I knew Marcus wasn’t considering this possibility, and I couldn’t push the idea, not after he traveled with me from Boston to Italy when we were practically strangers. He never told me to give up on my sister, and he refused to leave my side even when Luis Basso pointed a gun at our heads in Cortona. In fact, Marcus rode a motorcycle down that mountain in Tuscany and saved our lives. I couldn’t abandon him now, and I couldn’t question his faith in his brother—even if every step I took in this quaint English village raised my anxiety level to that of a gazelle galloping past a lion’s den.
There was something too convenient about this lead. After weeks with no activity on Antonio’s credit cards, bank accounts, and passports, Charlotte suddenly uncovered a registration for a B&B at the Guy Fawkes festival in Lewes, England—only an hour and a half from where we were staying in London. And it was in Antonio’s real name. This didn’t sound like a guy hiding from super spies. We all debated the lead being a setup—it was practically wrapped in caution tape—but in the end, Marcus was willing to walk into the trap gagged and blindfolded if it meant saving his sibling. I knew how that felt, and I couldn’t let him take that walk alone.
I squeezed past a young couple with a toddler, all three dressed in black and white striped shirts and red neckerchiefs to show the family’s allegiance to one of the bonfire clubs. Unlike the giant cartoon balloons and celebrity performances that filled American parades, this celebration consisted of locals dressed in costumes that ranged from early Michael Jackson chic to inexplicably offensive. First, there was a group that looked like convicts who’d escaped from a nineteenth-century prison, hence the black and white striped shirts and cherry knit hats. Then there was a troop wearing what could only be described as train conductor uniforms bedazzled for a moonwalk; they were only missing a sequin glove. There were Victorian women in silk hoop skirts and bonnets. There was a guy dressed like Captain Hook.
Then groups shifted toward political incorrectness, like that troop dressed as American Indians in flowing feathered headdresses with war paint on their cheeks. There was a club holding burning crosses, and another hoisting anti-Catholic “No Popery” signs. But all of that paled in comparison to the spectacle before me now.
I yanked Marcus to a halt and gawked at the famously pale British men and women sporting a Zulu African theme with their faces painted completely black. My jaw fell, the taste of smoke souring my tongue. This would cause a riot in America. There were actual babies in blackface being pushed in strollers and a guy pulling a long string of firecrackers that popped like gunshots as they walked. My wide eyes darted around, expecting to see another horrified expression, only I noticed all of the faces in the crowd were white. And not just Caucasian, they were British. I hadn’t heard another American voice since I’d arrived, let alone any other accents.
“What is it?” Marcus asked, noticing the tight wrinkles on my forehead.
“They’re in blackface.” Isn’t that obvious?
“Oh.” He cringed at the scene. “Things are a little different in Europe.”
“Clearly.” My face continued to twist as I imagined how Tyson would feel if he saw this. It was hard enough being black in New England; I couldn’t imagine what he would feel like here.
Just then a giant papier-mâché float of the American president, wearing a sombrero and riding a cactus, rolled toward us, presumably a statement against our immigration policies that would be burned in effigy at midnight. Tonight there would be dozens of sky-high fires lit throughout the tiny village, which consisted of narrow streets lined with Tudor buildings, constructed hundreds of years ago, mostly of wood, surrounded by hordes of people, many of them drunk. And there wasn’t a police officer or fire truck in sight.
“This parade has taken an odd turn,” I said.
“If you think this is bad, you should see Las Fallas de Valencia. Puts this little fiesta to shame.”
“So Spaniards light things on fire, too?”
“Bigger than this,” he said, proudly adjusting his posture. “Maybe I’ll take you someday.”
Then he leaned toward me, his dimples aimed like a weapon. There was smoke and literal fire encircling us, firecrackers sizzling in every direction, and hordes of bodies shoving us together. All I could see was his smile; I didn’t get to enjoy it often enough. We met the day before my sister disappeared from a claw-foot tub of blood, then we fought side by side in Italy, and even when I did get Keira back, I was confronted with the fact that my parents might be alive, my dad might not really be my dad, and Marcus’s brother might be in mortal danger. It was a rather extreme way to start a relationship.
