Scheme

by Jennifer Sommersby

  The descent is subtle but quick, and soon the tires are screeching on the concrete under us, the outbuildings of Çi li Air Base zooming past. Lucas and the other soldiers are on their feet, body armor again in place, guns unpacked from the secured cases. When Henry reaches over and grabs my hand, I realize how hard I’m shaking. He’s pale again, eyes wide, but he nods in reassurance. “You are the flame,” he whispers. I give him a small smile, relieved that he might not be as mad at me as Xavier is.

  The plane slows, curves around the runway’s end, and taxis toward yet another private hangar. Outside the building we’re approaching sit three large black SUVs with heavily tinted windows. I hear the safeties unlocking on the frightening weapons Lucas and his cohorts hold. Xavier is behind them, his own firearm again holstered on his belt.

  The plane eases to a stop, a handful of ground crew in high-vis vests scurrying about under the aircraft to secure it in place. A soldier in front of Lucas holds a huge, riot-style shield; Lucas throws his weapon into his shoulder, ready in attack stance. I look worriedly to Henry, and then Xavier, and then grab on to Henry’s hand.

  The side of the plane opens. Stairs down. The shield moves forward, close steps, as Lucas and his second move in sync. The front soldier yells out of the plane’s door to the ground. “Are we clear to disembark?”

  “Clear to disembark, sir!” the cry comes back. The shield is dropped slightly as the first soldier inspects the stairs and surrounding area through the bulletproof viewer in the shield, his handgun drawn at his side, finger resting on the trigger guard. He takes one full step out, and then another, and then the three soldiers, thankfully, relax.

  I’m still holding my breath.

  Xavier motions for us to move. “Do not stop. Go to the car you’re directed to.”

  We near-jog down the center aisle, to the plane’s open door, my first inhale of Turkey filled with jet fuel and car exhaust. “Down. Go,” Xavier says behind us, his weapon pointed at the ground. The doors of the SUVs are open and waiting. The soldiers stand at attention, joining their comrades already at the ready in and around the hangar.

  Step. Step. Step. I look up from watching where I’m going, and freeze.

  I can’t even scream.

  Xavier slams into me. “Move! Do not stop!” Henry’s hand stretches between us and I yank away, slipping as I try to back up the staircase.

  “Wrong way! Go! Down!” Xavier yells again.

  But I can’t.

  Because standing right next to the open door of the SUV is Aveline Darrow.

  And the smile on her face is all I can see, my screams overriding the whining whirr of the jet’s cooling engines.

  33

  I’M KICKING AND STILL SCREAMING AS XAVIER THROWS ME OVER HIS SHOULDER and hurls me into the back of the SUV. Once I’m in the car, Xavier wraps himself around my upper body, but this can’t be happening.

  “Genevieve, what the hell is wrong?” Xavier wrestles against me there on the middle bench seat, my legs thrashing and kicking the back of the front seats as I try to get away before Aveline can climb into our car and take what she came for.

  “Let me go! She’s here! What are you doing? Heeeeelp!” I scream. When I slam my elbow into Xavier’s still-sore gut, he grunts and squeezes even tighter.

  “Stop! No one is here. You are safe. You are safe,” he says against my head, over and over again, the same way Baby would do when Delia was in the midst of an Etemmu attack.

  Only there is no Etemmu, no spiders, no stench.

  Only Aveline.

  The front door to the SUV opens, and I open my mouth for a renewed scream when the black-haired female climbs in. She turns around to look at us, her eyes wide, mouth set in a firm line, ponytail draping over her shoulder.

  “Is she all right?”

  I can’t catch my breath.

  It’s not Aveline Darrow.

  Xavier loosens his grip and Henry scoots in, looping his arm through mine, his voice against my ear. “You’re okay... you’re safe.” I’m afraid to blink, my eyes burning, as I look at Henry, and then back at the woman in the front seat.

  “You . . . it was Aveline . . . she was here,” I say, breathless. “I . . . I saw her. You—”

  “Genevieve, Henry, this is Sevda. She is our handler here in Izmir.” The woman named Sevda nods courteously from her position in the front seat, but she stares hard at Xavier before turning to Lucas behind the wheel.

