by Alex Hayes
“Waiting for you,” I mumble, and rub my groggy head. “I lost my phone and didn’t remember your address, so I homed in on your crystal instead.”
I could’ve accused that Asian guy of stealing my phone. My heart shudders; the guy who might’ve been Con.
God, what could that mean?
Did an Evatenon catch him, assimilate him—mind, body and soul? Or did I imagine that violet-eyed monster?
Can I let myself believe Conithar is lost to me forever?
I really don’t want to believe it’s true, but what else could have made him change so much?
“I convinced a taxi driver to cruise around until I picked up your crystal.” Grabbing Idris’s arm, I struggle to my feet. The pain in my side makes my eyes water.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Long story,” I mutter. “Can you take me home?”
“Sure.” He guides me, arm across my shoulders, to his car.
On the way to his apartment, I tell him everything I remember.
“You thought you saw an Evatenon?” Idris is clearly shocked.
“I might have imagined it.” I interlace my fingers in my lap. “I’ve still been having those nightmares, and when I woke, I was disoriented.”
“Seriously? So you aren’t sure whether the guy was Conithar or not? Maybe he isn’t an Evatenon, but he could’ve stolen Conithar’s crystal.”
This suggestion is a vast improvement on the idea of Con being assimilated.
Idris looks at me sideways. “And you say he attacked you?”
“He didn’t exactly attack me, but he was aggressive. His behavior startled me and I stumbled and fell. That’s all I remember until I woke up in a rundown apartment.”
“But you said he chased you when you tried to leave.”
“He said he wasn’t done with me.” I stare at Idris through the darkness of the car’s interior. “What do you think he meant by that?”
Idris’s shoulders stiffen, like he has some ideas but doesn’t want to speak them.
“I was fully dressed,” I add.
“Are you sure it wasn’t him who hurt you?”
I lean my cheek against the cool of the car window. “I’m pretty sure a vehicle hit me. I remember an impact too hard for a person to make.” I sigh. “None of this makes sense. From what I remember, Con wasn’t violent or vindictive. All he seemed to care about when we were small was fixing things.”
“But he was only two then, right? People change.”
Tears well at the thought of that sweet boy turning into an aggressive monster.
Idris touches my arm. “We should go talk to the guy, get the lowdown.”
“Maybe,” I murmur, but I’m not eager to face that man again.
Ribs scream as I roll out of bed the next morning. My room is barely large enough to accommodate its queen-size bed, and I find myself fumbling against the wall. My hand lands on the sill of the room’s one giant window, which overlooks the apartment’s micro backyard filled mostly with a mature oak tree.
Once erect, I stagger to the bathroom to examine my torso in its full-length mirror. Given the pain, I expect the blue-green blush of bruising, but my pale, lightly freckled skin looks normal. Even the bump on my head is invisible and almost healed.
Showered and dressed, I head downstairs to find Idris.
He waves when I wander into the sunny kitchen. Phone to ear, he paces the tiled floor, nodding his head, then motions me to the marble counter where fresh bagels sit beside a stainless-steel toaster.
“Yeah, sure. But song writing’s only part of the job. I need connections.” He rubs a hand over the tight curls crowning his head, listening, then says, “Rowan’s gonna help while she’s here, since Cadi couldn’t make it.”
A voice barks out of his phone, making him hold it away from his head.
“That’s not her fault,” he continues. “I didn’t know she needed to stay in Livran form either.”
He lets out a groan. “Yeah, Mom, I’m happy. About everything, except her not being here.”
Conversation continues from the other end of the line, while I organize breakfast.
“Seriously. I’m not freaked out, and I’m not running away.”
He rolls his eyes as his mom’s voice pummels his ear.
Biting my lip, I pop a bagel in the toaster and search in a white cabinet for peanut butter.
Idris says goodbye and hangs up. He rubs a hand across the front of his vintage James Taylor T-shirt.
I grab a plate. “What’s up?”
“Mom’s never gonna be happy. She thinks I’m too young to have a kid.”