Marcus reached for my waist, gently resting his hands and sending a warm tingle through my body. “Thank you for coming here, for helping me.”
“Dresden Kids stick together.” I repeated his infamous line. Though I wasn’t the only Dresden Kid who wanted to help. Keira fought to join us. She wanted to somehow repay everyone for what they sacrificed to find her, and while I understood, I’d begged her to stay with Charlotte and Julian. I’d already lost her once, and I’d sunk into a funk so deep it left me bedridden and nearly institutionalized by Charlotte’s parents.
So while I was the little sister in our tiny family, and while I realized she took care of me and protected me from social services for years, I felt our power dynamic shifted the moment I found her in Venice. It was now my job to protect us, and I needed her safe in London.
“Once we find Antonio, it’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay,” Marcus said, his voice so monotone it was clear he didn’t believe his words. Keira and I were living under assumed names. Marcus and I were taking online classes, because high school was a dream sequence we couldn’t actually live out. Charlotte was hacking databases against a criminal empire. And Julian was funding the entire anarchist operation. We were all so far from okay that normal was a fantasy that kept me up at night.
“Antonio is fine,” I assured him, my voice as flat as his.
He nodded, trying to force himself to believe. Then he pressed his forehead to mine and sighed, his whole weight leaning into me. I closed my eyes, my cheekbones feeling the flutter of his hair. He needed a trim. We all did. We didn’t exactly have time for stuff like that anymore.
“I have to find him,” he whispered.
“I know.”
He exhaled against me, the heat of his breath warming my chapped, red cheeks.
“This has to end eventually, no?”
We both knew there was no answer to that question, and he really wasn’t looking for one. He needed something else right now. So I shifted my lips toward his, barely a flutter, and we kissed in a way so sad and desperate that the sensation was instantly familiar—only now I was on the other side. Marcus moved his fingers to my hair, and I could feel him trying to forget the world, forget his fears, forget where he was. I knew what he wanted. I had been there myself not too long ago.
I grabbed at his neck and pressed hard against his mouth, moving my tongue until I felt a change within him, the strike of a match. He pushed me against the boarded-up window of a village shop, the splintered raw wood sticking to the wool of my coat as his mouth moved with a new excitement. I moaned slightly, and he slid his hand behind my head, gripping my hair, protecting my scalp from the hard wood, and pulling me closer.
Around us, crowds continued to push past, and I could feel torches glowing brighter, hotter, closer.
Much closer.
I cracked open my eyes and was startled by a man standing inches away, a fiery stick in his hand and a creepy grin on his bearded face. I jolted, pushing Marcus—visions of Department D, deadly spies, and endless threats of setups flashed in my head. Panic spread across Marcus’s flushed face as he noticed my reaction.
Then he turned toward the stranger.
Only then did the man move the torch closer, illuminating his face.
That was when I recognized his familiar features—the dark hair, the double dimples, and the near-black eyes
that ran in their bloodline.
“Hola, hermano.”
Chapter Two
The beer was warm. Not that I was a beer connoisseur, but given that this was my first taste of the bitter alcoholic refreshment, I would have at least preferred it as cool as the Rockies. Don’t tell me that Skittles don’t taste like a rainbow, either.
I sat in an English pub at a sticky wooden table that reminded me of the bar Charlotte and I went to in Boston, when we were first searching for my sister. Lately, we’d been searching for Antonio. Now, here he sat, right in front of us. Smiling.
“I’m so glad you’re okay.” Marcus looked at his brother like an exhausted dad whose kid walked in three hours past curfew, his face showing a mixture of relief and annoyance. “Where have you been?”
“Everywhere.” Antonio shrugged.
After a massive brotherly hug, where Antonio swore he randomly spotted Marcus while he was mid-beer-chug standing atop a crimson telephone booth, we agreed to save our questions for the pub. At least here, we could hear one another speak. Then Antonio insisted he couldn’t talk until he had a drink—hence the warm dark beer. Now we waited for answers.
