Scheme

by Jennifer Sommersby

  Up ahead is a dark blue, older-model four-door Volkswagen hatchback parked along the street. Xavier stops beside it, looks inside and then around us, and with the butt of his knife, he breaks the driver’s side window, unlocks the doors, and hisses at us to climb in.

  “Can you start it so I don’t have to deal with wires?” he asks me, stretching to look at the street behind us. I lean over from the passenger’s seat and send two fingers’ worth of electricity through the silver metal ignition. The car turns on.

  Xavier tears down the street and curses under his breath, taking a corner too fast. I shimmy out of my backpack and glance at the dash—and see why he’s cursing. The fuel light on the dashboard is lit up. “No gas?” I ask breathlessly. The chilled evening air whips through the glassless driver window, filling the interior with the hum of road and diesel engine noise.

  Xavier’s jaw grinds as he meets Henry’s eyes in the rearview. “In my bag—find the satellite phone.” Henry looks and then passes it forward; Xavier fumbles with the keypad, only one hand and one eye on the road.

  “Maybe you can drive and have one of us dial?” I hold out my open palm, hoping he doesn’t slam us into the back of a parked car.

  “Down!” he yells as police whiz past. Finally he gives me the phone. “Saved dial number two.” I figure out how to dial what he’s asked for and then hand it back. He speaks in French to the person on the other end.

  I turn and look at Henry, raising my brows in question.

  “Nutesh. Xavier is telling him we’re en route to the airport,” he translates.

  “It would be a lot easier if he’d do that in English,” I say.

  “It would be a lot easier if you spoke more than one language,” Xavier says, hanging up and tossing the phone back to Henry.

  “What are we going to do about the gas?”

  “Pray,” he responds, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.

  “How do I know you called Nutesh?” I ask.

  “Call him yourself,” Xavier says, blowing a long plume out his nostrils. He doesn’t offer anything further, which is just as well—the roar of air through the missing window makes conversation difficult.

  I settle back against the seat, backpack at my feet, head against the headrest, my hand wrapped around Gaetano’s key in my pocket. I sniff against the emotion, and Henry scoots close behind me, whispering in my ear. I swipe at a tear before he can see it. “You all right?”

  I nod. He won’t be able to hear me if I were to talk anyway.

  Why was Xavier with Enzo? How do I know he’s not driving us into another ambush? What is our plan to escape if we do indeed end up in another trap? Why did Enzo have to kill poor Gaetano’s family?

  I’m so sorry, Gaetano. I’m so sorry you had to suffer for these books. I hope you find your family, wherever you are now. Thank you for your sacrifice.

  I don’t know how I will ever wrap my head around the horrors we just witnessed or be forgiven for the scene we were a part of that left four dead men lying on the graves of thousands more.

  29

  FOR THE RECORD, PRAYING FOR A GAS TANK ON E TO CONTINUE PUSHING your vehicle forward is a stupid plan.

  The Volkswagen sputters to a stop on an off-ramp minutes into our escape. Xavier wrestles it to the side of the road, but finding a new car that isn’t alarmed or locked behind a garden gate proves an unsettling challenge. This neighborhood is a lot nicer than the last one. Big houses and not very many cars on the street. The ones that are blink with alarms, and I don’t know how quickly I could disable it before we attracted attention.

  After another fifteen minutes of scurrying through the streets, we come upon a small all-night market. Xavier sidles up alongside the building and points at a vacant car parked against the aging brick wall.

  “A taxi?” I whisper. “Isn’t that a little obvious?”

  “It’s unlocked, and no alarm,” he says, pausing for a second as he stares at my hands.

  “Climb in. Close the door quietly,” he says to Henry. Again, I take the front seat.

  The spark wakes the engine, and this time, the tank isn’t on empty. A stroke of luck!

  Xavier heads back to the freeway, and within twenty minutes, we are wrapping around an airport—the sign reads Aeroporto Internazionale di Napoli—and moving toward the private hangars. And just as before in Seattle, a needle-nosed jet sits in a steel building separate from the main terminal, waiting for us, stairs extended, the cockpit and exterior lights on with evidence of pilots on board, and heavily armed guards around the perimeter.

