Touch No Evil

by A. K. Alexander

  Ayden clicks off his phone and sets it down flat on the table. “So, what now?”

  “We crash this party tonight,” I say, although party isn’t quite right. The Vatican is planning to hold a ceremony where the president’s daughter will receive a blessing from the Pope. “And determine if Birthday Girl is truly Satan’s Chosen One.”

  Ayden rolls his eyes. “And how will we determine that? Will she suddenly sprout horns and a tail or something?”

  It was, of course, a good question, although I don’t much like the tone. “I don’t know. Maybe she’ll spontaneously combust when blessed.”

  “Maybe the earth will split open at her feet and demons will crawl up from lava-filled cracks,” says Noah, chuckling.

  Ayden snickers.

  Ugh. “Come on, guys. This is serious. We need to take this one step at a time,” I say. “First, the party.”

  “We can’t just stroll in on the Pope,” says Noah. “Especially not while he’s blessing the president’s daughter.”

  “Who said anything about strolling?” I ask, winking.

  Chapter Five

  Hope sits upon a bed in the room the nuns arranged for her.

  Arms wrapped around her legs, she rests her chin on her knees and stares down the wrinkly cotton dress at her bare feet. One of the sisters, a younger woman named Yael, has taken her shirt, jeans, and socks off to wash them. She’ll probably also stitch up the tear in the pants leg from where a rock gouged her while she attempted to escape the compound.

  Absentmindedly, she rubs a hand over her shin; the spot is still tender. The dress the nuns gave her seems more like a garment one of them would wear under their habits. On her small body, it hangs all the way to her ankles and looks a bit like a nightgown from the late 1800s. Still, since she’d run off with only the clothes she happened to be wearing at the time—and Orlenda hadn’t been the most gracious of hosts—the jeans, T-shirt, socks, and underwear Sister Yael took to wash represent the entirety of her belongings. Well, except for the sneakers on the floor beside her bed. And the clothing does need to be washed. Her shirt still smelled like the hotel in Morocco, and she hates that smell. Not that she has anything against the country, but it reminds her of being chained to a bed worrying if Orlenda would flip out and kill her at any moment.

  The chamber wall behind the bed curves, hinting that her room at the end of the hall occupies something like a tower jutting out of the mountain. One narrow window looks too narrow for a person to squeeze through, even her—not that she fancies taking a long fall down a cliff. A small desk with one chair stands beside a trunk. Past the foot of the bed, a wardrobe cabinet holds spare bed linens, but mostly empty space. Had one of the sisters claimed this room, it would’ve held her things.

  She spends a while sitting there using her gift to listen in on random conversations throughout Tel Aviv, trying to brush up on her Hebrew. Eventually, she grows bored of locals gossiping about their boyfriends or men haggling prices, or people complaining about Palestine. For a while, she eavesdrops on some children talking about Harry Potter, and finds herself becoming mildly jealous at the freedom and genuine laughter they enjoy. Those kids don’t have to worry about being shut up inside some government facility, or having crazy former teachers try to kidnap them through time.

  With a sigh, she shuts off her long-distance ears and stares at the wall. Her gaze eventually falls upon a faint bruise encircling her wrist, her last memento of being Orlenda’s “guest,” handcuffed to a bed in a hotel in Morocco. Unlike the compound, her attempt to escape there hadn’t gone so well. Though she kept trying. Whenever no one watched her, she struggled to free herself.

  It almost feels strange to be on a bed and not be tethered to it.

  For spite, or perhaps just to prove she can, she hops to her feet and walks around the room. If she simply sits still, she winds up thinking about Ky and pining for her to come back. She’s already spent plenty of hours crying over her not-mother when no one could see her. It all makes so much sense now. The woman always seemed frightened of something, distracted even. Here and there, they had some genuine moments, but always, a nagging doubt that something was wrong hovered over them. For a time, she wondered if she had done something. After learning the truth, it makes perfect sense. The woman was frightened—of Simms—and only pretended to love Hope. But, whether or not that woman has ever loved her doesn’t matter. Now she has a real family, and she knows Kylie loves her. The truth hit Hope hard—she somehow managed to resist bursting into tears in front of Ky, but still, her sister must have seen the pain in her eyes.

