by N. D. Wilson
“Come for a bit,” Jude said. “But I don’t mind if you cut out early. I’ll give you the high sign, but you better be on your best. I know you’ve got a lot to process right now, but absolute manners and respect. Got it?”
“Got it,” Alex said.
Millie reemerged from the kitchen, holding a jar of canned peaches and a jar of raspberry jam. “Sweatpants!” she yelled.
Alex jumped up and then twitched a smile. “My real mom would let me wear them.”
Jude laughed. Millie’s eyes widened. “No, sir. You don’t start with that. And you have no idea what you’re talking about.” She smiled. “Glory would have burned those things years ago. I spoil you. Put on some cords and a sweater, cowboy.”
The other half of the duplex was laid out in an exact mirror image of the Monroes’ half. But the smell was very, very different. Two folding tables and folding chairs had been set up in the living room beside a tiny, white, plastic Christmas tree, and the kitchen and dining room were crowded with steaming bowls covered in foil, hot-lidded pots, and three hot plates that held simmering pans. Casserole dishes dominated the countertops, and one was even resting on top of the television cabinet. The windows in the entire place were coated over with freezing condensation, and the air was jungle muggy.
Gi-Hung was glowing, eager in her generosity, smiling and bowing and wiping fog off her large pink-frame glasses. She was proud of her work, and Alex thought that she should be. He had never seen so much food at one meal, and he doubted that he ever would again.
Place cards had been set at the table, and he was not surprised to find that his designated folding chair was across from his parents and in between empty chairs for Rhonda and her mother.
After much insistence from Chong-Won, Jude and Millie took their seats, Alex did the same, and Chong-Won formally welcomed them. Rhonda and her mother began serving.
On any other day, the strangeness of it all would have completely captured Alex’s imagination. He had never traveled, never even been in a major city, and a glimpse into a foreign culture, no matter how brief, would have held his focus completely.
Not today. Today, as spicy stewed cabbage and chicken skewers and tornado potatoes were placed in front of him, his eyes were on his own hands, flattened on the table.
What would it be like if his arms held snakes with different personalities? If his left arm tried to kill him in his sleep? If they could see in the dark and pull guns faster than any old-time gunslinger and keep on fighting even after he had been knocked out?
Where were his parents right now?
Were they dead?
Wandering San Francisco one hundred years ago?
“Alex,” Millie said, leaning over the table. He looked up from his hands. “Try some. And thank Rhonda. She’s being very kind.”
Rhonda was standing right beside him, holding a bowl of noodles and a bamboo spoon. She was obviously waiting for an answer of some kind. Her eyebrows were up. Her lips tight.
“Oh,” Alex said, looking at his already crowded plate. “No thanks. I’ve got plenty.”
Rhonda scooped a large pile of noodles on top of everything else, blanketing his cabbage and meat.
“It is an honor to serve you,” she muttered. And then she sat down.
Alex looked at the heap of noodles. He looked at Rhonda. She was staring at her own plate. Her jet hair was intricately braided and tied back with a red ribbon. She might have been wearing makeup, but he wasn’t someone who would be able to tell. He knew she hung out with all the artsy and musical drama kids from the grade above his, and she used a backpack covered with strange embroidered patches. But she had never spoken to him. She hadn’t even returned a smile or a wave from one neighbor kid to another.
Millie was loudly praising all the food. Rhonda’s parents were intently listening, and Jude was nodding and chewing seriously.
“I’m sorry,” Alex whispered to Rhonda. “Did I do something wrong?”
Rhonda faced him, cold eyes contradicting the red ribbon in her hair.
“You are an honored guest.” Her upper lip curled into a sneer as she spoke. “Would you like to try some octopus?”
“Not really,” Alex said. “Do you care?”
“Not really.” Rhonda lifted another bowl from the table and spooned nine nugget-sized crispy-fried octopi onto his noodles. They landed in clusters, tiny splayed tentacles intertangled.
Alex bit his lower lip, leaned forward, and sniffed at them. They smelled like french fries.
