“That’s so cute!” Mrs. Walker clutched her husband’s arm. “Okay, go upstairs and have your book club. I’ll dig out my laptop and pay a few”—she glanced at Dr. Walker sadly—“bills.”
The Walkers were barely up the stairs when Eleanor said innocently, “So you’re probably wondering how I got us all home.”
“Nell,” Brendan said, “if you don’t tell us everything right now, I’m going to go Wind Witch on you.”
Eleanor began. “First I realized The Book of Doom and Desire could help us. . . .”
She led her siblings to the second-floor bedroom that would be hers—that was hers, in a way, because Kristoff House no longer felt new. “I was up there,” she continued, pointing to the ceiling, “stuffed inside the chimney with the book in my hands, when I wrote us to safety.”
“How?” asked Brendan.
“Because if the Wind Witch wrote on a piece of paper that she wanted to rule the world and expected it to come true . . . maybe I could write down what I wanted and it could come true.”
“What did you write with?” asked Cordelia. “Did you have a pen?”
“I used the soot,” said Eleanor.
“The soot?” asked Brendan.
“The inside of the chimney’s covered with it. It’s just like charcoal. But I had to think about what to write. And I had to make sure I wrote it in the right order or else I could get us in real trouble.”
“Yeah,” said Brendan. “Like if you wanted to write, ‘Brendan stops the Wind Witch,’ but you dyslexed it up so it said, ‘The Wind Witch stops Brendan.’”
“Exactly,” said Eleanor. “It was really hard, but I concentrated more than ever and finally wrote, ‘The Wind Witch was sent to the worst place ever, and the Walkers were sent home. Back to the night it all started. With their parents alive.’”
“That’s a lot!” Brendan said.
“Yeah. I made sure it was in the right order and slipped the paper into the book. And then the cloud started spinning, and that’s how we all ended up back here.”
“You used the power of the book against itself!” Cordelia said. “I’m so proud! I wish I could’ve seen it. Stupid unconsciousness.”
“Don’t worry,” said Brendan, “you’ll be awake next time.”
“There’s not going to be a next time! We won. The Wind Witch is gone. Banished to the worst place ever,” Cordelia said.
“Do you think I should’ve been more specific?” asked Eleanor. “I mean, what if she’s somewhere she could get out?”
“That’s right. We don’t know where this ‘worst place’ is,” said Brendan. “For me it would be Hot Topic.”
“For her it’s probably some horrible novel of Kristoff’s she’ll never escape from,” said Cordelia, “and I missed all the action.”
“Hold on, Deal,” said Eleanor. “You were the one who figured out we were in Kristoff’s books. You saved our lives more times than we can count. And you got to meet Will. That’s not exactly missing the action.”
“But Will’s still dead,” said Cordelia. In all the excitement of getting home she hadn’t been thinking about him. But she missed his grin—and his F. Scott Fitzgerald hair—and the way he was always so right about things. Except when he became captain—but that probably wouldn’t happen again. “It’d be better if I never met him at all.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why?” Cordelia asked. “He never really existed anyway. He was just a fictional character. Now the only way I can see him is if I read The Fighting Ace.”
“There might be another way to see him,” Eleanor said.
“Don’t mess with me. Will’s—”
A ping on the window silenced Cordelia. Eleanor kept quiet. Another ping. Someone was throwing pebbles against the glass from outside. Brendan moved next to Eleanor. “You didn’t . . . ”
“I wrote a few other things in the book,” Eleanor admitted.
Cordelia went to the window and nearly smacked her head on the window frame. Standing below, in his bomber jacket, was Will Draper.
“Cordelia!” he called. “Look at me! Here in the real world! This isn’t a silly novel, is it?”
“Will! What are you—” Cordelia turned to look at Eleanor.
“I wrote, ‘And bring Will Draper back too.’”
Cordelia gave Eleanor a quick squeeze (“Thank you!”) before turning back. “Will, are you okay? What do you remember?”
“Slayne stabbing me in the back, the dirty coward. Then me waking up in those bushes and seeing your profile in the window. Hey . . . am I in 2013? In San bloody Francisco?”
“Yes! My sister—”
“I don’t want to hear about it. I know a stroke of luck when I see one. May I come in?”
“Yes—” Cordelia started. “Wait, no! My parents are here!”
“So? I introduce myself, throw in a bit a’ the old British charm—I’ll fit right in.” Will stepped toward the front door—
“Will! They’re suspicious already! You can’t!”
The pilot stopped. “You really don’t want me to?”
“Now’s not the time. Come to school tomorrow. I get out at three thirty. We can talk then.” Cordelia blanked out for a second, imagining what it would be like to sit through school after what she’d endured: to pay attention when her history teacher talked about the Treaty of Utrecht; to have serious conversations with her peers about how unfair it was that you had to be sixteen to audition for Idol. How could she be normal and not explode, or laugh, or both? Knowing she would see Will would help her get through it.
“I’ll write down the address,” she told him, grabbing a pen.
“Where do I go in the meantime? Am I to sleep in the streets?”
“Here,” Eleanor said, pushing her sister aside. “You can take this.” Eleanor let an envelope flutter to the lawn.
Will opened it. There was cash inside.
“Nell!” Brendan said. “Isn’t that your birthday money?”
“It is,” Eleanor said, “but I won’t be needing it anymore.”
“Why?” Brendan asked.
Downstairs, Will watched a red Corvette’s headlights slide by on Sea Cliff Avenue. “Look at that! Automobiles have certainly changed!”
“Here’s my school’s address,” Cordelia said, letting a piece of paper flutter down to Will. “Now walk that way to California Street, get the number-one bus to downtown, and ask for a Days Inn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Will nodded, tipped his hat (although he didn’t have one), and left. Cordelia expected him to look back, but Will had learned long ago from Frank Quigley that when you part ways with a girl, especially a pretty one like Cordelia, you keep your eyes straight ahead.
