“Which is why I’m doing all this. If we destroy the books, the black magic he’s suffering under back in France”—I point at my own wounded arm—“will disappear and he’ll recover.”
“Is that what Nutesh told you?”
I pause. “Is that not the truth?”
“I’m sure it is. But the one thing this life has taught me—question everything.”
“I need him to be well again,” I say, my voice straining. “I really miss my mom. I can’t lose Baby too.”
Xavier shoves another huge bite into his mouth, nodding his head as he chews. “Your mother was something else,” he says. “I loved her. She was the last person I ever loved.”
“That’s really sad, Xavier.”
He plunks his salad box on the table and wipes his face clean. “I think it’s great that you and Henry are finally doing what these other idiots didn’t have the strength to.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Nutesh should’ve handled this years ago. There’s no reason for this to have gone on as long as it has. He tells himself he’s doing good, that he’s ‘protecting humanity.’ How many dead in the last few days, Genevieve?”
I sit back against my seat. Thierry. Gaetano. Enzo and his thugs. Five dead.
“Now multiply that by two thousand years.”
Jesus. “But . . . the books have also saved people. I saved that man in Barcelona.”
“Oui, you did. But maybe it was his time to go. Maybe your intervention wasn’t necessary or needed.”
“If you really believe all this, why are you still here? Why are you still working for him?”
“I was near death when Dagan was finished with me. Nutesh brought me back. That engenders a certain allegiance, I suppose.” He pauses. “Se batter jusqu’à mort. Fight until dead.” He finishes a bottle of water without taking a breath. “Which is how you came to be.”
“How does this have anything to do with me?”
“Aveline is very powerful. Even more so than Dagan—Lucian—but he won’t admit that to himself. He will, before this is over, I promise you.” Xavier pats his pocket but then seems to remember we’re on a plane, so he can’t smoke. “After Delia chose her family’s book over Aveline and me, it wasn’t long before Dagan came to collect. Delia left that night with the physical obsession that brings us to today.” Xavier flicks the lid of his silver lighter, open, closed, open, closed.
“Torture is Dagan’s preferred entertainment, but I couldn’t tell him what I didn’t know. And I knew he’d found Delia. I heard her screams in that dungeon, but I couldn’t get to her. I couldn’t save anyone, not even myself.” Xavier shudders slightly, his face stoic but his eyes pained. “She must’ve hidden the text by then. Nothing he did to her—or to me—would loosen her lips.”
The echoes of Xavier’s agony ricochet in my head: the vision that Alicia showed me, of my mother when Nutesh rescued her, when he recited the prayer over their conjoined hands while she writhed in Baby’s huge arms, the spell that made Baby her living talisman.
How Nutesh left the prison with only Delia. No Xavier, no Aveline.
“Dagan must’ve sensed Aveline’s potential, like a vampire smells blood in a mortal’s veins. I knew she was powerful, even as a small child, before I lost her. Dagan took her and raised her. She became someone—something—else under his tutelage. But her talents surpassed his centuries ago. It’s all he can do to keep her under his thumb.
“When Delia and I learned she was alive, we knew she was too far gone. Far too dangerous. We couldn’t let her be the heir to this book. Nutesh felt that because Aveline had grown so strong, we needed to counterbalance her with a child of the same bloodline.” Xavier runs a hand through his mop of curls. He looks so tired. “My first daughter has a lot of issues. It’s not been easy for her.”
I lift my throbbing, carved arm in the air. “Do not try to make me feel sorry for her.”
“I’m not. I wouldn’t do that.”
“So, you’re saying I was conceived out of necessity.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” he says. “It’s not like you weren’t loved or that you were raised in a lab. You meant everything to Delia. And she was with Bamidele, heart and soul. Your conception was very clinical. We all knew what we were doing. We all knew that we had no other choice.”
“You could’ve destroyed the books.”
“Oui, but only willing heirs can do that. Lucian would never give up his text. So you can see how this problem loops around itself, like a snake eating its own tail.”