“And how do you feel about it?”
He cracks an awkward smile. “I’m ecstatic.”
“Uh-huh. You sound it too.”
He smirks at my sarcasm. “Had to happen sooner or later, right? I mean, what’s the point of planting a crystal tree so our kids have crystals if we don’t have kids?”
He tosses his phone on the table and stares at the wall for a few seconds. “I am happy, honest, but let’s face it, the timing sucks. I’m stuck here pursuing a music career and Cadi’s unable to leave New York.”
“But that won’t be forever. What will you do when the baby comes?”
“Bring Cadi and the baby here, and make time.” He rubs his jaw, then a smile creeps onto his face. “Trying to imagine that little tyke. She’ll be green at first, I suppose. Or he will.” His smile widens to a grin. “Yeah, I am looking forward to being a dad.”
“That’s good.” The thought of having children is hard to contemplate, even if I had found Con last night, and we had jumped each other like Idris proposed.
That guy couldn’t have been Con.
I swallow my angst and glance at Idris. “Peanut butter?”
“Yeah, sure.” He pulls a jar from a low cabinet, then leans a hip into the counter and crosses his arms. “To be honest, I’m afraid.” He hesitates. “Not afraid of being a dad, but of failing to be a good one.”
“Not that I have any clue, but if you love the kid and you make sure he or she knows that, the rest probably doesn’t matter.”
He nods. “I’ve been lucky. Meeting my real dad, getting his memories. I know how much he loved me, even if he couldn’t be around when I was growing up. I just hope I can be there for my kid.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” I nab my hot bagel.
Idris smiles. “No reason.” His phone rings, and his smile fades as quickly as it came. “Hey, Nicole. How’s it going?”
Nicole?
“Tomorrow at eight? Sure. Send me the address. I’ll meet you there.” He hangs up.
I drop into a seat at the kitchen table. “What’s tomorrow at eight?”
“Another holiday party. Tis’ the season. I met this girl, Nicole, at a dinner party Max—he’s my agent—took me to a couple of weeks back. She’s a recording artist too, and we got talking. She’s been taking me around, introducing me to people in the industry.”
“Anyone interesting?”
He shrugs. “A few. No movers or shakers yet, but you never know. Mom’s all over me about putting music ahead of the party scene. You know, keeping my priorities straight. But I need contacts if I’m going to get anywhere.”
“Sounds reasonable. So what’s on tap? I’m supposed to be helping you, so I guess I need to know your schedule.”
“I’ll share my calendar.” He grabs his phone. “So what about Conithar?”
I finger my sore ribs. “I’ll give it a few days. So if you’ve stuff to keep me busy…”
He grins. “Plenty of stuff. Are you any good at singing?”
My lips part. “Singing?”
“Yeah, without Cadi here, I’m gonna need a backup vocalist. Max could find me one, I guess. But if I can influence your crystal the way I can Cadi’s… You wanna give it a try?”
“Umm, I guess.”
Idris cringes as I hit another note off-key. The crystal thing he had in mind isn’t wor
king.
I stand in front of a mic in his combo office and recording studio. “Sorry, you’ll have to find a way for Cadi to back you up long distance or get yourself another vocalist. Clearly, singing is not my thing.”
He shakes his head. “No worries. Dad’s got recording equipment at home. Maybe once he’s back from Europe, I’ll get him to set Cadi up in his office.” He glances at me, eyes sad. “I’d ask Mom, but she’s not happy about our relationship. I don’t like the idea of her and Cadi within striking distance while I’m not around to…” He seems at a loss for words.
“Defuse the nuclear warheads?”
He chuckles. “Yeah.” His eyes narrow as I rub the soreness along my right side. “You think you should see a doctor about those ribs?”
“They’re just bruised. I’m sure they’ll be fine in a few days.”
While Idris knuckles down on a new song, I borrow his iPad, settle on the maroon love seat in his tiny box of a living room and surf the web. Searching for Con and Conithar uncovers nothing. Not that I thought it would. He’s sure to be using a different name, like the rest of us.