“It’s a long story,” Antonio began, casually scratching his beard. He was twenty-five and had the look of a guy who bartended at a seedy rock show with cheap posters papering the walls. His beard was bushy and black, his head was full of thick, spiky dark hair that was intentionally messy, and his muscular arms were covered in two full sleeves of black tattoos that ran from shoulder to wrist. He didn’t exactly fit the stock photo image of a corporate sales guy.
Antonio took a big swig, froth clinging to his facial hair like a grown-up milk mustache. “No, it is not a long story. What happened is—I’m done. I am done with Mom and Pop. I’m done with Dresden. I’m done with everything.” He burped into his fist.
“I’ve been trying to track you down for two weeks. Did you get Allen Cross’s message?” Marcus asked. I could tell he was trying really hard to sound cool and detached, but there was an obvious undercurrent of pain in his voice. Marcus had spent weeks thinking his brother might be dead. I knew what that felt like. It was the same panic I experienced when my sister disappeared, and now it turned out Antonio was fine the entire time.
“Sí. Cross left a voicemail about your sister.” Antonio turned my way. “I’m glad she’s okay.”
“Thanks.” I nodded, assessing him. He made me uneasy.
Then I realized it was his eyes. When I first saw him, lit by fire from a torch, I thought he looked like his brother, with identical features, but I was wrong. Yes, Antonio’s eyes matched Marcus’s in size, color, and shape, but Antonio’s were guarded. He looked hardened, like someone used to bad news.
He exhaled a stale puff of beer breath. “Cross said I might be targeted, and that was all I needed to hear. I do not want this life anymore; I never did. So I went to stay with friends in Paris, then Brussels, then London. Now here.” He flicked his hand around the pub full of locals hiding out from the festival. Firecrackers continued exploding outside, leaving a layer of crimson confetti snow throughout the streets and inside the pub, sticking to our shoes like toilet paper. “I met a girl whose family lives in Lewes. I’m a big fan of fire.”
“So you’ve been partying?” Marcus asked, openly offended now. We both knew we should be thrilled his brother wasn’t in danger, but we weren’t. Marcus had worried so much, for weeks, and it turned out Antonio was living the good life the entire time. A phone call would have been nice.
“I’ve been laying low…with some friends.” His grin was wide, and his eyes so close to winking that the needle on my douchebag detector instantly jumped.
He looked like a guy Keira would date, like a guy who would brag to his buddy about what a “great time” he had. There was a half-naked woman tattooed on his arm next to a giant snake, so my assumptions weren’t completely out of line. The first time I saw Craig Bernard stroll into our Mother’s Day party dressed like Kurt Cobain, I knew he was bad news; then he kidnapped my sister. Now Antonio was drinking and partying and leaving me with comparisons to assassins that made my arm hair stand on end.
“You said you didn’t want ‘this life.’ What life?” I asked, trying to sound casual, though my question was anything but. If my instincts were right, then it was very possible that Antonio worked for Department D, and I was moments away from watching Marcus’s entire faith in family, fairness, and puppies get obliterated.
Antonio’s dark eyes swung to his brother, then back to me. “What is it you want to know?”
He peered at me as he said this, like he knew his brother wouldn’t ask the hard questions, and he was right. Marcus had a bull tattoo on his neck, inches from his face, that Antonio talked him into—I’d say that meant his brother held a lot of influence. And while I didn’t want to shatter that bond (I was quite a fan of sibling togetherness these days), I also didn’t want to invite any more spies into my life.
I looked at my pseudo boyfriend, my eyes begging him not to be angry at me for asking the next question, but I had to say it. He knew that, right?
“Do you work for Dresden or Department D?” I asked.
Antonio’s jaw flexed. He didn’t seem surprised. Instead, he seemed to be gauging whether anyone within earshot was listening to our conversation. He reminded me of Allen Cross in that Roman cathedral when he first told me about Department D, and the fact that this comparison entered my head, right after a comparison to Craig Bernard, told me I was right.