  “Move,” she says. Lucas throws the vehicle into drive and tears forward. Of the three black SUVs, one moves into position in front of us, the third behind, but I can’t stop staring at Sevda.

  “I saw her. Henry, I saw her. She’s here. Aveline is here.” My throat burns from screaming. He lets go of me long enough to fasten my lap belt, but then wraps his arm around me once again.

  “She’s not here. We’re safe,” he repeats. I don’t fight against him, and once I’m convinced that Aveline Darrow isn’t sitting in the front seat of our truck, I will apologize to Xavier for hurting him.

  Until then, however, I once again miss the passing landscape of a new country because I cannot, and will not, tear my eyes from the back of that woman’s head.

  If Xavier was worried about us not sticking out like a sore thumb, he didn’t plan our transportation very well. Three black SUVs with heavily tinted windows screaming through the city? Uh, yeah. We’re attracting attention.

  Sevda points out landmarks as we travel along the Aegean Coast into the heart of the port city formerly known as Smyrna. She explains how Turkey has been occupied for the last 8500 years, the Greeks here from 2000 BCE until 1920; how much of the city’s Old Town was destroyed in a massive blaze during their War of Independence after the first World War, how it’s a shame we don’t have more time to visit the Roman ruins at Ephesus an hour south of here or the “architectural triumphs” of the Byzantines and Ottomans in Istanbul.

  The few glances I steal out the window shows block after block of buildings, apartment and otherwise, a ton of ferries and a few cruise ships, and the Turkish flag—red with the white crescent moon and singular star. Flags everywhere.

  But then our view changes as we take a hard left. “Any attempts at tailing us will be confused about which vehicle to follow,” Sevda explains. A few blocks into the concrete jungle, a sharp right takes us into a downward-spiraling garage.

  “We’re here,” she announces. “Prepare to exit the vehicle.”

  The Suburban squeals to a stop near a door marked STAIRS. Everyone offloads quickly, and Henry keeps his gloved hand wrapped loosely around my upper arm. Probably worried I’m going to freak out again. In the muted parking garage light, it’s not too far-fetched to see why I might have thought she was Aveline.

  But when she turns to quickly throw an order at Lucas, I’m startled by a new revelation: she looks like Lucian. Same nose, same hazel eyes, though hers are more almond-shaped.

  I shudder. Fever, fatigue, anxiety, stress—too much. My brain is messing with me.

  “Come,” she says, and we’re in a stairwell, following Sevda up two flights, Xavier and one of the soldiers at our back. We exit into a wide hallway, the floors marble, the walls eggshell and decorated with photographs of what I assume are Turkish landmarks. This place is way nicer than the apartment in Barcelona.

  Sevda stops in front of a black door but instead of a key, she uses her thumbprint and a PIN code to grant us entry. We pile inside, the door closing behind us with a comfortingly heavy lock. Floor-to-ceiling windows are covered in opaque sheers, our view of office buildings across the way.

  “No one can see in. Rest easy,” Sevda says, unfastening the Velcro that secures her Kevlar vest across her chest. “Let’s have tea. We have much to discuss.” As if summoned by the word tea, a tiny woman with black-and-gray hair pulled into a tight bun appears from another room off the stainless steel and marble kitchen.

  “This is Sofi,” Sevda introduces. “She will help make your brief stay with us more comf
ortable. Her English is rudimentary at best, but she is eager to please. And an excellent cook.” Sevda smiles at the diminutive woman, who then bobs her head at us and smooths the white apron over her plain black dress. She then turns to ready the tea service.

  Xavier points to a corner where we can put our packs and then makes himself comfortable on the huge red leather sectional that takes up most of the bright living room. He pulls out his silver lighter and tobacco kit to roll a fresh cigarette.

  “That shit will kill you. Why do you persist?” Sevda scolds, her accent making the word shit sound glamorous. She carries over a tray with six tea glasses and a bowl of sugar cubes with silver tongs and sets it on the round glass coffee table at the room’s center. Within just a moment, Sofi follows with a silver teapot, and then disappears, her steps soundless on the gray shag area rug and marble floor.

