Lies That Bind
Page 1
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
The Truth
Acknowledgments
The Anastasia Phoenix Trilogy
About the Author
More from Entangled Teen
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Diana Rodriguez Wallach. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 105, PMB 159
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Edited by Alycia Tornetta
Cover design by Clarissa Yeo
Interior design by Toni Kerr
ISBN: 978-1-63375-902-2
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63375-903-9
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition March 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Jordan, Juliet, and Lincoln
“Remember, remember!
The fifth of November,
The Gunpowder treason and plot;
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!”
English Folk Verse (c.1870)
Prologue
Four years ago…
We traveled light. Many people probably claimed the same, but after moving nine times to three separate continents, we truly had perfected the art of packing. Our moving van was filled with the basics—kitchen table, sofa, mattresses, area rugs. The “stuff” we shed. I’d never kept a karate trophy. My sister and I likely painted pictures when we were little, but they were probably recycled into coffee filters by now. We bought clothes for every season and every culture, but if you weren’t going to wear that polka dot bikini in Morocco, then there was no reason to bring it. Thrift stores loved us. We’d dropped belongings in secondhand shops from Singapore to Boston.
Only this move was different. We weren’t pit stopping in Beantown until my parents completed another chemical project. This was the real deal. We were relocating to the Dresden Chemical Corporation’s main headquarters in Massachusetts, and we were staying until I got my high school diploma.
We stepped onto the curb in front of our new brownstone in Brookline, an almost suburban-like neighborhood on the edge of Boston.
“Okay, darlings.” Mom always called us that, no matter how many times we asked her to stop. “It’s a walk-up, but we’re only on the second floor, which isn’t bad. And compared to our place in Madrid, it’s massive.”
“You have your own rooms,” my dad reiterated yet again—it was the main selling point. Well, mine at least. I’d never had my own door before.
“Dad, I’m staying in the dorms,” Keira reminded him. “You sent in the housing check.”
“I know, sweetheart, but in case you change your mind,” he hedged.
My parents were having a hard time with my sister “going away” to college. They traveled so much for work, you’d think they wouldn’t even notice that Keira was gone. But they were adamant on keeping her close. First, they insisted she enroll in the University of Miami, down the street from where we were living; then they forced her to transfer to Boston University when we decided to make the move up North. Keira could have objected to the transfer more, but I knew she never felt comfortable in Miami. She was an A-cup swimming in a land of D-cups, and every time she stepped a flip-flop onto the white sand beaches, her pale skin bubbled like bacon left too long on a griddle. The seven-year med program at BU was renowned, and the fashion in the city focused more on Patagonia fleeces than on cleavage mini dresses. Still, Keira refused to be a commuter kid. She really wanted to eat dinner in a dining hall in her flannel PJs with a roommate that doubled as a new best friend. (We watched a lot of teen movies.)
“So this is it,” I said, staring at the second floor of the three-story brownstone. A large bay window protruded with cracking white paint around the glass. The building was constructed of bricks that likely dated back before the Kennedys moved into town, and there were two pale pink rose bushes on either side of the stoop that made the air actually smell like the L’Occitane shop at the mall.
“Yup, we’re home.” Dad threw an arm around my shoulders.
Mom pulled a set of keys from her pocket, which hung on a bare ring, no keychain, as the rev of a sports car zoomed up the otherwise quiet street. A blazing-red Corvette stopped short at the curb.
“Right on cue,” Dad said.
“He’s so humble,” Keira joked.
The door opened, and a long leg stretched from the impossibly low car. Out stepped Randolph Urban, his gray suit unwrinkled despite the cramped, ostentatious quarters.
“Welcome to Boston,” he said, greeting us like a politician at a rally. “It’s so lovely to have you in my city. And before I forget…” He reached into his car and pulled out an elegantly wrapped package with silver paper and a white satin bow. “For my friends. Welcome home.”
He hugged my parents like the extended family that we were, then turned his big smile toward me. “Anastasia, you get more beautiful every time I see you.” He squeezed me tight, his white beard scratching my neck, the smell of his woodsy cologne rising up from his skin. I associated that smell with him as much as I associated the scent of pine needles with Christmas; it was an essential part of who he was. It made me want to buy my dad something from the men’s fragrance department.
“Keira.” He nodded. He didn’t hug her, and she wouldn’t have let him. My sister wasn’t a fan of overt displays of affection. She and our mother had that in common. But they looked nothing alike. Keira was the spitting image of our father with his pointy nose and pale brown hair. I, however, shared my mother’s thick, dark locks and full lips.
“How were your travels?” Urban asked.