A name Mr. Scrim didn’t happen to mention before he died. The carer intended to bring me here to search for Con. But now, Mr. Scrim’s knowledge and the locations of the other Livran kids are lost.
Because of me.
I’d been so freaked out an Evatenon was using Mr. Scrim’s phone SIM to track us, I froze the device, shattering everything inside it. That phone held the contact information for everyone. Information stored nowhere else, except in Mr. Scrim’s head.
Idris picked up some information from the carer using his mind transference ability, but not much about where the other kids were located.
With a soft groan, I shift position in my seat, hoping these ribs really are only bruised.
The iPad screen darkens as I stare out the front window at the block-shaped apartment buildings across the street. The place where I found Con, if that’s who the Asian guy was, didn’t seem so different, just more rundown and on a way-too-busy street.
Could that guy really have been Con? Or did he steal the crystal from my bond mate? The man looked more than eighteen, but it’s possible Con made himself look older.
Then there’s the Evatenon possibility. That Con has been assimilated. That he’s dead, and a hideous alien is running around in his body.
My brain won’t go there. It can’t. And if Conithar has been separated from his crystal, I need to find it, because that crystal is my only means to finding him.
I switch apps on the tablet to Instagram and come across Idris’s selfie of us outside the airport. Then I notice how many followers he has. Over ten thousand.
“Hey, Rowan.” Idris bursts into the room, making me gasp out loud.
He lifts a hand, palm out. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” His whole body vibrates with energy.
I wave his apology aside. “What’s up?”
“Just got a call from Max. The movie company wants my song. The producer loves ‘Won’t You Come Home to Me?’ and said it would make the perfect theme song for their new movie. They want to go into negotiations.” He rubs his hands together. “This is the break I’ve been hoping for, the springboard we need to push that song out to the whole world.”
I straighten, wincing as pain shoots up my side, but manage a grin all the same. “That’s wonderful, Idris.”
My hopes rise. If Idris reaches the other kids with his music and his message, the information I destroyed on Mr. Scrim’s phone won’t matter.
11
Connell
I chase a fist-sized beetle across the sandy dirt. He’s beautiful: glossy green, blue and purple, long black legs, and a single golden horn protruding from the center of his forehead. I reach for him, eager to touch, when short stubby fingers stop my hand.
I hunch my shoulders and turn to scowl at their owner. A kid like me. Rae-Rae. That’s her name. She’s green and scaly. Her gold-rimmed ocean-blue eyes pin mine. She holds out a flattened flower with green petals and transparent leaves.
Her raised brow says, Fix it.
I snort out a breath, take the flower, rub and hand it back, restored.
She lifts it to her button nose, like fixing the thing made it smell better.
With a head shake, I look for my beetle, but he’s gone. Grumbling, I rattle bulbous branches and shake leaves as delicate as spiderwebs, hoping to startle the insect into view.
No such luck.
I throw Rae-Rae a dark look.
Unperturbed, she grabs my hand and tugs me away.
The touch of her smooth fingers and the view of that sandy forest floor drifts away like falling leaves, and I wake.
Odd.
Must have been that documentary I watched on the monitor lizard the other night.
That kid’s eyes though, so clear in my mind. Crystal blue with flecks of emerald green and ringed with gold.
I breathe deeply and sit up in bed, sheet and blankets flopped haphazardly over its edges.
Guess I slept. I grab my phone. Three o’clock.
What? In the afternoon?
Wasn’t there somewhere I was supposed to be? Or was that yesterday? Need to check the calendar. I bound out of bed and flip open my laptop.
An event at Symphony Hall at three. Right now. Damn it.
“Azera?” I shout, then search for her. The apartment is empty.
I unlock my phone and check my locator app. Azera’s position glows, a blip of red next to Symphony Hall. She went there in my place.
Jeez, I owe her big time for letting me sleep.
Guess I needed it. I feel so much better. And hungry.