  Hope pads over to the window, standing up on her toes to peer out, hands resting on the cold stone sill. Each breath fogs on the glass. Staring out over the semi-desert, she imagines armies of riders with swords like from one of the books back at the compound. The landscape looks like it should have something dramatic and epic going on. Everything about this convent gives off a sense of being ancient—especially its lack of electricity—but it also brims with energy, powerful, yet peaceful. If not for that charge in the air, she’d probably curl up under her bed and hide there until Ky came for her. Though, she trusts Sister Marie-Luce, too. The nuns are cool, but Hope doubts they could really protect her from Gary or Echidna if either of them ever found her here. Maybe she’ll offer to help Sister Marie-Luce strengthen the psychic shielding on the place. Everyone, especially Simms, has always told her she possessed a great deal of power, more than any they’ve ever seen before. Is that why they kept her locked up so tight? Probably.

  Her eyes focus on some small, furry critter darting across the desert. It has the freedom to go wherever it wants, but at any moment, it could fall prey to something hungry. She empathizes with the rabbit, or whatever it is. From so far away, it’s merely a lump of fur zooming over the sand. Hope wants freedom, but fears the danger that comes along with it.

  She doesn’t mind it here, but wishes not to wait too long before her sister returns.

  With a sigh, she sinks back down to stand flat. If she has to escape this place, the window will never do. Even if she could squeeze herself through the narrow gap, there’s no way to climb down the sheer stone wall outside. As soon as she thinks it, she bites her lip in guilt. The nuns, especially Sister Marie-Luce, have been nothing but wonderful to her. Yet, she can’t even remember a time when her bedroom door hasn’t been locked at night.

  A prison is a prison is a prison...

  Hope scratches at her shin with her foot, thinking back to the night of her escape. She’d had it planned for weeks, but the one thing that kept getting in her way—the door—had been nearly impossible to defeat. Ever since she was nine, she tried to figure out the code or defeat the lock, but staying up at night for an hour or two at a time to fiddle with the electronics hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Only by luck had one of the staff been careless enough to talk about a security update, and mention the door codes aloud. A man named Noah, “worried about her safety,” made them change it. At the time, she thought it was lucky, a new guy doing something careless that she could take advantage of, but after everything that happened, it seems more likely that he did it on purpose, knowing she would hear him and make a run for it.

  Those soldiers were waiting for me.

  She wraps her arms around herself and shivers, reliving the fear of being chased down and grabbed. Had Ky been anywhere nearby, she would’ve run to her and refused to let go. Finally being in a safe place after living like a prisoner for so long brings down her guard.

  Safe, but still a prisoner.

  That thought makes her look at the bedroom door. The sight of a closed door doesn’t surprise her, but it stirs a restless panic in her stomach. For a long few minutes, she stares at the doorknob, gripped with doubt. Orlenda told her she wanted to protect her from bad people, but the woman lied. Hope doubted her right away, and understood her deceit for a fact soon after. Again, she rubs her sore wrist.

  “Nice people wouldn’t tie me to a bed.” />
  Hope glances at the bed, noting that the nuns haven’t tethered her to it. Yet, this room’s stone walls still feel like a prison cell. Her current dress wouldn’t work for an escape attempt at all. Heavy and long, it prevents her from running, and would probably drown her if she tried to swim in it.

  “Swim? I’m in a desert,” she mutters to no one in particular.

  Nervously nibbling on her lower lip, Hope creeps up to the door. Inches from her age-old nemesis, she curls her toes, shivering with dread at the idea it might not open. Images and sounds come to her, memories of years ago at the training compound. The first few days there, she pounded at her door, furious and terrified at being locked up.

  Today is her birthday, but she hasn’t told Ky, or anyone really. In fact, she wonders if the day is really even her birthdate, or simply another lie. Going from eleven to twelve doesn’t feel terribly significant. And she doesn’t even have the pathetic little cake her false mother would sometimes bring if she remembered. Hope frowns at her pale feet and sighs. Her long, dark hair hangs down well past her waist, but she doesn’t want to cut it.