Once he was gone, Eleanor got up to leave.
“Where are you going?” Cordelia asked. “There’s more to discuss!”
“Yeah . . . ,” said Brendan. “Like what happened to the Storm King? Did you send him away too?”
“I forgot,” said Eleanor. “But I wrote down one last wish.”
“What?”
Before Eleanor could answer, Mrs. Walker screamed in the kitchen. The Walkers raced down and found their parents staring open-mouthed at her laptop, hitting refresh like robots.
“Guys . . . ?” Cordelia asked. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s . . . ah . . . some kind of glitch with the bank,” Dr. Walker said, holding up his phone. “I’m on hold with them.”
“Mom?” Brendan asked.
Mrs. Walker’s eyes were filled with tears of happiness. She answered in a quivering, hopeful voice, “It appears that we have ten million dollars in our savings account.”
Brendan and Cordelia turned to Nell: No.
Eleanor gave them a slight nod and a smile: Yes. But she quickly turned back to her mother and feigned surprise.
“That’s crazy! How could that happen? Maybe you guys played lotto and you don’t remember?”
“Look at this,” Dr. Walker said, still on hold with t
he bank. He put an envelope on the kitchen table. “Our first piece of mail at this address.”
Mrs. Walker opened it. It was a letter about the lawsuit at the John Muir Medical Center, where Dr. Walker had worked.
“‘In exchange for silence on this matter, the plaintiff has pledged a settlement of . . . ten million dollars’?” Mrs. Walker asked.
“Yes, thank you very much, good night,” said Dr. Walker into the phone. He hung up. “It’s real?”
“Look at this, honey! It’s real! I told you that countersuit would scare him! The money must’ve already transferred!”
Dr. and Mrs. Walker cheered and hugged each other. Their kids joined them in short order.
“Awesome, Dad!” Eleanor said. “Can I get a horse now? Please?”
“Why not?” said Dr. Walker.
“Yesss!” said Eleanor. “And we can name her Majesty?”
“Where in God’s name are we gonna put a horse?” Mrs. Walker asked.
“With ten million dollars we’ll build her a stable on the roof!” said Dr. Walker. “Along with a special horse elevator to bring her to the park!”
As the family laughed, Cordelia tried to take a mental picture. There was only one thing wrong—she felt a little cold. And when she covered herself with her grandmother’s old wool throw, it didn’t help, as if the cold were coming from inside her instead of out. But she’d been through a lot; there were bound to be lingering effects.
The fact was that these moments—when the Walkers weren’t fighting, and they weren’t late for anything, and they were just together and comfortable in a way they could never explain—were rare. And a lot of money from a magical book might make them even more rare. It might, indeed, bring its own problems, and those problems might be terrible.
But for now, for tonight, everything was as it should be.
Epilogue
Meanwhile, far below Kristoff House, on the rocky shore known as Baker Beach, right in the path the house would take if it ever did slide into the ocean, a wet hand grabbed the top of a huge boulder.
The hand was thick and tough. Seaweed hung from it. The sharp rock tried to cut it open, but the hand was too strong.
A second hand joined the first, and with a hoarse moan the owner of them heaved up, flopping onto the boulder. The brute waves of the Pacific crashed behind like static. Waking up in the bay after a journey between worlds will deaden the senses.
Next was a headfirst skid down to a patch of sand. Then a crawl to the cliff below Kristoff House. Then a painful climb. Fingers scraped. Thorny vegetation dug in. The hands didn’t flinch. Salt was spit. Pain was pushed deep, to be covered by hate that shone as brightly as the Golden Gate Bridge to the left, or the onyx sea below.
Finally the hands hauled the owner into the backyard of Kristoff House. The face looked at the familiar structure. Noted a family, in the kitchen, sharing hot chocolate.
I could kill them all, thought Denver Kristoff. They’d be dead within seconds, for killing Dahlia. No one takes my daughter away from me.
But now was not the time. Kristoff had a place he could go, a place that made Kristoff House look like a shack. His mouth was still twisted into a horrific double rictus, and his nose was still flaps of flesh, so he would need a mask—but at this place, he would be welcomed for a sacrifice he had made in the past . . . and able to plan his next move.
The Bohemian Club at 624 Taylor Street. Home of the Lorekeepers. Just a few blocks from where Will Draper was headed.
It’s a real place in San Francisco, you know. You can visit anytime you want. It’s no secret.
END OF BOOK 1
About the Authors
CHRIS COLUMBUS has written, directed, and produced some of the most successful box-office hits in Hollywood history. He first made his name by writing several original scripts produced by Steven Spielberg, including the back-to-back hits Gremlins and The Goonies. As a director, Columbus has been at the helm of such iconic projects as Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Home Alone, Stepmom, and Mrs. Doubtfire. As a producer, Columbus was also behind the hit films Night at the Museum and The Help.
NED VIZZINI is the best-selling author of the acclaimed young-adult books It’s Kind of a Funny Story (also a major motion picture), Be More Chill, Teen Angst? Naaah . . . , and The Other Normals. He has written for the New York Times, Salon, and the L Magazine. In television he has written for ABC and for MTV’s Teen Wolf. You can visit Ned online at www.nedvizzini.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Credits
Cover art © 2013 by Greg Call
Cover design by Amy Ryan
Copyright
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
HOUSE OF SECRETS
Text copyright © 2013 by Novel Approach LLC
Illustrations copyright © 2013 by Greg Call
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-0-06-219246-2 (trade bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-225964-6 (international ed.)
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13 14 15 16 17 LP/RR DH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition © APRIL 2013 ISBN: 9780062192486
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