Scheme

by Jennifer Sommersby

  He hands me the first one. It’s a cartoonish drawing of himself, his face sad and tired, shoulders slumped, a flame-shaped, cookie-cutter hole in his chest that goes all the way through.

  After a moment, he hands me the second drawing. It’s himself again, but I’m in this one, my long hair replaced by the current curly, dark fuzz. In the drawing, I’m looking at him, my eyes bright, and he’s looking at me. Christopher Marlowe, the floppy, stuffed blue elephant Henry brought me at the hospital after the Etemmu attack on movie night, hangs clutched in my left hand.

  I smile. “I wish I could’ve brought him with us. For luck,” I say.

  But it’s the object in my outstretched right hand. Between us, I’m cupping a flame in my palm. The flame is shaped exactly like the hole in Henry’s chest.

  “I know it’s dumb,” he says, looking between the drawing and my face, his own expression expectant and nervous. “You’re a flame. People are drawn to you—”

  “For better and for worse,” I interject.

  “It’s been the better for me. I just want you to know . . . you fill that hole in my chest. You’re a flame. And when I’m near you, I feel warmer and stronger. I feel invincible, and I would do anything to protect that feeling. I would do anything to protect you, to protect what we have together. Our friendship, and whatever else may come later.” He moves to tug at the cowlick that is long gone.

  “That hole, the only time it doesn’t hurt is when I’m with you. You give me something no one else ever has. And no matter what happens in the next day, the next week, the next month, I want to thank you for being my friend. For being the person going through this with me.”

  He leans forward so our foreheads are touching. “I’m so sorry about Vi.”

  “Thank you, Henry.”

  Henry sets the drawings aside and closes the space between us. He kisses me, hard, his hand against my head, his other arm pulling me closer. He whispers against my mouth, “I love you. We can do this. Together.”

  He kisses me gently but deeply, and I melt into him. When he pulls his lips from mine, he holds me against him, rubbing my back as the last of my tears soak into his shirt.

  I decide in that moment that I’m okay with compartmentalizing. Because the only way I can get through the next ten days, the next ten minutes, is to take my darling Violet into a beautiful pink room in my head filled with everything that makes her the happiest. “I have to get through this first, Violet. I’m going to make it right.”

  31

  I SWALLOW MORE ANTI-INFLAMMATORIES TO TRY TO BRING DOWN THE fever. My eyes are swollen, and my face is blotchy and puffy, but no one mentions it. We’re all pushed to extremes right now. Xavier, being Xavier, fights me trying to look at his gut, but I persuade him to lie down for five whole minutes so I can shove some more healing into his gunshot wound. Whatever ammunition Enzo was using, it was nasty and left a wide field of damage—Xavier could use another round when my strength recovers.

  When we’re as reassembled as we can be, Xavier asks Henry and me to take seats in the cluster closest to the rear stateroom. Lucas hands him a tablet, and then makes himself scarce.

  Xavier’s voice is low, even though we’re allegedly among people who we can trust. “So—you want to be a part of the planning, now is your chance.”

  Henry and I look at one another. “Meaning... ?” I ask.

  “What you did in Naples was reckless,” he says, “but it worked. So, I am interested to hear how you think we should approach the Guardian in Izmir.”

  “Any background information, for context?” Henry asks.

  Xavier nods and starts talking, flipping through the screens, each swipe filled with maps and detailed intel about the situation on the ground in Turkey. “Word travels fast through the La Vérité network, and Gaetano’s death will be major news on all sides. However, Turkey is Dmitri country and therefore isn’t like any other we’ve been to. Dagan spent hundreds of years living in this part of the world—before he moved into Europe in the 1100s.” Wrapping my head around this kind of history is nuts, filling me with that unhinged feeling from that day in the field behind the big top when Baby confirmed the truths presented in the academic journal ANTIQUITY, in the article by Dr. Andreas Schuyler.

  No one lives for thousands of years. “

  The talents you and your mother have—your mother’s ability to see and talk to Alicia and Udish—everything stems from this book. Your mother’s line, her family, have been custodians of this book since the days of Babylon—Mesopotamia—around a thousand years before Jesus.”