  She grasps the knob with a shaking hand, tears already gathering at the corners of her eyes in preparation for finding herself locked in. When the knob turns freely, she gasps in surprise. It takes her using both hands and pulling with her whole body, but she manages to drag the heavy, ancient door in enough to peek out into the hallway.

  Sunlight streams in slit windows every fifteen or so feet down the corridor, none of which have glass. A warm, dry breeze sends dust spinning about in whorls, sparkling dots in the shafts of daylight. Pale beige walls of unadorned stone keep up the aesthetic of simplicity.

  Hope glances down at herself, feeling like a child actress who’s strayed off the stage of a play set in the 1800s. She lifts her toes and sets them down, sighs, and steps out into the hallway.

  Mostly because she can.

  I can leave my room whenever I want!

  She whirls to face the doorway, her body faintly trembling like she’s done something she’ll get scolded for. It doesn’t take long for thrill to overwhelm fear, and she takes another step backward. It feels so strange not being a prisoner. Her room sits at the end of a corridor spur. No one’s locked her in. She can leave whenever she wants—not that it makes any sense for a twelve-year-old to venture out into the world alone, but she can if she wants to. She doesn’t want to be a rabbit that’s eaten by a snake, but a small taste of freedom might not hurt her.

  No sooner do happy tears start in earnest, than Sister Marie-Luce comes gliding around the corner at the end of the hall.

  Hope stands there, weeping from joy. Overcome by the realization no one holds her captive, she can only sniffle and fidget as the older woman draws closer. That the nun doesn’t look the least bit alarmed to catch her “out of her room” makes it all seem too good to be true. No shouting, no chasing, no needles to put her to sleep…

  As soon as Sister Marie-Luce gets close enough, Hope flings herself into a hug and bursts into tears.

  “Child,” whispers the nun, holding her in a comforting embrace. “What is wrong?”

  “I’m not locked up,” says Hope between sniffles. “It feels so weird.”

  The nun mutters something inaudible and makes the Sign of the Cross over herself. Hope looks up in time to catch a distinct hint of anger in the old woman’s eyes. “You’ve endured such things no child should ever suffer, but you are safe here. Trust that God is watching, and will judge those who have harmed the innocent.”

  Hope wipes her tears on the back of her arm, almost managing a smile. “There are others. More children are still locked up there.”

  “I know. Kylie told me of them. I do not believe she intends to leave them there.” Sister Marie-Luce nudges her toward the door. “Come, let me have a look at that scratch on your leg. And your hair is a mess.”

  “I like it!” Hope grabs her long hair protectively. “Please don’t make me cut it.”

  Sister Marie-Luce smiles. “It is quite pretty, but also quite tangled. I only mean to brush it.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thank you.” Hope glances down and pads into her room. Though the nun has essentially shooed her right back into her chambers, she doesn’t feel like an escapee being caught. She sits on the edge of the bed and pulls her injured leg up, tugging the dress to her knee.

  Sister Marie-Luce pulls the chair from the desk and sits near the bed. Once situated, she grasps Hope’s ankle and pulls her leg out straight, studying the small, but deep, scratch on her shin. “That appears to be healing rather well.”

  Hope smirks. “The people who kidnapped me gave me stitches and stuff. Guess they didn’t want me to get sick and die before I was useful.” The pity radiating from the nun’s eyes makes her feel awkward. Sure, mere hours into being twelve, she remains a child in many ways, but she can also take care of herself. How many other kids can strand an evil witch in a forgotten time fold? “I know… people will probably always try to come after me.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll finally get a chance to learn what it’s like to be happy.” Sister Marie-Luce smiles. “You’ll be with us here a little longer while that sister of yours sorts some things out. You do look so much like her.”

  Hope smiles. This is music to her ears.

  “So, what’s this I hear about your birthday coming? Have you made a wish?” asks Sister Marie-Luce.

  Hope’s eyes widen. She hasn’t told anyone about that.

  Sister Marie-Luce winks.