  Henry pulls the last of our euros out of his pack and wedges the bills under the headrest on my seat. “Bad enough we stole his livelihood. We should repay him for the favor,” he says.

  Xavier snorts and climbs out, throwing his duffel over his shoulder. The bright hangar light accentuates the sickly pall of his skin. It’s a wonder he’s still standing up.

  “Are you coming?” he asks, pausing to look back at Henry and me.

  “I don’t trust you. How do we know you’re not double-crossing us? How do we know these aren’t Enzo’s men, or that Lucian didn’t set this whole thing up?”

  Xavier drops his bag hard onto the ground and bends at the waist, his hands on his knees for a count of three before he pops back up. “I do what I have to do to keep these books safe, Genevieve. I’m getting on that plane. If you two think you can find your way to the next Guardian on your own, have at it.” He digs into his duffel, and I tense, not sure if he’s going for another weapon or—

  He throws a banded wad of money at us.

  “I need a drink,” he says, hoisting the bag over his shoulder and then climbing aboard the jet.

  Henry picks up the money but then turns to me. “Come on. What choice do we have?”

  “We could choose not to trust him.”

  “He saved us back there.”

  “He ambushed us back there.”

  “You heard him. He does whatever he has to do to keep the books safe,” Henry says. He offers an outstretched hand. “Let’s just go.”

  He’s replaced his gloves, so I take hold. “If we die, at least we’ll be together,” I murmur as we climb the stairs.

  Unlike in Seattle, there is no Nutesh to welcome us or Montague to tend our wounds. Just strange faces, all of them serious and scary-looking as the plane is sealed and creeps forward to wait its turn for takeoff.

  One of the bearded sentries from the hangar locks his weapon in a huge metal chest, un-Velcros his body armor, and then removes his dark cap and glasses.

  “Lucas?”

  He turns and smiles, but it’s sad. And then I notice the black band around his upper arm. I look at the other soldiers on board. They’re all wearing arm bands.

  For Thierry.

  “Bonjour, mes amis,” he says.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Henry says, extending his hand. Lucas meets it. His eyes are bloodshot and his mouth drawn at the corners, visible even under the heavy beard. “We are so sorry about Thierry.” I’m grateful that Henry speaks—I can’t make it past the lump in my throat. And my guilt over Thierry’s death is very, very fresh.

  “Merci. He was a good man.” Lucas nods.

  The cabin lights click on as the plane’s nose angles upward. Through the ovoid windows, the sun peeks over the horizon, pinking the early-morning sky. Once we level out, Lucas moves to the small galley kitchen and brings Henry and me bottles of water and takeout-sized boxes. “Hélène wanted to make sure you ate,” he says. “It’s cold—it was in the refrigerator—but it will fill your belly.”

  “We’re happy for anything, especially if Hélène made it,” Henry says, his smile made even brighter by the dirt smudged on his face.

  Xavier emerges from the cockpit. He grabs one of the meals and slumps into a seat across from us. “When you get done there, clean up. There’s a washroom in the rear cabin.” He nods toward it.

  “How are you feeling?” I point at his abdom
en.

  “It’s fine.”

  “You don’t look fine,” I say, setting my lunch onto the small table between us. “Why were you there, Xavier? What the hell was all that about?”

  He glares at me. “I’m tired. If you’re not going to use the facilities, I will.” He scoops up his boxed food and heads toward the back of the plane, slamming the lightweight door behind him.

  Henry stabs at his pasta. “Maybe leave him alone for a few minutes.”

  “Excuse me?” I swivel in my chair to face him straight on.

  “We’ve been through a lot tonight. Perhaps give him a few minutes to take a breath. He just saw his friend die.”

  “Which friend was that, Henry? Enzo, or Gaetano? Which side is he on? And how can you be so calm about this?”

  Henry slides his fork into his lunch and then sets the box down next to mine. “Give me your hand.”

