Scheme

by Jennifer Sommersby

  Henry opens the glass door that leads up the stairs to the rooftop patio. Montague and his security guys are already up here, sipping canned beers, but when they see Henry and me, conspiratorial smiles are exchanged.

  “We’ll give you two l’ intimité,” Montague says, winking at Henry, before they file down the stairway.

  Henry leads me to our spot from last night in front of the crackling fire. We’re quiet, watching the flames dance, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I don’t want to talk about tomorrow, about the possibility that Xavier might have to shoot Lucian or Aveline. About the possibility that this could all end very badly—with our deaths, or with Lucian getting what he’s been chasing after for centuries.

  About how we’ll lose our abilities, and he’ll likely never see his mother’s ghost or hear her memories again. About how I’ll no longer be able to fix the people I love.

  Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine.

  “Thank you for handling Şivan’s archaeology questions at dinner,” I say, wrapping myself around Henry’s left arm, my head resting on his solid shoulder. “I seriously thought I was going to pass out if he asked me about my favorite world heritage site or whatever.”

  “You could always say the Hanging Gardens of Babylon,” Henry says. He kisses the top of my head, sending shivers through me.

  “Dude, I didn’t even know they existed until a month ago, so yeah . . . no.” I point toward the closed sketchbook tucked under Henry’s right thigh. “Can I look at your sketches? Or... is that really private?”

  Not even the low light can hide Henry’s blush. He pulls the sketchbook from under his leg and hands it over.

  The first few pages are comics—a lot of self-deprecating bits, Henry drawn with a too-big forehead, the bisected eyebrow, and that unruly curl that is trying to grow back. “Your nose does not look like that. Seriously? Have you looked in a mirror? I’d kill for your nose.” I turn the page. He’s sketched cartoonish versions of me—back at the circus, me with a flame cupped in my hand, like the one he gave me the other day, me with Gert and Houdini, and even of Othello being clever, making jokes about how he’d like to eat Mara Dunn. “I always figured he was thinking that too.”

  “I doubt she’d taste any good,” Henry says.

  “Rotten to the core.”

  On the next page, Henry’s style takes a marked turn. Not cartoony, but breathtaking proper still lifes. He’s drawn our journey so far . . . the fields outside Paris, the cabin in the Spanish woods, the Mediterranean and approaching docks as we pulled into Porto Torres in Sardinia, and even some from Naples—the bay, the boats, the beautiful buildings and crowded streets.

  “Henry...”

  He’s drawn me saving that man at Circ de l’Anell d’Or, the exterior of Napoli Sotterranea where the Circo della regina performs, the faces of the Guardians and La Vérité people who’ve helped us so far, the food we’ve eaten...

  The carnage at Pompeii. The beautiful exteriors of Tanrilar Sirk.

  “I needed a record,” he says. “In case we don’t make it through this.”

  “When did you do these?”

  “I’ve not been sleeping much.”

  “These are phenomenal, Henry.”

  “It kept my father off my back about not being musical. He wanted me to play the piano, like he does,” he says. I think of the piano room at their estate in Oregon. “Once he saw I could draw, he refocused his efforts on art tutors instead of music teachers.”

  “Money well spent,” I say.

  More pages follow of scenes I don’t understand.

  “Those are from new memories. I told you Alicia has been flooding me lately. Plus the memories from the text itself . . . I wanted to draw some of them, just in case. I don’t know if they’ll disappear when she does.”

  Page after page of memories, none of which make any sense, naturally.

  One page in particular catches my attention. It seems like a compilation of thoughts, of scenes taken out of someone’s head. But—“Is this Ash? And Vi?” I swallow hard. “Is that Aveline?”

  I follow the separate images around the page. Scenes of my circus siblings with Aveline, who they only know as Mara Dunn, new aerialist with the Cinzio Traveling Players, laughing, in the big top with Mara on the trapeze, hanging out in Mara’s trailer, her wine fridge.

  And then another of the wine fridge, opened, filled with wine bottles on their sides.