“Easy to fly when you don’t have luggage,” Dad said. “Moving van was already waiting for us when we arrived.” He nodded to the yellow truck behind us. Dresden paid for every corporate relocation—burly men came to our house and packed each drawer down to our underwear (which, while embarrassing, was still better than packing it ourselves). Then they transported it to wherever in the globe we were headed, unloaded it, and restocked our drawers in our new accommodations before we went to bed that night. It was the least the company could do considering it was the cause of our count
less change of address forms. Honestly, they would save a lot of cash, and trouble, if we all kept our stuff in the big brown boxes. We knew it would end up back in those cardboard containers eventually, so why pretend?
“Fantastic.” Urban turned to Keira. “Would you like the movers to unload your belongings in the dormitory?”
“You know, I think I’ll skip the hairy men unpacking my shower shoes, but thanks,” said Keira. “Not exactly the impression I want to make on my first day.”
“Suit yourself.” Urban shrugged. “For you.” He held out his package to my father. “A gift.”
“Randolph, I think we’re past housewarming presents by now.” Mom smiled politely.
“It’s our ninth move,” I noted.
“Sorry Miami didn’t last longer. I know it’s hard on our Dresden Kids, but at least you have each other. I’ll have Donna send you an email with a list of other Dresden Kids in the area.” He smiled like this was a generous gesture when it was really standard procedure.
My parents might be the ones with the jobs, but the Dresden Kids were my coworkers; we were forced to be friends out of corporate obligation and a universal understanding that no one else understood us. We moved unpredictably, from one country to the next. We spoke too many languages, we embraced unusual curriculums, and we had little other acquaintances because it seemed pointless to exert the effort. For Keira and me, it was even worse. Our parents were technically everyone’s bosses, which meant Dresden Kids had to be our friends or at least pretend they were. My entire life was filled with faux relationships, and I didn’t want that anymore. Boston was going to be different. I was going to make real friends, who went to my school and who shared my interests. This was my home now.
Still, I couldn’t be rude to Urban.
“That’s great. Thanks,” I replied.
Then my mom tugged the tape on the silver package he offered and slid out a gilded antique picture frame. Her brow furrowed when she glanced at the image, her eyes flicking to my dad, who for a moment looked equally puzzled.
“I had the coordinates framed. I know this place is very important to you,” Urban explained.
My parents nodded with tight smiles that I knew were fake. Maybe they didn’t know what the coordinates meant?
“Of course, yes,” Mom said, as if finally getting it.
She turned the frame toward Keira and me. Displayed under the glass was a piece of fabric with latitude and longitude numbers stitched in black yarn below embroidery that read: The Phoenixes with a crimson rose cross-stitched above it. For a billionaire like Randolph Urban, it was a very Etsy housewarming present. But I didn’t see what was so confusing; it was clearly the longitude and latitude of our new home. Maybe my parents didn’t like embroidery? It was a bit Southern Country for their tastes.
“Thank you so much,” Mom said, awkwardly hugging Urban. He whispered something in her ear, and she smiled wider, almost too wide, like the second runner-up in a Miss Universe pageant trying way too hard to look thrilled.
Then my dad took the gilded frame from her hands.
They never hung it up.
Chapter One
I expected the fire, but not the noise.
The constant irregular popping of firecrackers boomed in every direction, reverberating off the aging stones and mixing with the rattling drums and honking tubas. Drunks had to shout to be heard, their slurred cheers freezing in visible puffs warmed only by the countless torches. Marchers filled the street, each holding a flaming stick that when too sizzling to hold was simply dropped and abandoned at their feet. There were unattended torches littering the cobblestones, which led me to believe the UK was in serious need of a public service announcement on the value of not playing with matches. I’d already burned the rubber of one sneaker, but at least that foot was warm. Even with long johns under my jeans and wheelbarrows full of fire rolling past, my teeth were chattering and my nose was running.
I guess this is one way to celebrate a holiday.
Not that we were in England for fun. These days, I strove for ordinary. I actually dreamt I was walking through the halls of Brookline Academy the other night, laughing with Tyson and Regina, my former best friends. We were talking about going to karate then binge watching a new TV show. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if it was a dream or a memory. It was so normal. But when I woke up, the dark of night still cloaking my room, there were tears trailing down my cheeks as if my subconscious had just lowered the old me into the Earth. I couldn’t fall back asleep, sniffling and wiping at my eyes as I realized Tyson and Regina were probably visiting colleges right now; they were sending out applications and writing essays about how tutoring saved their lives. Their entire worlds were going on without me, while I stayed immersed in a toxic realm my parents created. It was a life I didn’t want.