  “What? No. Not safe to hold my hand when I’m pissed off.”

  “So take a deep breath and stop being pissed off. You should see something.”

  I stare at him for a beat before I realize what he’s saying. I should see something—a memory. “What, so you’re going to just explain away what he did back there? How he showed up with Enzo and his thugs? Did you see the gun Enzo pointed at your head, Henry? All the magic in the world wouldn’t have put your skull back together again if he’d fired.” I don’t realize I’m crying—again—still?—until the first hot tear slides down my cheek. I’m freaking out—the adrenaline is wearing off and the reality of what we just survived is making me shaky and crazy.

  “But he didn’t fire—at least not at me—and we’re here and we’re safe, for now, and Xavier is not going to do anything to hurt us. Give him a chance to be your father.”

  I laugh angrily through the tears spilling down my face. “That man”—I jab a finger toward the closed door, my teeth gritted—“is not my father. My father lies in a coma back in France, or did you forget that already?” I don’t know why I’m being mean to Henry.

  I just need to be mean to someone. At home, when I’d get mad at someone or something, I’d grab my violin and play for the elephants or hide in my bunk with the privacy curtain drawn and binge-watch Netflix or go into the nearest field or woods and scream my guts out.

  But those moments all seem so stupid now. Stupid, but simple. Being angry because I’d been scolded for doing something dumb or Ash had ignored me for some pretty girl in the crowd or someone didn’t save me any brownies.

  The real anger happened when Ted and Cece would call the police and they’d put a psych hold on Delia—again—or when the assholes at the hospital wouldn’t let me see her. But at least I had Baby with me. I don’t have Baby with me now. Just some unkempt, snarling, chain-smoking Frenchman of questionable loyalty with whom I allegedly share DNA.

  “Geni, please . . .” Henry’s hand lies open on the armrest between our seats. I look down at my own hands, sticky and gross, my nails torn and cuticles bloodstained, but I take a deep breath and push the electricity aside as I slide my palm across his. My eyes closed, the warmth I’ve come to expect from Henry’s touch washes through me. I love the way it feels... if only it didn’t come with the uneasy side effect that he can see basically everything stored in my head.

  The images start right away. It’s Enzo, alive, in a café, hunched over his phone, steam swirling toward his stubbled chin from an espresso. He’s handsome, especially when he’s not sneering at us from behind a handgun. He laughs at something on the screen and turns to show a guy at another table who I recognize from the Forum. Enzo then turns and finishes his espresso, only lifting his eyes from the phone’s screen when another man, bearded and dark-skinned, approaches.

  They greet one another in French, and Enzo gestures for the man to sit in the chair opposite him, making small talk that is nothing more than buzzing in my head. The new man declines an order for coffee from a cute blond waitress, and in English, he says to Enzo, “Show me the targets.”

  “A man of action. You always were.” Enzo closes whatever was making him laugh and scrolls to something new. When he turns the phone for the man to see, it’s photos of Henry, and me—what looks like Henry’s school photo, Henry and his father Lucian, then my circus promo shot, me with Baby and Delia. And then shots of Henry and me together: screen captures from the circus in Barcelona, us on the street in Naples, and then as we’re walking out of the art gallery after our staged, on-street healing.

  My chest aches with the panic in my heart.

  “They have two texts, and whatever this thing is that has them running all over Europe.”

  “Do we know what it is?” the man asks.

  Enzo shakes his head. “Dagan says it has something to do with the books. But you know how close-lipped he is. This is a big job. If we get what he wants, we’re set for life.”

  The man looks unimpressed. “Your plan?”

  “We found the guy they’re supposed to be meeting. After some . . . persuasive negotiation, he politely revealed they will be meeting at Pompeii. Tonight, around three,” Enzo says. “Ah, look at us—just like old times. I’ve missed you, mon ami.” His coarse laugh suggests he needs to cut back on the smoking.

  The conversation then turns into the buzzing again, and I’m about to pull my hand free because I have no idea how this is relevant to the betrayal Xavier demonstrated tonight. But Henry holds fast, and as the conversation between Enzo and son ami wraps up, the man stands.