  Shock gives way to sorrow. Who cares about birthdays? All that usually meant was her and her not-mother sat in a locked room with a tiny cake. “No wish.” Hope jabs her finger in the mattress. “They don’t work anyway.”

  “Oh, don’t be quite so sure, child,” says Sister Marie-Luce with a bright tone.

  The nun’s voice makes her smile and look up at the woman with a suspicious eyebrow raised. “You believe in wishes?”

  “Children have a special kind of magic, you see. Sometimes, if you want something with all your heart, God listens.” Sister Marie-Luce pats her on the shoulder. “Turn a bit, and let’s see about all those tangles.”

  Hope shifts on the bed, putting her back to the sister. She sits with her legs to the side, hands in her lap, picking at her nails. Sister Marie-Luce gathers up Hope’s hair and begins to work out some of the nastier tangles with her fingers. Her “mother” sometimes shared tender moments like this, but the nun’s soft, pleasant humming—a smile in the form of a voice—makes that other woman seem false. Maybe she feels sorry for Hope, being a captive or a guinea pig, or whatever Hope has been. Perhaps that woman is afraid of the people who run the compound. But she hasn’t been genuine, hasn’t been real family.

  Thinking of Ky, Hope closes her eyes and concentrates hard, balling her hands in fists from the effort she puts into her thoughts.

  “Okay.” She opens her eyes.

  “Hmm?” asked Sister Marie-Luce.

  Hope twists back to peer at the nun, wincing when a strand of hair snags. In spite of the tiny jolt of pain, she grins. “I made a wish.”

  Chapter Six

  Her scream catches in her throat.

  Even though every fiber of her being cries out a warning to her father, no sound comes out. She rushes toward him, hoping to prevent him from touching the boy who approaches him. Time drags down to slow motion. Her father, the President of the United States, squats, eye-level with the little boy… and extends his hand.

  No! she silently screams.

  A man stands behind the perhaps six-year-old boy. She recognizes him, but only in a vague sense of having seen him somewhere before. Her memory, foggy at best, struggles and fails to name him. He has been welcome among the other national security leaders without question. She notes an insignia on his ring, the significance of which dissolves into the fog of her struggling mind.

  Julia Dennison takes in all of these things in that singular moment and, with every bit of her strength, will
s her father to draw back his hand and get away from the child, but it doesn’t help. Her father’s hand grips the child’s. In an instant, his inviting smile warps into a grimace of pain. He wheezes, clutching his heart. A moment after, he careens to the ground. No one but her notices, but the little boy smiles a dark little smile, as if overjoyed at the president’s death.

  Her voice returns: “Nooooo!”

  ***

  Julia sits up in bed, gasping.

  Her heart thunders as she draws several deep breaths. Just a dream. Just a dream. She pushes back the covers, slips out of bed, and crosses the room to the window. The view isn’t of the White House lawn, but rather Rome. The dome of St. Peter’s stands prominent, glimmering in the morning light. The window belongs to the Rome Cavalieri Hotel where the first family booked their stay prior to their visit to the Vatican, the place she will celebrate her twenty-first birthday.

  Who celebrates their birthday at church? Blech.

  Julia prefers to be with her friends in a club back home, doing what normal twenty-one-year-olds do on the “big one,” the twenty-first birthday. But normal went out the window when her father won the election.

  She gazes out the window, trying to recall her dream and details from it. That particular nightmare happens somewhat often, but today, it had a deeper vividness. Enough that she awakens with the emotional recoil of having really watched her father die. In the past, she’s never been able to focus on the man accompanying the boy. His ring comes to mind. She’s seen the insignia on it before—a cross with a large circle in the top part of the vertical shaft, but its meaning eludes her.

  Back in bed with her tablet computer, she taps in a myriad of keywords, aware the Secret Service monitors all activity on the device. She loves her father, but wishes he’d never been elected. Being the daughter of the president feels more like the whole family is in prison rather than any kind of good thing. Ten minutes later, her search brings up a perfect replica of the symbol she’s seen on the man’s ring. The website refers to it as a Coptic cross, which closely resembles an Egyptian “ankh,” a symbol of eternal life often found in the hand of the goddess Isis.