  “We don’t have time to get acquainted, so I will get directly to our plan.” Sevda pours tea and Lucas passes out the steaming glasses, offering sugar and teaspoons. The quick look of longing he gives Sevda when he takes each glass, and the way her eyes soften when she looks back at him—yeah, they’re a thing.

  Sevda is seated on the very edge of the couch as if she’s ready to spring into action. “I am a member of La Vérité, as Xavier probably told you. I am a handler for the network, trained in jujitsu and hand-to-hand combat. I spent fifteen years training with the Turkish military, including special and covert operations, before going undercover with La Vérité full-time. My history before that prepared me for this life, and I am good at my job.” She looks at me. “Delia was a dear friend of mine, and the world is colder without her here.” She then pulls an antique silver key out from under the neck of her fitted black shirt, kisses it, and bows her head.

  “Thank you, Sevda,” I say.

  “Xavier told me about Pompeii. I am so sorry you had to be a part of such a terrible ordeal.” She picks up her tea and sips it. This woman, whose hands are lethal weapons, looks dainty and dancer-like as she cradles the cup. “Xavier also tells me you have a unique idea for our meeting with the final Guardian.”

  Xavier nods at me. I set my own tea down and sit up straighter. “We do.”

  “So, let’s hear it.”

  I explain our new strategy to Sevda the way I did to Xavier, and a reluctant Henry, on the plane. She nods a few times, looks to Xavier now and again, refills her tea. By the time I’m done explaining—and Xavier and Sevda have discussed potential issues—we have finished the first pot and Sofi has brought another.

  “I do not love the idea of making you visible to the network, but there is definitely some value in letting La Vérité members meet you. So many of them loved your mother,” Sevda says. “But I agree that Henry should not be made front and center. We can arrange for you to heal a few people discreetly, and of course, Henry will need to be present for Mazhar, the Guardian, but the less ceremony, the better. The more we blend in, the better. And you’re right—Dagan wouldn’t do anything that could be traced back to him. If he were to hurt civilians, there would be swift retribution in the local networks.”

  I sit back against the cushions, relieved to have presented my plan and not been laughed at or reprimanded that it’s dumb because I’m only a kid so what do I know.

  In fact, maybe the warm feeling in my chest, for once, isn’t electricity but a little pride—like, maybe I can do something that will save Baby and avenge those who have been taken from me and also help my mother’s La Vérité friends, all at the same time.

  If I—if we—can finish what our parents and grandparents started, maybe there’s hope. Maybe I am making the right decision to destroy the books, even if it means losing our gifts.

  “Xavier and I will set to work at once making the arrangements,” Sevda says, putting her cup down for a final time. “For the sake of time and safety for everyone, I propose one additional change: I will serve as proxy to verify your possession and identities, which will in turn serve as confirmation for Mazhar that you are indeed the true heirs, that he is justified in turning over the piece you seek.”

  Henry and I look to Xavier. He trusts her, but showing anyone who is not a Guardian the books...

  “Is that wise?” Henry asks.

  “It would preclude the need for Genevieve to reveal anything about herself other than a polite hello to her mother’s companions. This would also support use of decoys to conceal your true selves,” Sevda says. “You say you can tell when a La Vérité member is untrue or serving a malicious intent?”

  “Yes. Because of their key . . . it turns black and sooty, like vapor.”

  “So, if we’re at the venue and Genevieve sees a blackened key, my validation to Mazhar that you are who you say you are will be doubly proved. We can make the exchange and slip right out the side.”

  Sevda pats her key where it rests over her shirt. Not gonna lie—I’ve watched it over the last hour while we’ve talked.

  “How do we prove our identities to you?” I ask.

  “The same way you would for the Guardian.” Henry and I look at one another. He still looks doubtful but remains quiet. “If we are in agreement, then let us proceed.” Sevda stands and nods at Xavier.

