by AR Colbert
I glanced around the room again for golden eyes. He was much more fun to talk to than my angry mother. Plus—I hadn’t gotten to ask for his name. But he was gone. He’d probably bolted out of there as soon as my mom came unhinged. I couldn’t blame him. I wanted to get out there, too.
“Mom?” I called out.
She held one finger out to the side to quiet me and continued speaking to the artist. I tapped my foot impatiently, watching and waiting for my chance to jump in and pull her away. I was sure it was just a coincidence that his painting resembled me. There was no need to carry on like this.
I was so intent on stopping her at my first opportunity, that I failed to see any commotion outside. There were no masked men or grand villainous speeches. No abandoned suitcases or shifty-looking men in the shadows. There was just a BOOM.
Then, a thousand things happened at once. Instant chaos. My first indication that something had gone awry was a jolt of pain in my tailbone. I’d fallen. No, I’d been blasted to the ground. I looked up to see shattered glass filling the lobby floor. The white-haired artist reached down and pulled my mom to her feet, then pointed down the opposite hall.
Once the ringing in my ears had quieted down to a shrill hum, I heard the cries of fear. Suddenly it all came together. There had been an explosion on the sidewalk outside of the gallery.
“Go, young lady! What are you waiting for?” An older woman pushed me in the back with her handbag, and I jumped to my feet.
My mom was only a few yards ahead, looking over her shoulder as the artist dragged her toward a doorway down the opposite hall. The rest of the crowd followed closely behind.
“Come on, Everly. It’s going to be okay.”
CHAPTER 3
I looked up into the enchanting gold-flecked eyes of Mr. Model.
“It’s okay,” he repeated. “I’ve got you.” Hesitantly, I placed my fingers into his outstretched hand and allowed him to pull me to my feet. Again, my palm came alive where our skin touched. It buzzed with warmth and comfort. And despite the tragedy taking place around us, I felt compelled to giggle again. Don’t be stupid.
“My mom,” I said weakly.
“She’s up ahead. We’re all going to the same place. They’re ushering us into the basement until they can figure out what’s going on.”
I stepped up on my toes trying to catch a glimpse of my mother ahead, but there were too many people between us. I did spot a snowy-white topknot, however. It was safe to assume she was still with the artist. I released a breath and continued forward, fingers still wrapped in the warm grasp of the tall, handsome stranger beside me.
“Was anyone hurt?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “It was probably just some prank, but they’ve got to clear the area to investigate. The authorities are on the way. We may be stuck here for a while.”
He quirked a perfectly arched eyebrow at me and my stomach did a flip. I didn’t know how to handle myself around him. We didn’t have fine specimens like this back in Oklahoma.
Perhaps sensing my reaction to him, he flashed that crooked grin at me again and I had to look away. He was too dang charming. I couldn’t get swept up in a girlish crush when I should be focusing on not stepping on shrapnel from the explosion that had just separated me from my mother in a giant unfamiliar city.
Outside the broken windows in the lobby I noted even more of a mess. A trash can laid on its side in the middle of the sidewalk. In Hibbard, the whole town would have gathered around to check out the scene. They’d be gossiping about it for months, recounting the event and making it larger and more deadly every time they told the story.
But here, it was as though the New Yorkers didn’t even notice the smoke still billowing from the metal can. They stepped around the shards of glass, looks of annoyance painting their hurried faces. The lack of response could have convinced me that this was a daily occurrence in their world. Aside from a few people who’d been scraped up by the blast, no one seemed to care much at all. Thankfully there didn’t appear to be any major injuries.
I glanced up at the sign again, swaying in the breeze. The owl was gone, leaving only the names of the artists. Rossel & Jude. I wondered which one my mom had scolded.
Finally we reached the door at the opposite end of the other hall. The clean, hip and modern aesthetic of the main gallery did not continue past the doorway. Here the building really showed its age. We funneled into a dark stairwell leading down into the basement. A single flickering bulb lit the way down the creaky wooden steps.