“Seventy-two legs,” he said. “All for me. Do they taste like chicken?”
“Rubber chicken,” Rhonda said flatly. “And oil, salt, and seaweed. With tentacles.”
Alex picked up two and popped them into his mouth. “Mmm,” he said, chewing through the fried crust. His teeth rebounded off the little bodies. A vague memory of chewing his way through a bag of unused water balloons flickered in his mind. Rhonda was watching him, curious, but still not friendly.
“And?” she asked.
Alex cheeked both creatures and smiled despite the bulge. “Bubble gum of the sea.”
Rhonda didn’t smile, but Alex was pretty sure she thought about it. And at least she’d stopped heaping things onto his plate. She looked away and Alex focused on chewing. It wasn’t easy. In fact, he might need to excuse himself to the bathroom for a quick spit and flush. Of course, Rhonda would know that he’d done it.
The only other option appeared to be swallowing the octopi whole—or at least partially crushed. He picked up his water glass and braced himself. One at a time wouldn’t be bad. Worst case, his father knew the Heimlich maneuver.
Sharp pain pricked into Alex’s chest and his arm jerked in surprise, sloshing water and ice cubes onto his noodles.
All four adults looked at him. But he didn’t care. The pain was growing, dragging across his skin like a knife tip, or a needle. Dropping his glass, he jumped up to his feet, flipping the folding chair behind him, clutching at his chest.
“Alex!” Millie yelled. “Jude, he’s choking!”
The four adults were all up. Rhonda stayed seated, watching Alex with wide eyes and a surprised smile.
“Not choking.” Alex shook his head, twisting where he stood, spine writhing. He didn’t need to ask where the bathroom was. Sliding on the carpet, he exploded toward the hallway, jerking at his sweater.
The bathroom walls were pink with a matching shag rug and toilet lid cover. The shower curtain was a bright rendition of the South Korean flag. Vivid blue and red on white. A tiny stereo on the windowsill was quietly muttering cello music, and three large scented candles burned around the sink below a massive mirror with golden birds swooping in the corners. It was clearly a well-maintained place of peace and contemplation. Alex lunged into it, sweater and Star Wars shirt already halfway over his head. He slammed the door behind him, puffing two of the candles out with the gust. Tugging his shirt and sweater completely off, he stared at his reflection through two tendrils of candle smoke loaded with the waxy scent of artificial pumpkin pie.
Swooping bloodred letters had risen out of his chest, and more were appearing across his torso, trailing behind the excruciating needle-sharp sensation.
Looking down, he watched the bloody calligraphy blister just beneath the skin. Whoever was writing on him moved down onto his stomach and the feeling became ticklish as well as painful. Gripping the sink, Alex tried to hold still enough to read what his torso said.
“Alex?” His father’s voice, just outside the door. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” Alex grimaced and caught his breath. “I think so. Out in a minute.”
As the final line was completed just above his navel, the sensation faded. Alex exhaled slowly, trying to calm his twitching. His heart was tap dancing at full speed and his skin felt tight all over his body. Straightening, he traced the tight swooping letters with his fingertips—soft cursive balloons of blood and skin. Ticklish residue danced down his belly and he slapped at i
t, half expecting the writing to pop and the whole thing to vanish in a sticky mess. It didn’t. Even so, he couldn’t read it. In the mirror, decoding backward cursive was impossible for him, and putting his chin down and trying to get it upside down didn’t work, either.
After a moment, he stepped to the door and opened it a crack. The hallway outside was dim, and he could hear his mother talking in the living room.
“Dad?” he whispered. “I need some help.”
“With what?” Rhonda stepped into the lit gap. “Please tell me you didn’t throw up in there. Mom had me scrubbing all afternoon.”
Alex hopped behind the door, but kept his face at the opening. “Do you mind?”
“I mind if I have to clean your chuck,” Rhonda said. Her eyes focused behind Alex. “But this has been the most boring day of break, so if you die choking on an octopus, that will at least liven things up. Wait a sec. I know that’s not a tattoo ink. Did you write all over yourself with marker?”