  And in the mirror that runs the entire length of the café, the face I see is not the bearded stranger who was just sitting at the table, the face Enzo was chatting with so amiably—it’s Xavier.

  Henry finally lets go.

  “What . . . how . . . ?” I ask, winded from the exchange. Henry hands me a water bottle.

  “I don’t know. We need to ask him. But I’m guessing it’s the same brand of AVRAKEDAVRA magic that has helped Aveline mask herself.”

  We were told that Aveline is a master of disguise. And all this time I just thought it meant she was good with makeup and wigs.

  “But how? He’s not an heir or descendant. How do we know if who we’re seeing is really the person we can trust?”

  Xavier appears over the back of the plane seat, his face still pale but cleaner now. “You can’t trust anyone.”

  “And that includes you?”

  He sits across from me, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m probably the only person you can trust. In any of this.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I say.

  “I’m not. The only people who can see through the bull-shit magic I was using are AVRAKEDAVRA descendants. Like you and your boyfriend here. So even if I wanted to ‘conjure’ a new face, you wouldn’t be able to see it. You’d only see me.”

  “Lucky us,” I say under my breath.

  “What is even more pressing, however, is why voux deux imbéciles thought leaving me behind in Sardinia was a smart idea,” Xavier says.

  “Well, for one, your face is all over the news, alongside ours. I told you to change your appearance, and you refused.”

  “A conundrum I have just now explained that I don’t need to shave off my hair to change the way the outside world sees me,” he says.

  “It’s your eyes we were concerned about,” Henry offers. “They are strikingly different from most. We didn’t know you had this... ability . . . so we were worried that people would notice, and then realize it was us.”

  “Fair enough,” Xavier says. “Any other reasons?”

  I lock eyes with him. “I don’t trust you.”

  “We’ve established that.”

  “And you haven’t let us make any decisions or have any say in any of the plans—and yet we are the ones doing all the dirty work.”

  Xavier’s head bobs. I’m already strategizing my reply for his smart-ass comeback—

  “You’re right. We’re asking you to undertake this terrible, perilous mission, and neither of you has been
invited to participate in the plans. C’est vrai.”

  I did not expect him to say this.

  “So how about, from here forward, we agree to transparency? Plans will be made among the three of us. This will maybe cement your trust in me a little better, and it will keep me from being abandoned in the middle of the Mediterranean with a guy who can’t stop talking about les seins.”

  Henry chuckles.

  “What? What’s funny?”

  “You should learn a second language, ma fille,” Xavier says. “So—do we have an accord?”

  “Fine. But we want to know everything. No more secrets.”

  “Agreed,” Xavier says.

  That was easier than it should’ve been. And I still don’t trust him.

  “Sooo, if you’re done in the washroom,” Henry says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the sleeping quarters.

  “Help yourself,” Xavier says. “Are you going to finish that?” He points at Henry’s food.

  “No, please, it’s yours.” Henry excuses himself, but when he nods once at me before exiting, I know what he’s doing. He wants me to make peace with Xavier.

  With my father.

  “There are, like, a half dozen other packed lunches in the fridge.”

  “Maybe . . . but I like fettuccine,” Xavier says, shoving the food into his mouth. I’ve never seen anyone eat so greedily—except maybe Othello. But he’s a lion, so he can eat however he wants.

  I stare out the window at the wispy clouds under us bathing in early morning sun, my jaw and fists clenched in annoyance as Xavier slurps his pasta and scrapes at the side of the cardboard container, and then gets up, grabs another lunch—his third?—and dives in. This one is crispy. I want to shove my fist through his forehead.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. For your mother,” he says through a mouthful of Caesar salad.

  “Really? We’re going to do this now?” “I’m sure you have questions. I know I would if my father appeared out of nowhere.”

  “Baby is my dad.”

  Xavier looks up at me, his eyes, and voice, softening. “I know that. And you’re lucky. He’s a good man.”