The air was musty and increasingly chilled the further we descended. The odor reminded me of our storm cellar back home. I’d spent way too many spring evenings down there, avoiding tornadoes that never came anywhere near our little farmhouse. Much like right now—I was escaping a prank that had already taken place and similarly posed no real threat. But it was better to be safe than sorry, I supposed. That’s what my mom always said during storm season.
On the next step, my foot slipped, knocking me off balance. I reached for the handrails, but there were none on the narrow stairwell. My hand slid across unfinished drywall as I attempted to correct my balance. If I tumbled down these stairs I’d take out ten other people with me, like a human bowling ball.
But two large hands grabbed my waist, effortlessly catching and steadying me on the stairs. Warmth buzzed through my core, like static electricity softly licking its way up my spine. I gasped and turned to face a smiling set of golden eyes. I’d officially made more physical contact with this male model than I had any of the thirteen boys in my graduating class.
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” He grinned. Oh my stars, I do not need to think about the word ‘pleasure’ coming from his perfect mouth.
I turned back to the front and finished my descent. We were two of the last people to reach the basement. It wasn’t as musty in the open room below the gallery. Soft light filtered in through a couple of small windows high on the outer wall, and fluorescent lighting illuminated the rest of the room.
Tall metal cabinets lined the perimeter of the room, and a few enclosed glass cases stood in the middle. They contained various vessels of pottery and strange sculptures. I found my mother sitting on the floor next to one and hurried to join her.
She sighed with relief at my arrival, swiping the hair out of my face with both hands and then pulling me into her chest for an embrace. “Oh, Everly. I hoped this would never happen.”
I pulled back from her arms, taking in the worry lines etched around her eyes. “Well nobody hopes they’ll get to experience an explosion, but all things considered, this wasn’t so bad as far as bombs go.”
She forced a breathy laugh through her lips and pulled me in again. “You’re right. It wasn’t a bad bomb.”
I allowed her to hold me against her for longer than the situation required before finally prying myself away again. “Mom?”
“Yes, dear?”
I didn’t want to offend her, but I’d never been good with delicate situations. “You’ve been a little… uh… erratic today. Is everything okay?”
She smiled for real this time, but there was still something pained behind it. “I’m sorry I’ve been acting strange. It’s not everyday you stumble into a gallery to find a portrait of your daughter on display.”
“Right.” Of course that would be startling. It had startled me as well. “But it’s not me, remember? No scar.”
“Mm.” She pressed her lips together and stared off into the distance.
“What did the artist say when you asked him about it?”
She shrugged. “Must be a coincidence.”
Well that settled nothing. But whatever. She was in some kind of state right now that I didn’t want to deal with. I’d ask more once she had a chance to settle down after dinner.
“Thank you everyone for remaining calm.” A thin man stood at the foot of the stairs. He had a colorful silk scarf wrapped around his dainty neck and an air of superiorit
y. “I’m Jude.” He glanced around the room, giving us all time to acknowledge that he was one of the gallery’s artists. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he added, “I hope you all enjoyed a peek at my work upstairs. Authorities are quickly working to clear the glass and rule out any foul play. I expect we’ll only be required to wait here for a short time before they release us. But lucky you! Under these strange circumstances, you now have the honor of previewing more of our art and artifacts from our personal collections—pieces never before exposed to outside eyes.” He smiled proudly.
Had he been the one to paint my portrait? I glanced at my mother but saw no recognition in her tired eyes. Whoever he was, he didn’t rile her up like the white haired man had. And speaking of good ol’ topknot, who must’ve been Rossel by process of elimination, where had he gone? I looked around the dimly lit space and couldn’t find him. I didn’t see golden eyes, either.
A doppleganger portrait. A gorgeous guy, finer than any work of art in the gallery, who seemed to take some level of interest in me. A bomb. A shaken mother. An old hipster with black eyes. This day couldn’t get any weirder. I loved New York.