The fridge is an echoey cave of emptiness. Looks like I’m going out.
My fingers tap to a rhythm against stainless steel.
What do I want?
A sushi burrito. And there’s only one place to get it.
The trip to Hyun’s Asian Fusion is fastest by metro.
While waiting for the next train, I browse social media for new leads. Skimming Malcolm Emmanuel’s Facebook friends, a name catches my attention. Idris Williams.
The name that popped up on that girl’s phone.
I lift my eyes from the screen as a train rumbles into the station and stops in front of me. The doors open and commuters swarm out. I catch a waterfall of auburn curls among the throng. My eyes dart to identify the person’s features.
A stranger.
Damn. Why does that girl’s face keep muscling its way into my head? Her quiet beauty as she slept. Its rosy flush when she panicked. And her giant blue-green eyes that, thinking about it, seem familiar.
Boarding the train, I slip into a plastic seat near the sliding doors and return to my search. Idris Williams is a recording artist. Three hundred thousand hits on his music video over the past two months. Not bad for a newcomer. And he’s definitely new on the scene, or I’d have heard of him already.
Back to social media. I find him on Instagram and hit pay dirt. A picture of that girl standing next to him. They’re at LAX. I recognize the signage from Terminal Four. But no comments on the picture to identify her.
She looks happy to be with the guy. Is he her significant other?
That thought chills me. I shake off the feeling and check which station is up next. Three more stops.
Likes? Hundreds of them. I scroll back through his images. No more photos of the mystery girl. Though this guy seems to be making the rounds. Party after party. Girl after girl.
Nothing tight. No kisses. No dove eyes. But the girls sure seem to like him.
My station comes up. I hop off the train. Hyun’s restaurant is five minutes away.
The streets are tied up with evening commuters and lined with redone apartment buildings housing first-floor businesses, most of them trendy. The area’s definitely moved upmarket over the past few years.
Hyun’s dark-fronted restaurant is quiet when I get there. Four o’clock. Early yet, so no surprise.
The gray booths and black lacquered tabletops make the place look upscale, but the prices are still reasonable. It’s lucky Hyun bought the building when the neighborhood was struggling. He took a risk and it paid off.
I slide into a seat at the bar and run my fingers along the galaxy black granite I helped him choose.
We first met when I was twelve—a runaway who’d gone without food for more than three days. I’d wandered back alleys, like a homeless mutt, hoping to scavenge some chow. I’d have picked fallen rice off the tarmac just to get something inside me.
That night, I spotted a restaurant worker dumping trash and followed him back to the business’s rear entrance. “Hey, any work available in there?”
The guy looked me over. I wasn’t dressed shabbily, although I probably didn’t smell so good. “Might be a busboy position.” His eyes narrowed. “You can ask the boss.” He tilted his head down the warm hallway, then called, “Hey, Mr. Ko, this boy’s looking for a job.”
Hyun had more hair back then. He handed a plastic bag filled with white takeout boxes to a passing waiter and wandered over. “How old are you?”
Didn’t occur to me to lie. “Twelve.”
“Can’t hire anyone less than sixteen.” Hyun’s eyes were sympathetic, but that didn’t fill the hole in my belly.
Hope swooshed out of me like gas from an opened soda bottle. Why hadn’t I lied about my age?
“But,” he added, “I’ve a takeout order sitting here from a no-show. It’s yours if you want it.”
I didn’t answer, just accepted the offering he pushed into my hands. “Th-thank you.” Bowing my head, I walked out of the restaurant and found a dark corner to eat.
When I woke the next morning, under a bush in a nearby park, my body had changed. Increased muscle mass. Slimmer face. Deeper voice. And hair sprouting from places I didn’t know had hair follicles.
I was weirded out by the changes for half the day, having no idea how it had happened, then realized what the sudden maturity of my body meant.
I returned to the same restaurant, asked the same question. “A kid told me you had an opening,” I added, my low voice not sounding anything like that twelve-year-old boy I had been.