My heart sinks a little. I was born not because my mother wanted another child, but because she needed someone other than Aveline to carry on our family’s legacy.
Our family’s curse.
And everyone—except me—has known the truth my entire life.
“And you never wanted to know me?” Our eyes hold for a minute before he leans sideways and pulls out his wallet.
He shoves aside the lunch containers and lays out five small photos—me when I was a baby, me with Gertrude when I was about six, and three school photos, the last one my senior-year picture with me wearing my cap and gown and standing next to Gert. Even though we were schooled via tutors due to our travel schedule, we still had school photos every year.
“You could’ve called. You could’ve shown up.”
“And what?” His voice echoes off the tight space and catches the attention of the guys up front. “And what? Hey, kid, I’m your dad, let’s go get a burger and talk about boys?”
He’s right. It would’ve just made things more difficult.
“This is a dangerous life, Genevieve. The last thing you needed was to lose both parents.”
“And yet... Baby lies in a coma.”
“Baby knew what he was getting into. And like I said, he’s a good man—he’s done stuff I couldn’t. Maybe it’s because he’s half my age so his heart isn’t a stone in his chest, I don’t know.” Xavier sighs and leans back hard in his seat. “I’ll do whatever I can to make sure he survives this.”
We examine one another for a quiet moment, and then I nod. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, the hint of smile frosted with sadness and regret.
Henry reappears, and Xavier scoops up the photos of me, tucking them back into his wallet, as if the preceding life-altering conversation was only about the plane’s fancy seats.
“You should clean up. You look terrible,” Xavier says, quickly standing and disappearing into the front to talk to his comrades.
“Everything all right?” Henry asks. My eyes burn.
“I need a minute.” I push past Henry.
I lock myself in the tiny bathroom and sit on the closed toilet lid, my head in my hands. I don’t have to look in the mirror to confirm Xavier’s rudeness about how I look—it’s been a long night. My left arm burns under the bandaging that likely needs changing after the mess at Pompeii. I don’t even want to check yet.
God, I just want to go home. I want to click my ruby-slippered heels together three times and go home.
Home. Violet. My cell phone.
I move so my body is against the door, sliding onto my butt. The burner phone is still in my thigh pocket, as yet undiscovered, so I pull it out and power it on.
The screen loads with message after message after message from Vi.
Gen! Where are you? Have you been on
YouTube?
Gen, we SAW you. Did you heal a guy in
Spain? I thought this was a secret! Millions of
hits on this vid. CALL ME.
OMG, GEN, Cece & Ted are losing it. I heard
Ted tell my dad they want to hire a private
investigator because they don’t think the
police are doing enough.
ANOTHER VIDEO? Is that Henry? DID HE
GET STABBED? OMG OMG OMG, Gen,
please text or call.
I’m so worried about you. I don’t understand
w
hat’s happening.
The last text: Please just text & tell me you’re safe. Come home so we can have a tea party. I love you. And attached to this text is a photo—my darling Violet, holding one of the tiny teacups from my tea set I left behind for her to look after. But she’s not alone in the photo—it’s Vi, and Aveline.
“Genevieve? You okay in there?” Henry.
“I’m fine. Be right out.”
“Gen...”
I listen—he’s not walking away. Growling, I power off and shove the phone back into my pocket, and then stand and throw the door open. “What’s so important you couldn’t give me—”
Xavier is standing behind Henry, and the expression on both of their faces...
“What? Is it Baby?”
Henry’s eyes are rimmed red and damp, like a tear is there but hasn’t quite fallen. Xavier’s brow is furrowed so hard, it might break his face in half. Henry’s lips part but no sound comes out.
“Guys . . .”
Instead of speaking, Henry closes and locks the stateroom door. He grabs his pack and from it, pulls out the AVRAKEDAVRA.
“What is going on?”