Jude continued droning on about his fine collection and I peered through the glass case we were leaning against. There were some really cool pieces in there. I wondered why they would be here, in the basement, rather than on display upstairs, or even in a museum if they were as valuable as Jude led us to believe.
Some of the most interesting items resembled Egyptian drawings I’d seen in school. But they were formed into figurines carved from gold, maybe a foot high. I admired the fine details carved into the metal—the subtle variations in the wings of the humanoid figures, and scales upon their reptilian heads. They were bizarre and captivating.
“Mom look at this stuff.”
I turned to see her reaction, but her eyes were closed. Her mouth moved quickly, silently reciting some unknown string of words. “Sorry. Are you praying?”
She didn’t respond, so I turned back to look at the pretty collection. My eyes were drawn next to an old coin, the size of a half dollar. It was thin and rubbed almost smooth in spots. But there on the surface of the darkened metal was the outline of an owl, much like the one I’d seen outside of the gallery. I knew he was probably a part of the exhibition somehow. These guys seemed to have a fascination with ancient artifacts and Egyptian history.
I had to admit, it was pretty interesting. I nudged my mom. “Maybe this is what I’ll study at NYU. I think these ancient civilizations are incredible. Like, how on earth did they have the technology to create stuff like this?”
Her eyes snapped open. “No.” She faced me with a wild ferocity gleaming in her eyes.
“No?” I was taken aback by her forceful response. We’d been trying to come up with ideas for my major all summer. I thought she’d be thrilled that I’d finally found something that interested me.
“There’s no money in the field. Jobs are hard to come by. You should look at finance.” She blurted the words flippantly. Thoughtlessly.
“I’d rather dig ditches than get into finance.” I curled up my lip. “Besides, life isn’t all about money. I think this stuff is amazing. I wouldn’t mind working for peanuts if it meant I’d get to learn about the way people lived thousands of years ago. Maybe I could even go to Egypt. You know, dig around in the pyramids a little.” I nudged her with my elbow again.
“No!” she practically barked at me. Her brows pulled low and her mouth twisted to one side, like she was enduring some kind of internal battle. I’d never seen my mom behave as strangely as she was today. “In fact, maybe New York isn’t right for you either. Let’s stick to what you know. Oklahoma State has a great Ag Economics program.”
That had escalated way too quickly. I was going to have to lay off the sarcasm for a bit. “Where is this coming from, mom? I’m already enrolled. All my stuff—”
“Enough,” she whispered harshly. “We’re getting you out of New York. Tonight, if we can.”
CHAPTER 4
“Matilda Gordon?” Jude looked up from the piece of paper held in his hand. “Matilda Gordon,” he repeated, glancing around the basement.
Mom’s jaw clenched as she looked his way and then back at me.
“Are you going to answer him?” I asked.
“No. I don’t know him. He’s probably looking for someone else.”
“You’re right. This basement is probably full of Matilda Gordons.”
She pursed her lips and pulled out her phone to check the time. “We should have left already. We’re going to be late for dinner.”
“I’m sure Millie will understand, given the bomb and all.”
“Maybe we can create a distraction to get them out of the stairwell so we can get out of here.” She looked around for something that might work.
“Mom, what is really going on here?”
“Matilda… Matilda Gordon.” Jude looked irritated. He glanced over his shoulder at the man behind him. I hadn’t noticed him there earlier, but Rossel stood in the shadows, his white man bun giving him away even in the low light. Jude didn’t appear to know who my mother was, but Rossel’s dark eyes were pinned on her. His eyes were menacing on their own, but his expression wasn’t hardened. It was blank, just as it had been upstairs.
I looked back to my mother who was rubbing her temples with fingers from each hand. She was clearly distressed. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, then opened and fixed them on me. “Everly, I have to tell you something.”