  “Bring your packs,” he says to Henry and me. We stand and retrieve them, and then in a line—Xavier, Henry, and myself—follow Sevda down the hall into yet another room, secured by another thumb reader, the room windowless with expensive-looking wood-paneled walls and a massive circular Persian rug in the center. Sevda locks the door behind us.

  Xavier nods first at Henry and then me, signaling for us to extract the AVRAKEDAVRA texts from their compartments.

  “Please place the books on the rug in front of you and kneel,” Sevda instructs, kneeling herself. We place our books, and then Henry takes my hand; together we fold ourselves onto the floor. As happened with Shamira and then poor Gaetano, Sevda instructs us to place our ungloved hands onto the texts. As soon as we make contact, the energy exchange is intense and hot, though minus the painful bite that it had at the Forum in Pompeii.

  I hope that’s a good sign.

  Sevda places one hand each on mine and Henry’s and recites a prayer or incantation, in what might be Aramaic. Within two minutes, the ritual is over, Sevda’s olive skin flushed and sweaty from the effort.

  “I am confident you are the sealed heirs to the AVRAKEDAVRA. Thank you for your service,” she says, bowing her head to us. My heart thuds against my breastbone, the burn of electricity begging for release, the wounds scored into my left arm screaming with renewed pain. I blink rapidly and hope the faintness passes quickly.

  She lets go of my hand, but maintains her hold on Henry’s, inspecting his face, reaching a finger to touch his bisected eyebrow, his closely shorn head. “I never had the opportunity to meet your mother,” she says to him. “But I know her story. I am all too familiar with the pain she lived through, torn between her love for father and duty, and for a dangerous man. Romantic love is blinding, and deadly—but so too is blind loyalty based on a shared blood. One only has to look through the history books for confirmation of that,” she says. She leans back on her ankles but does not release Henry’s hand.

  I glance at Xavier, now rigid with the tension that fills the room, with the alarm fixed on Henry’s face.

  “Do not fear me, Henry Dmitri. I am your friend, and alongside these fine people, I am your true ally,” she says, finally letting go of him. She’s shaking—her whole body, just slightly, like she’s nervous. “I know your personal hell, your mother murdered, your own life dimmed in the shadow of your father’s indifference, your experiences darkened by the pain of learning Dagan’s true nature.”

  Sevda then pulls her sleeve back, revealing a faded but still definitive tattoo—the inverted triangle overlying the circle. “I know, because before you, I was in line to be the heir.”

  What is she saying . . .?

  She looks at me, her words hard. “I have felt the consuming pain of a murderous
loss of family, of identity, of country at the hands of those who seek to undo our righteous path, at the hands of your sister.” I am instantly defensive—it’s as if Sevda is saying Aveline Darrow’s evil is somehow my fault. Xavier steps closer beside me, his hands on his hips.

  But then Sevda focuses again on Henry, her eyes softening. She flattens a shaking hand over her heart, her voice thick with emotion. “Brother, your birth changed the course of my life, and for that, I am eternally grateful,” she says. “My true name is Sevda Vadat Hakalar Dmitri. Our father thought me dead alongside my mother, killed by the hand of his witch more than a century ago. Imagine his surprise when he learned I survived,” she says. “I stand before you today to pledge my allegiance and loyalty. Dagan has been chasing me for seventy years—I too have a magical gift, one that allows me special accommodations in the art of concealment. And yet, I suspect our cat-and-mouse will soon come to its bitter end, one way or another.”

  She pauses for a moment, wringing her hands in front of her. “I’ve been waiting for so many years for this.” She wipes her flushed cheeks. “I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders. I have a brother! And he’s so handsome and brave and wonderful!”

  She leans in and hugs Henry tightly, and when she lets go, her smile is equal parts genuine and secretive before it melts back to something angrier, her eyes darkening with vengeance.

  “But together, we will put Dagan’s unholy campaign to rest, once and for all, and send Aveline the Witch back to the hell from whence she escaped.”

  34

  THE ROOM IS DEADLY SILENT. EVEN XAVIER’S EYES ARE WIDE WITH SHOCK.

  And Sevda’s key is again tucked under her shirt. Shit. I should not have revealed that I could see a member’s duplicity so easily.