  And then the wine bottles removed, and my tea set at the back of the fridge.

  Sitting next to a small round capped jar.

  “Henry . . .” My heart races.

  “Ricin. What she used on Violet.”

  “But they searched. Nutesh said they searched the trailers.”

  “He said they searched your trailer. They did not search Aveline’s trailer. They had no reason to—and no legal right.”

  “This . . . this is huge, Henry. This could clear my name.”

  “I know.”

  “We have to tell your grandfather! This means I could go home to Gertrude and Houdini. We could go home, Henry!”

  “I told him, Gen. I showed him the drawings, explained what I saw. He will pass it along, but I don’t think the police are apt to believe visions or secondhand memories passed on through possession of a magical text.”

  The wheels in my head burn alongside the heat singing through my arms and hands. “We need to bring Aveline home alive, Henry. We can’t kill her tomorrow. We need her fingerprints—we need her DNA—to prove my innocence.”

  “But you heard them earlier. If Aveline shows up at the ruins, like we’re all expecting she will, we have to do whatever is required to finish this. And it’s not like we can handcuff her and drag her back to America.”

  I’d like to do more than that...

  “You have to trust that the lawyers will seek out search warrants and go through proper channels.”

  “What if her trailer is gone, though? If Aveline were smart, her living quarters would’ve been moved out long ago.”

  Henry shakes his head. “I don’t know, Genevieve. This is just what Alicia gave me.” He points at his sketchbook. “Keep turning.”

  I return my attention to his drawings, my breath catching when I flip the page.

  “You’re quite peaceful when you sleep,” he says.

  “You make me look beautiful.”

  He quirks his sliced eyebrow. “You are beautiful.”

  “Thank you... for this. For everything.”

  Henry takes the sketchbook from my lap. The flames in the firepit dance in the corner of his eyes, the occasional pop sounding from the burning wood. He looks around us. “You do realize we’re completely alone for the first time in forever?”

  “I do.”

  “And tomorrow morning, we could both die.” He kisses me. I wrap my hands around the back of his head and neck, pulling him closer.

  “We can’t die tomorrow,” I say, a little breathless already. “You promised me back in France that if we live through this, you’d kiss me like this every day until we’re old and withered.”

  “When we live through this, I’m going to do a lot more than kiss you,” he growls, “though it will be so nice to not feel like licking the end of a battery every time we touch.”

  I laugh against his mouth. “And it’ll be nice to not worry about you climbing into my head and looking at all the dumb things I’ve ever done.”

  “Oh, I already know all of those.” He plants small kisses on my lips and cheeks and neck, but then stops and pushes away. His eyes widen and he looks directly at me, grabbing my wrist. Alicia appears next to him, glowing like a new star.

  Without a word, Henry jumps up from his seat, breaking the connection, and moves to the glass half wall that surrounds the patio.

  “Henry?”

  He drops to all fours and signals for me to follow him. “What are you doing?” Instead of talking, we crawl forward toward the glassed edge that o
verlooks the front of the house.

  On the street, a black vehicle pulls up, joining two others already idling there. A small figure—a woman—sneaks toward the closed gate.

  “Is that Gona?” I whisper. “Who is she letting in?”

  Xavier flies onto the patio from downstairs. “Get up! Move!Now !” he whisper-yells.

  We jump up and sprint down the stairs after Xavier.

  It’s only when our packs are on our backs and our convoy of humans is following Xavier, Montague, and Nutesh through neighboring yards that I realize we left Henry’s sketchbook on the patio.

  For anyone to find.

  42

  I DON’T KNOW HOW FAR WE RUN OR HOW MANY CONFUSED YELLS FOLLOW us as we scale small walls and fences and bushes of private yards. No one in our party says anything until we’re blocks away from Şivan’s house, sliding through a stand of palm trees along an alley and filing into the backyard of a much humbler home.

  We’re greeted at the rear by the wide, friendly eyes of a woman in a long purple dress, her black hair piled on her head in a loose bun, and her husband standing with a rifle at his side just inside the door.