No one will answer me. Henry opens the book and, like he did around the campfire pit in the Spanish woods, he places one hand on the text, offering me the other. I step closer and take it; Alicia appears in the stateroom next to us, floating over the fitted duvet of the queen-sized bed.
The images form above the AVRAKEDAVRA, their only soundtrack the whir of the plane’s ventilation system.
It’s Ash. He’s climbing into the Jónás family’s RV—the vehicle bounces a little under his weight. His mouth moves—there’s no sound—but I can read well enough on his lips. “Vi?” He grabs a handful of the trail mix their mother Katia always leaves in a bowl out on the counter. His lips move again as he picks up the remote and clicks off the TV, probably chastising his twin for leaving the volume up too loud. Again.
He walks down the narrow hallway toward the sleeping quarters, but ahead, he sees a foot. Violet’s tiny foot, in pink socks, of course, and it’s on the floor, just sticking outside the doorway of Katia and Aleks Jónás’s bedroom.
“Vi?” Ash’s face contorts with confusion, and then panic. As he shoves the door open, difficult because something is behind it, the true horror unfolds.
I try to pull free from Henry, but he won’t let go.
Violet is on the floor, her long blond ponytail around her head like a halo, her honey-brown eyes fixed and staring at nothing, her complexion an unnatural blue, lips purple, vomit still caked on her mouth and cheek. Ash drops and puts his head to her chest, immediately starting compressions and screaming for help, screaming so loud, I can hear him in my head despite the absence of sound in Henry’s vision. He scoops his twin sister from the floor and carries her through the RV, her limp feet and legs knocking over my tea set sitting on the coffee table as Ash maneuvers her through the tight space. He kicks open the front door and howls into the open air . . .
Henry finally releases my hand and collapses against the foot of the bed, his hands wrapped around the back of his head.
“He revived her, right? He saved her? She’s alive?”
Henry looks up at me just as that tear finally does escape. “I’m so sorry, Genevieve. I am so, so sorry.”
“No. No. Come on . . . not Violet. She is an innocent. She did nothing!” I say.
My best friend. My sister. My Violet.
“What happened? Did she—did she kill herself? Was she sick? Was there a gas leak or something?”
No one answers me.
That night in the big top, when Lucian and Aveline threatened me over Delia’s text: “My darling sister, I suppose how fast you look will be in direct correlation to how quickly the people in your family tree start to fall,” Aveline said.
“You did this! Your daughter did this! She murdered my best friend!” I slam my hands into Xavier’s chest so hard, he loses his footing, wincing as he stumbles backward into the wall of closets.
“Genevieve, please, I had nothing to do with this—”
“You could have stopped her! You could have killed her when you had the chance! Violet was innocent. She didn’t deserve to die!” And then I melt onto the plush carpet, sobbing and screaming because my Violet is gone.
Henry wraps his arms around me and rocks me on the floor. Xavier runs a hand over his face and through his hair and he paces back and forth a few times before walking out of the stateroom. He may be used to so much death—maybe he hasn’t loved anyone since Delia—but I still love. I love Delia, I love Baby, I love my elephants and Othello, I love the Cinzios and Ash and Violet.
I love Henry.
And one by one, Lucian—and Aveline—are ticking them off their list.
Xavier returns a moment later holding paper cups and a silver flask. He pours an inch of amber fluid into each cup. I’m crying so hard, I can hardly hold onto mine. And beating him to a bloody pulp isn’t going to bring Violet back to me.
Xavier recaps his flask and lifts his cup before him.
Henry raises his cup. “To Thierry. To Gaetano. To Violet.” His voice cracks on Vi’s name.
“The key to good is found in truth,” Xavier says, an edge in his voice. “Some bullshit truth it is.” He finishes his drink in one long swallow, crumpling the cup in his hand. “Six hours until we’re on the ground. Clean up that arm and try to rest.” He walks toward the door and turns to me. “Genevieve, I am so sorry. For all of this.”
As the stateroom door clicks closed behind him, the words my mother used to say to me when I messed up and had to make amends float across my lips. “Sometimes sorry isn’t good enough.”