  Xavier’s voice floats back in front of my memories. “La Vérité is much diminished here—and naturally, local loyalty to Lucian is strong.”

  “That’s because they don’t know the truth about who he is,” I say.

  “They know he’s invested a lot of money in infrastructure and business and philanthropy in Turkey and surrounding areas for a long time. Where do you think those pictures of him smiling outside of newly built children’s hospitals come from? They may not understand or know anything about the AVRAKEDAVRA, but they think they know the man. They love him here. And they know he’s been wronged. Combine that with the viral video of you healing that guy in Barcelona, and then Naples—they will be looking for you,” Xavier says. “Not to mention the press attention Dagan has secured, and his influence over local law enforcement.”

  “So basically, we’re sitting ducks the second we show our faces in the city,” Henry says.

  “Maybe,” Xavier says.

  “Or . . . maybe not.” I lean forward, thoughts churning.

  “Gen, the final Guardian will be very nervous once he hears about Gaetano,” Henry says.

  “The first meeting with Shamira and Joseph in the woods went fine. Yeah, we were ambushed in Pompeii, but that had everything to do with Lucian finding the Guardian before we did. I’m pretty sure the only reason we aren’t dead is because you were there to intercede.” I nod at Xavier. “If we had a way of knowing if Lucian and Aveline have gotten to the last Guardian yet—”

  “If they had, he’d have ghosted,” Xavier says.

  “And is he still in contact with you?”

  “So far.” Xavier spins the satellite phone on the coffee table.

  “Okay, so instead of a plan where we put ourselves out somewhere isolated in the dead of night, we do the opposite. Weren’t we supposed to work at a circus?” I ask.

  “That was a component of Nutesh’s original plan.”

  “But Nutesh isn’t here, and we are. We’re the ones doing the footwork.”

  “Oui, but after what happened in Barcelona, he’s not going to want to move forward with the original plan.”

  “Which was what?” Henry asks. He flips a coin across his knuckles, back and forth from index to pinkie finger and back again, like magic.

  “Tanrilar Sirk—‘Circus of the Gods’—a huge traveling circus that sets itself up in Izmir at this time of year. The hand-off for the final piece of the key was supposed to happen there. But Nutesh doesn’t want to do that, and I doubt the Guardian will want to either. Too risky.”

  “Crowds are never riskier than isolation,” I say. “Delia’s favorite expression—the greatest thing about a circus is a person’s ability to hide in plain sight. Meeting after-hours in the dark didn’t go so great. But, meeting at the circus could totally work in our favor.”

  Xavier angles forward on his elbows, so I keep talking.

  “What if, instead of sneaking into the city and hoping Lucian’s people don’t find us before we can arrange some supersecret place to meet, we convince the Guardian that the circus is the best place to make the exchange. We can put the word out to the La Vérité network that we’ll be there—and we want to meet the members and offer whatever assistance we can.”

  Xavier is already shaking his head. “That is counterintuitive.”

  “Of course it is! And that’s why it might work. We’ve already gone viral. We’re all over the ne
ws. People think we’re the bad guys, but if we can show them that we are the victims, maybe they’ll help us.”

  “La Vérité members in Turkey won’t trust Henry. He’s a Dmitri,” Xavier says. Henry nods once, but the look on his face makes me feel bad for him. He’s not his father, not in any way. “Okay, so if it’s too dangerous for both of us to be involved, I’ll do it—line ’em up. I’m the one who can heal people. I’m Delia’s daughter. And these people were loyal to Delia, right?”

  Xavier steeples his fingers under his nose, his eyes distant as he considers my idea.

  “No way can this be done in an open venue,” Xavier says. “There’s a bounty for your heads, and the books, and lots of Dmitri loyalists who would be all too glad to collect it.”

  “Like I said, then—me only. Hang on—”

  I hurry into the stateroom, digging into my discarded pants for the key I took from Gaetano. Then I dig in my pack and grab Mathieu’s. Both keys have returned to their normal state, no residual of their traitorous metamorphosis.

