.

  “One night, the palace guards left their posts and threw open the gates, and an angry mob pulled the king and his family from their beds,” I say, almost to myself.

  Noah and Megan stand beside me. Together, we ease a little closer to the fenc
e.

  “The king,” Megan says. “The queen. Two princes, and a baby girl who wasn’t even a month old yet. Five of them. They pulled them from their beds, and they killed them.” She points to a line of windows in the center of the palace. “That’s where they hung their bodies.”

  For a second, I think about Alexei and the crowds that have taken over Embassy Row. What would it take for that mob to pull him from his bed? How easy would it be? But then I remember that there are some questions to which you never want to know the answer.

  “And that, Gracie” — Noah leans against the barricade and eyes the palace — “was the start of the War of the Fortnight. Fourteen days that changed Adria forever.”

  Fourteen days, I think. Noah seems amazed that change can happen so quickly, but I know better. It doesn’t even take that long. The whole world can change far faster. In the time it takes a thirteen-year-old girl to point and fire a gun.

  Some people in the crowd carry torches, and the air is filled with smoke. Gaslight shines from sconces that adorn the palace’s fence. The light that surrounds us is the color of fire.

  In the distance, I hear a child laugh. A mother yells. And I close my eyes, try to block out the din of chaos that fills the air. I want to run, to leave. I don’t know why, but I know I need to get away from these people before it is too late.

  Frantically, I push away from the fence and am just starting to turn, to leave, when the trumpets sound. The sound is so foreign and ancient and regal that I stop. Then I remember where I am, standing outside an ancient palace, looking through the fence at history.

  The crowd stands still. It’s like even the fire in the torches stops moving. Everything is absolutely quiet as the palace doors open.

  That is when I notice the rich red carpet that runs from the doors to the gates. A few weeks ago, that was where I ran, clutching a ball gown in my hands, away from the Scarred Man and my mother’s memory. But tonight the people who exit through those doors are walking slowly toward the hordes that gather on the other side of the fence.

  The king is in the center, the queen to his right. On his left stands the crown prince of Adria. And beside him his wife, Princess Ann.