But I also couldn’t ignore it. Marcus’s brother was in danger. At least, we thought he was in danger. That was why we were at this festival, searching for Antonio. I owed Marcus for helping me find my sister in Venice, but more than that, I wanted to help him. I needed to help him. He was sort of my boyfriend (we never actually talked about it). So officially, he was more like my adventure junkie companion, or the guy who saved my life, or a fellow Dresden Kid whose family might be as twisted as my own. He was also the reason I stayed entangled in this world of spies and Department D and didn’t run away with Keira. But once Antonio was found safe (he had to be safe), Keira and I had a decision to make. Only I wasn’t sure I was ready to admit what that decision might need to be.
I breathed into my wool scarf, warming my face as we cut through the dense crowds clogging High Street, fast food wrappers crunching under my sneakers. Surprisingly, even across the pond, parade-goers still relied on hamburgers and pizza to absorb the fountain of alcohol pouring down their throats. The air smelled almost as strongly of ale as it did of smoke, and oddly pubs were open, but their windows were boarded shut. In fact, every storefront within walking distance of the main parade route had nailed plywood to its windows—not to protect from fire, given that cheap wood made for excellent kindling, but to protect from the attendees. There were drunks swaying atop the iconic red phone booths, hanging out of windows, and hovering in doorways, all with pints dripping down their frozen hands.
I tightened my grip on Marcus’s black leather jacket.
“Don’t worry. I won’t lose you,” he said, wrapping his hand on top of my mine and squeezing it tight as he pulled me through the hordes of people glowing in a red fiery light that flickered as if the parade were being held on Mars, not in England. But what else could you expect on Bonfire Night? Every November fifth, towns throughout the United Kingdom celebrated the demise of one of the country's most infamous villains—Guy Fawkes.
Being an American, this name, and holiday, meant absolutely nothing to me. I imagined it would be like celebrating the Fourth of July in Germany or Cinco de Mayo in Boston. Wait, we do celebrate Cinco de Mayo in Boston. I had a picture of my sister, Keira, with Craig Bernard and Luis Basso at a pub to prove it—that was a week before the two criminal spies kidnapped her from our home. Still, I had never heard of Guy Fawkes until Charlotte, my best friend and complete tech genius, explained the unusual celebration as I booked my train ticket.
Turns out, Guy tried to blow up Parliament more than four hundred years ago, but he sucked at his job. He got caught, in the bowels of the historic seat of government, holding a match about to light enough barrelfuls of gunpowder that it would have been seen from the New World. He was branded a terrorist and mutilated in the town square. (It was standard procedure back then, though Guy somehow managed to hang himself before they got to the really gory bits.) Afterward, the country began to annually mark the day of his screwup with open flames that screamed, “Yay! We saved Parliament! Long live the King!”
Only hindsight had a way of shedding new bonfire light on the situation.
Today, Guy has been twisted into a bit of a folk hero, at least to hackers like Charlotte
. That creepy mask with the curled mustache that’s the face of the hacktivist group Anonymous? That’s Guy. He’s the poster child for anarchy—Fight the power! And all that. Because ultimately, Guy’s stance against the British government’s treatment of Catholics has been given validity. Priests were being killed, Catholics were being forced into hiding, and senseless laws were being passed. There were now as many people who viewed Guy as a freedom fighter as there were those who viewed him as a terrorist.
“I think that’s the inn.” Marcus pointed to a tiny ceramic sign adhered to the rounded gray bricks of a home so adorably British it deserved its own postcard. Windows, glowing with reflected torchlight, were rung with red bricks that contrasted with the gray stones that made up the rest of the structure. There was a burnt orange shingle roof with dormer windows, bushes still blooming with pastel flowers from an unusually warm October, and trees dripping overhead with emerald and golden leaves. In the background, high above the parade, stood an imposing castle. Because what self-respecting European town didn’t have a castle? They’re like McDonald's restaurants in the United States—old, plentiful, and often overlooked.
Honestly, the bed and breakfast seemed much more fitting for a honeymoon than a single guy, alone, running for his life. Unless none of that were true.
Not long after we rescued Keira from Department D in Italy, Antonio stopped returning Marcus’s phone calls. Their parents hadn’t seen or heard from him in weeks, nor had he shown up to work—for his job at the Dresden Chemical Corporation. Antonio worked in sales for the engineering firm my parents created and used as a cover for their espionage underbelly, Department D. We didn’t know if Antonio was aware of his link to a criminal organization that specialized in “fake news,” but we worried that even if he were oblivious, he might be targeted by those lethal spies because of Marcus’s assistance in saving my sister.
Allen Cross, my parents’ old friend and our lone Dresden ally, even called Antonio to warn him of the danger, but he got his voicemail. So it was possible Antonio got the message and took off in time, or it was possible the voicemail was too late and Marcus’s brother was shackled to a sink somewhere just like my sister had been. Then there was the third possibility that I tried not to say aloud (too much)—maybe Antonio was a bad guy working for the enemy.