  Returning to my seat, I lay the keys flat across my palm. “When things went south with Gaetano, his key changed—the same thing happened at Croix-Mare.” I look behind to see if any of the soldiers are within earshot. “One of Nutesh’s guards—Mathieu—freaked out. This was his key.”

  “Nutesh told me. A mole.”

  “I saw both keys turn a vaporous black as it hung around their necks when things were going to hell. That’s how I know when someone is disloyal. We can use that, Xavier. I can tell you who shouldn’t be in the room or the tent or whatever. If we only invite La Vérité members—and the Guardian—they will have to present their keys. Then I can tell who is who. The Guardian can line up with the rest of the members, and no one will know who he is.

  “And because it’s a circus, there’ll be loads of locals out for a nice family afternoon. It’s just a crowd of regular people—but also a lot of regular people who could become collateral damage if things were to go sideways. I’m guessing Lucian doesn’t want civilians getting hurt, or worse, because of some absurdly dangerous action he’s taking to get the books, especially if everyone here is so loyal to him.”

  Now Henry is shaking his head. “Way too dangerous. We could be kidnapped. We could have every member of La Vérité in the world there, and it wouldn’t stop Lucian, or Aveline, from bringing in armed assailants and carrying us and the texts out.”

  “But they won’t. Not if civilians are there. And it’s why we absolutely cannot have the books out in the open. We’re going to have to prove ourselves to the Guardian without the books. The only way to do that is to show him our skills just by touching him. I’m serious—set us up in one of the sideshow tents, put all these soldiers undercover so we can fight back if we need to. Then put the word out to La Vérité, and then the Guardian lines up with everyone else. No one knows who he is or that he’s any different from the rest.”

  Xavier pushes a hand through his curls and stops midway, hand resting on the top of his head, his ice-blue eyes looking at me but not really. “This could work.”

  “No.” Henry slams his coin on the table.

  “Henry, come on! Why not? Do you have a better plan?” I ask.

  “What if we used decoys?” Xavier suggests.

  “People have seen our faces on the videos and on the news,” Henry says.

  “The photos on the news are from before you changed your appearance,” Xavier says. “And the video quality from Barcelona and Naples was not high-def—we could find reasonable stand-ins for both of you, I think.”

  “Can’t you use some of your face-changing hocus-pocus on other people?” I ask Xavier.

  “Works only on me. I am but a mere mortal, remember. Not like you two freaks.” He winks at me.

  “So—that’s our plan, then, yeah?”

  Henry looks pissed. But unless he has a better suggestion, this seems like a reasonable option.

  “I will speak with Nutesh,” Xavier says.

  Henry gets up without saying another word, goes into the stateroom, and closes the door behind him.

  I must’ve dozed off in my seat. When my bladder wakes me a few hours later, I’ve been covered with a blanket. The state-room door is still closed—guessing Henry fell asleep in there. Alone.

  I toss the blanket onto the empty seat next to me. I’m faint and sweaty with fatigue and infection and the antibiotics are doing a number on my stomach. My hands and elbows ache with unspent energy—I haven’t zapped anyone in a while. Too bad Xavier and I are getting along at the moment.

  I stand and walk the few feet to the stateroom, pushing my ear against the door. I crack it open, and sure enough, Henry is zonked out on the bed, his sleeping face peaceful, and less pale. A quick look behind me—everyone else is either resting or reading as the jet silently slices through the bright daylight toward Izmir.

  I pat my pant leg, touching the secret hiding in my pocket.

  I could call Ash.

  I tiptoe through and into the bathroom and stuff a towel along the bottom of the closed door—there’s no fan or faucet to mask any noise I might make with a call—I hope the towel is enough soundproofing. I think it’s still predawn in Oregon, but I’m hoping that a ringing phone will be answered.

  My breath is shallow as I dial.

  It’s ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

  On the fifth ring, just before the call slides into voice-mail, he picks up.

  “Hullo... ?”

  “Ash?”

  “Who is this?” His voice is raspy. Tired. “Who is this?”