“What?” Alex looked down at his chest and then back at the door. “How can you see?”
“Mirror, stupid. And I can see that you at least have your pants on, so . . .” She rapped on the hollow door with her knuckle. “Let me in and prove you didn’t destroy the place.”
Alex didn’t think about it for long. What else was he gonna do? Yell for his parents? Sprint through the living room and run home?
“Promise you won’t tell anybody?” he asked.
Rhonda exhaled disgust. “That you were in my bathroom with your shirt off? I don’t think so. As long as you promise never to tell anyone that you were ever in my house.”
Alex stepped back and let go of the door, squaring up his shoulders and trying not to look like a scrawny child. Rhonda pushed the door open. For a moment, she stood there, scanning the bathroom with judgmental eyes, taking in the sweater and shirt and snuffed-out candles.
“Do you know what the girls call you at school?” Rhonda asked.
Alex shook his head.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Because it suits you, O Great and Honored Guest. You’re nothing.”
“Do you know what the guys call you?” Alex asked.
Rhonda looked straight at him. “Geisha Girl. Which is both nasty and culturally inaccurate since I’m not Japanese. But they’re all idiots and they don’t . . .” Her eyes settled on the writing on Alex’s chest.
“I’ve never heard that,” Alex said.
Rhonda stepped closer, cocking her head.
“I don’t even know what a geisha is,” Alex said. “I was just going to make up something rude because you were rude to me.”
“How did you do this?” Rhonda asked. Reaching out, she touched the letters on his chest with frozen fingertips. Alex shivered and stepped back. But Rhonda stepped forward. “It’s not a brand, is it?”
“I didn’t do it,” Alex said. “It just happened. And it hurt. Can you read it?”
“You really didn’t do it?” She focused on Alex’s eyes.
“How could I?”
Rhonda pushed the door shut with her foot, gripped Alex’s shoulders with her cold hands, and turned him to face the mirror.
“Arms up,” she said. Alex raised them bent. He watched her finger trace the backward words across his reflected rib cage. And as she traced them, she read.
ALEXANDER MIRACLE,
YOUR SERVICES ARE REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY. PLEASE STEP OUTSIDE.
URGENTLY,
FATHER TIEMPO
Rhonda looked up. “What the heck?”
Alex didn’t move. He was still staring at his reflection. What on earth was happening to him? A message in his own blood, and from someone who knew he was a Miracle. He hadn’t even had time to think about that name belonging to him, and Father Tiempo was already using it in a message beneath his skin. But how? Was he the one who took his blood? That didn’t seem like a good-guy move. And in the first Sam Miracle book, Father Tiempo had used paper and ink. Maybe he used blood in the next manuscript. Alex had no way of knowing.
“Okay.” Rhonda grabbed his shirt and sweater off the counter. “Get your clothes on. We’re going outside.”
“No.” Alex watched himself shake his head. “I don’t want to. You have no idea what the last twenty-four hours have been like. This is all wrong.”
Rhonda stepped between Alex and the mirror, leaning back against the sink and crossing her arms.
“Is there one single thing that is interesting about you? Can you moonwalk?” she asked. “Have you met Michael Jackson?”
“What?” Alex blinked. “No. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Are you incredibly fast or can you jump incredibly high? Do you have any ridiculous athletic abilities that no one knows about?”
Alex stared at her. “I don’t really . . . I haven’t. I’m just in middle school.”
“Right. And we already know that you’re pretty normal-looking. A little dark, a little tall, but nothing super special. You read books. You space out in the lunchroom. You wear sweatpants way too much, and you draw pictures of monsters and things to show the other nerds, but they don’t really care, because they just want to show you their own drawings.”
Alex felt himself blushing. And he saw it in the mirror, too, splotchy red all up his throat and onto his cheeks. Which made him blush even more. He grabbed his shirt and sweater and started fishing his arms into the sleeves.
“Yeah,” he said. “Like you’re super special.”