Antonio sat back in his wooden booth with a resolved look, like he knew he was busted and was tired of lying. “Do I look like a sales guy to you?”
I turned to Marcus and watched every flush of pink siphon from his already pale face. I winced, painfully realizing this must have been what I looked like when I learned, definitively, that my parents were spies. I sat in that cathedral with Allen Cross, and I knew in my soul that this truth was coming—I’d discussed the possibility and analyzed it from many angles—but still, hearing it out loud, without question, dissolved everything I thought I knew about my life. All at once, my family, my past was put into a blender and pureed. Right now, Marcus’s brain seemed to be turning into that same blended sludge.
I hated being right.
“So you work for Department D?” I pressed, not wanting to twist the knife but needing to make sure there wasn’t any confusion.
“I used to work for Department D,” Antonio corrected. “I don’t anymore.”
“Since when?” My forehead wrinkled. I wasn’t well versed on the espionage world, but it didn’t seem to be an easy business to retire from. Allen Cross couldn’t get out.
“Since I got a message from Cross saying that the organization was kidnapping the children of employees, since I found out my brother ran around Europe like an idiota trying to help a girl he barely knew.” He flicked an accusatory hand at me, like I had done something wrong. He really did not want to start pointing fingers now. “My job was to clean up messes that people left decades ago. These are not my problems. I don’t care about government leaders or old conspiracies. I have wanted out of this mierda since the day I joined. What happened to your sister was a good excuse.”
So he just quit? My head cocked. This wasn’t a normal job where you simply put in your two weeks notice. Allen Cross couldn’t get out even with decades worth of experience and close ties to upper management (i.e. my parents). But even if Antonio was telling the truth, it still meant he was a spy who worked for the enemy. Did it really matter whether or not he liked it? He still did it.
“You worked for them?” Marcus finally piped up, reason returning to his brain along with the color in his cheeks.
“Sí, but no more.” Antonio chugged the rest of his beer and gestured at a waitress for another. I had a feeling he’d down a six-pack before this conversation was over.
“What about Mom and Pop?” Marcus asked, his voice wobbling like he didn’t really want to hear the answer. But I was
glad he was asking the questions, or at least I was glad that I didn’t have to. “Do they work for Department D, too?”
Antonio gave a look that said, Do I really need to say this? Marcus’s eyes stayed blank. Yes, apparently, he had to say it.
“Of course they work for Department D,” Antonio replied. “Who do you think recruited me?”
That was when the pin was inserted into Marcus’s chest and deflated his last bit of hope like a day-old party balloon. His leather jacket sagged on his shoulders, his body shrinking three sizes. He hung his head, as he breathed through his nostrils like the action required effort. Marcus’s parents were spies. That lifetime we spent thinking we were Dresden Kids was another piece of disinformation. We were Department D Kids all along. Both of us. Actually, I was worse. I had three parents who worked for the company.
Randolph Urban was my biological father. The man who kidnapped my sister shared my blood. The CIA confirmed it. My mother had an affair with him. And with that knowledge came such a conflicting set of emotions that most days thoughts collided in my head like particles in a Swiss research facility. My mother betrayed my father. She cheated on him. For how long? Did she know I was Urban’s daughter? Did the father who raised me? Had Urban ever suspected?
He always showed me more affection than Keira, hugged me more, complimented me more, and I had assumed it was because my sister wasn’t the touchy-feely type. Maybe there was more to it. After all, he had been sleeping with my mother at the time, so he must have known it was a possibility. But somehow, she kept it from him; otherwise Luis Basso wouldn’t have sliced me open to run a paternity test. Urban didn’t know I was his daughter until then. I was positive, simply from the way he clung and doted over Sophia, his granddaughter. If Urban knew the truth, he would not have let me be raised by another man. He was way too arrogant and entitled to relinquish his claim. In fact, I half expected him to pop out of a bush any moment and plant a flag on my head that read “URBAN” in CAPS LOCK.
Lies That Bind Page 2