  A spike of relief hits me when I see an antique silver key hanging from around her neck.

  La Vérité.

  “Come in, come in.” She rushes us inside and then closes the heavy wooden door behind us. We pile into a spacious living room, our boots silenced by the multicolored rugs that cover most of the room. A long sectional stretches along two walls. The room is dark, save for a few lit candles. The front door is outfitted with four dead bolts, the front windows sealed tight with shutters through which only scant light from an outside porch lamp can sneak in through gauzy curtains.

  “Please sit. You are welcome here. I am Malalai. My husband is Khan. Please do not hesitate to ask if you need anything,” she says. I’m more than surprised when her accent is heavily Australian, especially when she turns to Khan and speaks in Arabic.

  “What happened back there?” I finally ask, waiting for someone to give us an explanation.

  “Get some sleep, Geneviève,” Nutesh says, his voice firm. I look at Henry for backup—he shakes his head subtly. Even a glance at Sevda, to see if she’s as freaked out as I am, but she’s got her head in her hands, rubbing at her red, swollen eyes as Xavier helps her out of her travel pack.

  Malalai hands me a light wool blanket. “The washroom is down the hall. If you need food or water, please ask. You must stay low. Curious neighbors,” she says, smiling.

  Nine people in this one room—Sevda lies down along one side of the couch. Montague is propped against the front door; everyone else tries to make space for each other to rest sitting up, taking turns thanking Khan for the tea he passes around. Nutesh disappears down the narrow hallway, the satellite phone against his ear.

  Xavier sits propped against the end of the sectional. I slide out of my pack and set it next to me, positioning so I can talk to him without disturbing everyone else.

  “What happened? We saw Gona moving toward the gate, and then you were there.”

  “You answered your own question. The house staff.”

  “I thought she had shifty eyes . . . I’m surprised she didn’t poison our food.”

  “I don’t think she had a choice. Şivan has a lot of enemies. They probably threatened her family. Don’t judge her too harshly.” He flips his silver lighter around and around.

  “What now?”

  “The plan goes forward. Nutesh is changing our pickup spot. We can’t go back to the air base right now. Too dangerous. There’s a field not far from here—it’s dicey because we don’t have clearance for him to land in the city, but that’s all we’ve got.”

  “And then Babylon?”

  “And then Babylon.” He pats my bent knee. “Close your eyes for a few minutes. You need the rest. I can smell the electricity coming off you.”

  I cradle my stinging hands in my lap, playing the tape of Nutesh’s voice in my head, reminding me to breathe through it. When Henry slides down beside me and wraps his gloved hand around mine, I close my eyes in the hope that when I open them, we’ll all still be breathing.

  I’m trying to tie my boots but my ass and legs are asleep from being propped against the couch for four hours. The room smells like sweaty bodies and rebreathed air. Sevda is sitting up, blinking rapidly as Nutesh flashes a pen light across her eyes.

  When I see that the bathroom is free, I stumble down the hall to take my turn. My stomach is in knots. I splash water on my face, make use of my travel toothbrush, run cold water over my reddened hands. A closer look in the mirror shows that my red roots are poking through my scalp, like little flames at the base of my otherwise dyed-brown curls.

  A reminder that I’m still me under all this.

  I open the door and almost bump into Xavier as he pulls the satellite phone from his ear. “James is moving into Kurdish airspace. We’re about to go. Keep your eyes on everything,” he says. “No gloves, in case we need those hands.”

  The burning buzz I’m getting so used to prickles under my skin. Only a few more hours, and it will be gone...

  I startle Xavier, and myself, by wrapping him in a sudden hug. It takes a second, but then he hugs me back, hard. We stand together for a handful of breaths before he lets go. “For luck,” I say. When he smiles, he doesn’t try to hide the shimmer in his eyes.

  “For luck,” he says quietly.