30
I PEEL OFF THE LAYERS AND WASH MY BLOODY, INFECTED ARM THE BEST I can, which isn’t much because I am slowly losing the will to give a shit. About anything. I cry until I throw up, Xavier’s whiskey burning a second time as it comes out my nose. I’m feverish again—still—but my nose and sinuses are so swollen from crying, I feel like I have the worst head cold ever.
My forehead balanced on my uninjured arm across the toilet seat, I could be anywhere right now. The ride is smoother than an RV or a truck or even a train, lulling me into a sense of safety that I know, in my heart, could fall away at any second.
Violet is dead.
The other half of my childhood is dead.
What’s the point of any of this? Let’s just give Lucian and Aveline these fucking books and be done with it. When he goes back to save his precious ancient family, it won’t hurt because we will have not existed anyway.
But then flashes of my life pop into my head: my circus family. The people on this plane and at the Croix-Mare compound. The Guardians and members of La Vérité who have kept my mother’s secrets for all these years. The future I had planned for myself.
Henry.
Is it enough to fight for?
I pull up to the sink, rinse my putrid mouth, and grab for the travel-sized mouthwash in the decorative silver basket mounted to the wall. I don’t dare look in the mirror. I already know I look like I’m two steps from my own early grave. I can feel it. Hollowed cheeks and purple eyes and bruises and smears of blood, not all mine.
But I force myself to look, because I’m still alive, and Violet’s dead. It’s my family’s fault. All these magical people, and there’s nothing I can do to bring Vi back.
The reflection confirms what I’ve known all along. I’m not a superhero, and I’m not made of sterner stuff.
I am Genevieve, and Violet is my sister not by blood, but by choice.
And Ash. God, what is he going through? How is he coping?
I have to call him. I have to find a quiet moment to reassure him he’s not alone, that I will do whatever I can to honor Violet’s life.
When I open the bathroom door, Henry is alongside the queen bed, folding clothes he’s pulling from a blue bag. “Hélène sent fresh supplies.” He points at my arm. “Do you need help?”
> I shake my head no and sit on the end of the bed. “When Delia would come back from a long hospital stay, she would randomly drop tidbits of her experience, not all good. Her therapist, Dr. DeGrasse—he would tell her that she had a tendency to compartmentalize, to put painful things in boxes in her head to avoid dealing with them.” Henry sits too and wraps his arms around me. “Do you think that’s a bad way to handle stuff?”
He kisses the side of my head. “I think you need to do whatever it is that will help you get through this.”
I turn and meet his tired eyes. “What about you? How are you getting through every day?”
“You. If I can just stay focused on keeping you safe, then I don’t have time to think about my father and what he’s done. What he’s doing.”
“Does that work?”
He gives me a small smile. “Mostly. For now.”
“You’ll have to deal with this eventually,” I say.
He takes a deep breath, his whole body moving with the effort, his arms loosening their hold on me. “Is it weird that I’m really angry? Lucian kept all these secrets, and yet somehow, I still love him, Genevieve. He’s my father.” Henry takes another slow breath. “But how could he do this? How could he have turned his back on me? On so many good people?”
Henry drops his arms altogether, rubbing his palms along the tops of his thighs. “I am his child. He murdered my mother, and yet I still want to believe there is good in him somewhere. Does that make me crazy?”
I shake my head. “It makes you decent. You want to believe the best in people, to give them the benefit of the doubt.”
He kneels on the floor in front of me, his hands encasing mine. “I have had every advantage in this life. Food, shelter, warmth, the best education, global travel. And yet . . . I feel this hole.” He flattens a hand over his chest. “It’s this emptiness. Even with my newfound connection with my mother . . . it’s not enough. The hole aches, like something is missing.”
He again perches on the bed beside me and digs into the inside pocket of his jacket. From it, he pulls out his small notebook and pen—he never goes anywhere without something to draw on—flips it open, tears out one page, and then another.
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