  “Ash, it’s me. It’s Genevieve.” Silence. I hear his breathing pick up. “I just heard about Violet . . .” Emotion cracks my voice in half. “My god, I am so, so sorry. I can’t stop worrying about you—I called as soon as I was able—”

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “I—I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “Why? Why bother?”

  “I’m so worried about you, Ash. If there’s anything I can do—Violet was my sister too—”

  “She wasn’t your sister. She wasn’t your twin. Where the hell are you? Where have you been? Do you even know what you’ve done to Ted and Cece?”

  “I... I can’t tell you. But it’s not what the news is saying, I swear, Ash. Please don’t listen to the bullshit they’re feeding you. Please believe me.”

  “Then why can’t you tell me where you are? You’re with Henry? Is Baby dead? Did he plan this whole thing? What is going on, Genevieve?”

  Another fissure cracks open in my heart. “I can’t tell you right now, Ash, but I’m so worried about you—”

  “God, Mara Dunn was right. You poisoned her to get back at me because I didn’t want you. You’re a psychopath, Genevieve, just like your mother. Lose my number.”

  “Wait—what are you talking about? It’s me! You’re my brother—I love you—”

  “Shut your witchy, lying mouth. We are not family. The pain you have caused—I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”

  “No! Ash, wait!” But he doesn’t hear me. He’s hung up. Just as the bathroom door flies open and slams into the wall, Xavier’s face an inferno I might not survive.

  32

  XAVIER YELLS AND PACES, WAKING EVERYONE ON THE PLANE, WAVING MY burner phone around in his fist. But I hear nothing he says. Only Ash’s words, cutting through me like a hot knife through butter . . .

  God, Mara Dunn was right. You poisoned her to get back at me because I didn’t want you. You’re a psychopath, Genevieve, just like your mother.

  Mara Dunn. He still knows her as Mara Dunn, not as who she really is—Aveline Darrow—the puppet master manipulating the strings of her own reality show.

  And what does he mean, I poisoned her? I poisoned who? Mara?

  I’d ask if this could get any worse, but I know the answer to that: it can always get worse.

  Xavier breaks the burner phone open and takes out the battery before tossing the who
le thing into his bag. He then slams his hands against my seat, one on each side of my head. “What were you thinking? You have put us all in grave jeopardy. If we manage to land this plane without interference from Dagan, it will be a miracle. Whatever gods you believe in, Genevieve Flannery, start praying.”

  He forcefully rights himself and gives Henry a dirty look as Henry hands over his burner too. Xavier then stomps down the aisle toward the cockpit. When I turn and watch him go, Lucas and the other soldiers give me a hard stare and then turn away.

  Awesome.

  “Henry, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have called him, but—”

  “No. You’re right. You shouldn’t have called him,” he says. The disappointment is clear in his eyes. I follow him back into the stateroom. Silently, we tidy up and repack our travel backpacks with the new stuff from Hélène.

  I sit on the side of the bed, tying my boot. “You should’ve heard how Ash talked to me,” I say. “He thinks this is all my fault. Mara Dunn—Aveline—she’s gotten to him. He said something about poison, but I don’t know if he meant it literally or like I’ve poisoned everyone against me by my actions.”

  Henry stands in front of me, his pack over one shoulder, a fresh pair of gloves on his hands. “He just lost his twin sister. His emotions are volatile right now, and he doesn’t understand what’s really going on.” His words don’t sound very convincing. Probably because no one in their right mind would believe this story. Not the truth of it, anyway.

  My ears hurt as we begin our descent, and the captain’s commanding voice over the intercom requests we take our seats. Henry pulls me up from the bed.

  In the main cabin, everyone settles into their respective spots, except Xavier who doesn’t return to join us at the rear cluster. He can be as mad at me as he needs to be. I didn’t mean to cause any harm—but I had to call Ash. Even if the result has gouged another wound in my heart.

  Out the plane window, I can just make out the approaching city over the jet’s wing. It looks beautiful—vast blue water, a densely packed metropolis of red roofs clustered along the shoreline, roads like carvings from this height. Groves of green, rounded trees are interspersed with cultivated fields and huge swaths of brown earth.