  Our tough-guy faces back in place, I follow Xavier down the hall. Montague is looking out through the curtain over the small window in the closed front door, lined up with another of the security guys, followed by Nutesh and Sevda. I’m stuffed in between her and Henry, and the final two security officers behind us. No one has weapons drawn—that would be way too obvious for any onlookers—but hands are poised near belts, just in case.

  “They’re here,” Montague announces, turning to nod at the tail of people behind him. “Quietly, but quickly. Three cars this time. Four to a car. Do not stop for any reason.” Montague then counts down from three on his hand as Khan and Malalai wish us “all the luck in the world.”

  Then the door opens, and we’re out, quietly, in single file, into our cars that sit with headlights off. No one says a word as we pull away from the house. I recognize our driver from the other day, relieved that he’s one of Nutesh’s guys from the plane.

  The field where we’re expected to meet James is close by. Turns out it’s a treeless dirt soccer pitch, the nearest houses far enough away that the spinning rotors won’t spit debris into anyone’s yard.

  Our driver pushes against a button in the collar around his neck. “Copy that,” he says. “Air transport two minutes out. Be ready to move.”

  I don’t know how much readier we can be. Seat belts are off, backpacks are on, knives are stuffed in boots.

  Then even over the Range Rover’s purring engine, we can hear the unmistakable whomp-whomp-whomp of a helicopter. “Thirty seconds,” our driver says.

  Like a shadow, the chopper moves toward us, dark gray and bigger than I expected—top blades and then a rear rotor, five windows stretched down its side. As it drops down, the landing gear descends from its underside; the extreme wind from the spinning blades sends dirt and dead plants into spiraling devils.

  “And you’re out,” the driver says. Montague helps Henry and me from the car with our packs. The cars ahead and behind us empty as well, and we’re all running hunched as the side of the helicopter opens, another new face welcoming us aboard.

  The whole loading process takes less than a minute before we’re lifting up, up, and away, the now-vacated Range Rovers screaming down the street, headlights off, to disappear into the very early Sulaymaniyah morning.

  We buckle into seats bolted to the sidewalls so we’re facing one another. Noise-canceling tactical headsets are pulled off our seat backs so we can hear our pilot’s instructions and speak to one another.

  “Welcome aboard the Lady Tigris, a retired Agus
taWestland AW101 Merlin, used quite heroically in the liberation of the Iraqi people,” the British male voice says. “I’m James, your captain and cruise director extraordinaire. Should you be in need of refreshment, we are happy to offer a selection of bottled waters, probably still warm because the onboard icebox is a fickle bugger and doesn’t like Iraq very much and would very much prefer to spend its retirement in a pub on the coast of Cornwall, not that I blame it.” Small smiles are shared around the helicopter’s interior.

  “We hope you find your ninety-minute journey with us into the heart of ancient Babylon a pleasant one. If you have any complaints, comment cards are stashed under your seat. Please fill it out and then stuff it in your bonnet. Merci beaucoup.”

  Once we’re underway, Nutesh goes to the front, presumably to speak with—and pay—James. The aircraft looks so much bigger up close, and even though we have the heavy tactical headsets on to deaden the sound, the floor vibrates under our feet and into our seated legs.

  Xavier’s voice crackles in our ears as he gathers our attention. He spends the next thirty minutes reviewing our approach and asking for questions. Once he’s satisfied we all know where we’re going once we land, he and the other security guards unbuckle and start putting their gear together.

  Xavier unzips the black duffel bag he’s had with us the whole time, tosses another pack at one of the security guys, and then proceeds to extract metal pieces and set them on the floor between his legs. I watch in mounting fear as Xavier builds a huge, scary-looking rifle, uncapping the lens end of the scope bolted to the top. I’ve seen a few guns in my life—the one in Baby’s trailer safe, the always-empty revolver Ted keeps in the work trailer in case the work crew gets too rowdy around whiskey-fueled campfires, and then the weapons Xavier and the others have had during this grand adventure.

  But outside of a movie theater, I have never seen a gun that big. The rounds he’s plugging into it are easily the length of my pinkie finger.