“I can out-moonwalk every other human in this town,” Rhonda said. “But I’m still just the Korean girl who auditions for every play and never gets a role, with parents who make her serve food to the boring boy next door. That’s the only thing that makes me different. But surprise! You’re actually completely freaky, with a puffy bloody cursive message all over your chest. You only want to be boring. But I don’t. So we are absolutely going outside to meet this Tiempo dude, and we’re going right now.”
“You don’t understand,” Alex said. “That note doesn’t even sound like Father Tiempo.”
“You know the guy?” Rhonda asked.
“No. He’s a character in a book. But he’s actually—”
Rhonda opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall.
“He’s okay!” she announced sweetly. “Octopus. He’d like to get some air. Is it all right if I join him?”
Rhonda really was an actress. As Alex stepped into his boots at the front door, she stood beside him bashfully, like it was their first date. Her parents beamed with pleasure, but Jude’s sharp eyes were narrow with suspicion while Millie’s were wide in disbelief. When Rhonda tucked her hand under Alex’s arm and opened the front door to lead him outside, Alex saw his mother’s disbelief become hostility. But it was all over quickly. Freeze-dried air hit his skin, and the door closed behind them.
Three steps down the salted sidewalk, and the pair stopped. Alex shook Rhonda’s hand off his arm, shivered, and looked around.
Nothing.
“So it was a trick,” Rhonda said. “A cool one, though. How long until the writing fades and you can do something else?”
Alex didn’t bother answering. He looked up.
The sky was clear but striped with the wide milky spill of stars that is always present, but rarely so visible. Billions of flickering stars above billions of white, glistening snow crystals, like distant cousins discarded by the sky and heaped up on duplex roofs and beside sidewalks.
“Cold,” Alex said.
“You will teach me how to do it,” Rhonda said. “You know that, right?”
The top layer of snow, an inch of fine powdered crystals, suddenly began to roll away from Alex in every direction. Wind poured straight down from the darkness above, flattening Alex’s hair and chilling every bone. The retreating ring of snow exploded up with the blast, forming a swirling, sparkling cylinder around Alex and Rhonda.
Inside the glittering cylinder, green fire fell.
4
The
Vulture’s Heir
THE AURORA POURED DOWN IN A SHEET, VANISHING INTO the ground without a trace. While Alex and Rhonda watched, it parted like a spilling curtain, like a waterfall around a stone. A dark arch opened, revealing two men, dressed all in black, holding sputtering torches.
The man on the right was shorter, broad and bald and scarred, with a sharp white beard. The man on the left was taller, had darker skin, and looked young enough to be in his teens. The sides of his head were shaved and a thick slab of white hair was slicked straight back on top of his scalp. Both men had strangely shining eyes. Neither of them was dressed like a priest.
Rhonda edged behind Alex, one hand squeezing his elbow.
The younger man stepped out of the darkness and into the Idaho winter night. His white hair glistened like ice. Swirling snowflakes hissed in his torch, and his eyes weren’t just shining, they were liquid—orbs of water. His jaw was hard but hairless.
“Alexander Miracle,” he said. “I am Father Tiempo. I will bring you to your inheritance.”
Alex shook his head. “You’re not Tiempo. You don’t look at all like he was described.”
“Described by whom?” the man asked. “The man who claimed to be your father? The storytelling liar? Those books are far from true. You can deal with him later. Right now, it is time for you to claim what belonged to your real father. Come.”
The young man stepped aside, gesturing into the dark arch.
Alex inched away backward.
“Tiempo doesn’t write on people with their blood. He’s a priest. He travels with sand, not . . . like all this. Who are you really?”
The other man, broad and bald, stepped out of the darkness and his liquid eyes rolled.
“I am called Scipio. And you were not easy to find, boy.” His voice was a rumble, every vowel a drumbeat. “It is a strange time and a strange place they have hidden you in. We searched without ceasing since the day your father slew the Vulture and was slain himself. Years we hunted and did not despair. You are the heir of Miracle, your blood is his blood, and you must claim his prize.”