The other people in the basement were beginning to murmur amongst themselves, trying to locate the Matilda being summoned by the artists. I supposed they thought the authorities were requesting her. They were probably growing more uncomfortable with each passing second.
I sensed my mother’s urgency. “What is it, mom?”
“I—” she hiccuped, and placed her fingers on the front of her throat. She shook her head and tried again, more quickly this time. “I’m fr—”
Again she couldn’t complete her thought. She launched into a sudden coughing fit, drawing stares from the rest of the crowd. Her eyes watered, cheeks red. The cough was so intense that it finished with a choking gag-like noise. She wiped her eyes with her knuckles and sighed.
“You’re way too worked up, mom. Whatever it is, it’s not too big for us. We’ve handled worse. We can handle this, too.” I was really starting to worry now. I’d never seen her like this.
“This is different, sweetheart. This isn’t like anything you’ve ever encountered before. It—” She began dry-heaving. I looked around, panicking, and grabbed a stranger’s glittery pink water tumbler, twisting off the lid and shoving it under my mom’s face just in time to catch her hot dog from earlier. Gross.
I cringed and glanced back at the woman I’d taken the cup from. “Keep it,” she said, horrified. “I insist.” I shrugged and twisted the lid back into place. Then I turned back to my poor mother.
I knew she wasn’t ill. She’d just worked herself into some extreme state of anxiety. “Okay,” I said. “No more talking. Do you want some gum?”
Her eyes widened, and she nodded emphatically. She began digging around in her own purse while I retrieved a stick of gum from mine. I passed the minty goodness to her as she victoriously yanked a blue ballpoint pen from the depths of her mom-bag.
She quickly unwrapped the gum and shoved it into her mouth, spreading the wrapper out on her knee and wiping away the powdery residue from the candy. Bringing her pen to the papery lining of the foil wrapper, she paused. Then, as though the words had finally formed in her mind, she began to write.
The only problem was, the lidless pen that had been buried in the bottom of her purse for who knows how long didn’t have any ink. She scribbled in circles, trying to make some color appear on the small piece of paper. She tapped the tip rapidly on the cement floor of the basement, and tried once more, grunting as it failed again. She huffed and threw the pen across the room, nearly hitting the elderly woman
who had urged me down here with her handbag earlier.
“Mom,” I scolded. “Calm down. You’re drawing attention.” She was. Jude had spotted her, and Rossel had emerged from the shadows. He approached us slowly from the stairwell. Mom shook her head and snatched my bag, shuffling around until she found another pen. Gel, because I was a bit of a pen snob, and there was no better writing utensil.
Clicking it open, she tried to write again. This time she got one letter: I. Then her hand started shaking too violently for her to pen another line. She grabbed her right wrist with her left hand and flexed her fingers gently.
Rossel was close. He’d almost reached us when she attempted to write again. She got an AT on the paper, barely legible, before her whole body started convulsing.
“Mom!” I shouted.
Rossel leaned down by her side. He looked at me with those black eyes, but he didn’t appear cruel. He was flat and emotionless. “She’s having a seizure,” he said matter-of-factly in a raspy voice.
“What? She doesn’t have seizures!” I put my hands on her shoulders and held her until she stopped moving. Her chest rose and fell several times before she looked at me. She parted her lips to speak, but Rossel shook his head.
“No, Tilly. The oath.”
She met his eyes briefly and then looked back over at me as she lifted herself back onto her feet. “I love you, darling.” She smiled sadly and studied me for just a moment more before she took Rossel’s hand.
“Mom.” I stood, too. “Where are you going?”
Jude called out that the mess had been resolved and everyone was free to go. Immediately the room burst into a flurry of activity. The other people trapped in the basement were probably just as anxious to get away from us as they were glad that there was no real threat above.
Ignoring the bodies shuffling around me, I reached out for my mom’s arm. “Wait up!”
Rossel paused and looked at my mother. She frowned, then turned back to me. “Don’t forget to take your vitamins.”