by Ryan Dalton
The dark man moved an inch toward him. Mr. Crane hefted the gun and advanced, pointing it at his head.
“You get one warning,” he barked. “One.” Steel eyes bore into his target. “Leave. Right now.”
The cloaked man hesitated, then dropped the knife and slowly backed away. Mr. Crane came forward, placing himself between Malcolm and his assailant. When he reached the fence, the dark man vaulted it and sprinted into the fields beyond. His cloaked form seemed to melt into the night, and he was gone.
Malcolm released the breath he’d been holding. Mr. Crane grunted and lowered the shotgun, then marched back home without a word.
“Wait! Mr. Crane!” Malcolm pawed at the ground, not leaving any items behind, then stumbled after his savior. “That guy was gonna kill me! How did you know?”
“Just saw the lights, so I came to check it out,” Mr. Crane growled. “Didn’t expect to find you getting robbed. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about trespassing.”
“He wasn’t—well, if you hadn’t come, I think I’d be dead.”
He was in the street now. Malcolm jogged to catch up with him. “Did you see what he was doing with those shadows?”
Mr. Crane spun around. “What did you say?”
“The shadows. Almost like he was . . . wearing the darkness?” Malcolm felt foolish, but pressed on. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Mr. Crane moved closer and stooped to stare him in the eyes. Malcolm shifted and tried not to look away. He felt like his insides were being sorted and catalogued.
Mr. Crane chuckled. “If you weren’t Grace’s boy, I’d think you were on the funny stuff.”
Malcolm bristled. “I know what I saw.”
Mr. Crane looked back at the towering house. “Well, fear can do funny things to your head. I remember once, back in . . .” he trailed off, catching himself. The scowl returned, and he fixed Malcolm with a hard stare. “Look, just go inside and stay out of trouble. Even small towns have bad people, and next time it might be worse than a mugger.”
He swung around and stalked back to his front door.
“Thanks!” Malcolm called after him. “I’ll—”
Mr. Crane’s door slammed shut.
Malcolm closed and locked his bedroom door with shaking hands, leaving the lights off. Enough moonlight streamed in for him to see.
With the adrenaline fading, he gasped at the stabbing sensation in his side. If his ribs weren’t cracked, they were at least bruised. His right shoulder and hip felt knocked out of place—he would be limping for days.
He had gotten off extremely lucky.
I could have died. Shivering, he collapsed onto the bed. His belongings tumbled to the floor, and he clutched the edge of the mattress for support.
That house, with its secrets; that man, with his control of things that couldn’t be controlled; the voices digging in his head. What had he expected to accomplish?
As if in answer, another voice called out, calm and confident. Who are you?
No! Malcolm shoved it away. He was not a guy who wanted to end up dead. Pushing up from the mattress, he limped over to the front window.
“Okay, you win.” Hands pressed against the glass, he stared directly into that round window. “It’s over. I’m done.”
Still shivering, Malcolm turned and sank to his knees, gathering the dropped items mechanically. The knives went back in their sheaths—one of them still red. Malcolm knew he should clean it, but he didn’t want to think about having cut another person.
His fingers brushed something round and cool, metallic and partially smooth. He held it up to the moonlight.
An antique silver pocket watch gleamed in his hand—the kind with a fancy silver chain, designed to nestle in some old gentleman’s pocket. The back side was shiny and smooth, with a delicate ring of scrollwork cut out of the metal. The front cover had a matching ring, with one difference—in its center sat a round, translucent jewel the size of a nickel, cut beautifully and glittering like a diamond.
He examined the jewel and his eyebrows climbed—in its center, microcircuitry swirled in a circular pattern, reminding Malcolm of a spinning vortex. He remembered the point of light in the shadowed man’s hand and his pulse quickened. He eyed the release button warily. What could be gained from this except more danger?
“It’s just a watch,” he said aloud and thumbed the button.
The cover sprang open to reveal a black face with silver hands and roman numerals. Malcolm studied it, but compared to the casing it seemed unremarkable. Another mystery bigger than me. He sighed and reached for the cover. His thumb brushed across the glass face.
The watch sprang to life.
A soft blue glow emanated from the hands and the numbers. The hands shifted to six o’clock and began to spin, pointing in opposite directions. The spinning grew faster and the light grew brighter until the watch hands were a blur and he was bathed in blue.
Particles of light lifted from the glass and swirled in the air above the watch face. Malcolm almost laughed, scarcely believing what he was seeing. The watch was creating a hologram.
The light resolved into a pair of moving three-dimensional images. Malcolm easily identified the image floating to the left—the spinning Earth. The image on the right was less obvious, but it resembled a flowing river. Curious, he brushed the right image with his finger. More particles of light lifted from the face and resolved into words.
OPTIONS
COMMANDS
EXECUTE
Malcolm held his breath and touched COMMANDS. The words broke into tiny glowing fireflies and recombined, forming into different words. The submenu showed him what the watch could do.
He nearly dropped it.
“Oh my God.”
Chapter 10
The next morning was gray and overcast. Feeling bleary and wretched, Valentine shuffled into the kitchen to find breakfast. Sleep had not come easily after her fight with Malcolm.
“Good morning, dear,” Oma Grace said from two steps behind, following her into the kitchen.
Valentine jumped, then caught herself. “Hi,” she mumbled. “You move like a ninja.”
Oma Grace chuckled.
Somehow, cereal and milk found their way into a bowl. Valentine sagged at the table and ate mechanically. It didn’t taste that good. Junk food won’t fix what you said.
“Is Mal up yet?”
“Seems he’s not feeling well. Left a note here, must’ve been earlier.” Oma Grace slid a scrap of paper toward her.
People of Earth,
I have the plague.
Signed,
Malcolm Gilbert
“At least, I think that means he’s sick. Your brother has an odd way with words.”
Valentine nodded, certain that this was her fault. “Can we go see Winter and Fred after school?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.” She bent over her bowl again, staring down into it. Though she was more awake and alert now, the feeling of ickiness wouldn’t leave her. Like it was a coating of thick, smelly grime that refused to wash away. Grimacing, she pushed the bowl away and just sat there wallowing in how awful life could be.
“My dear,” Oma Grace said, leaning down to catch her eye. “Are you all right?”
Valentine just shrugged. What was the point of doing anything else? Today was destined to be totally not awesome.
Oma Grace tapped her chin in thought. “You know, it occurs to me,” she began, a twinkle in her eye, “if your brother can have a sick day, why can’t you? How about we go see your friends this morning?”
Valentine dared to look up, this time with the barest of smiles. Maybe there was hope for today after all.
Malcolm stumbled out of bed at noon. Everything hurt. He wouldn’t allow himself to take pain pills, though. He deserved the pai
n. It taught him humility.
At least his head was clear, even if his body was black and blue. He had a vague memory of Valentine knocking earlier and asking about visiting the hospital, but he’d been dead to the world at that point. It might even have been a dream. He wasn’t sure.
After a long shower he almost felt like himself again, and his nerves weren’t quite as raw. Plopping down in his desk chair, he spun in a circle while rubbing a towel on his wet hair. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glint where the pocket watch sat next to his laptop. Its jewel sparkled in the midday light, calling to him. What other secrets did it hold?
Once again, curiosity defeated his better judgment. Reaching out, Malcolm snatched the watch up and clicked it open. The hands spun after the same delicate touch, and in seconds he was examining the holographic root menu again. Last night he’d chosen the image of a flowing river. This time he brushed the option that looked like Earth.
The holographic image enlarged, taking the center spot. A submenu appeared, but he had no idea what it meant.
SKIP HISTORY
NEW DESTINATION
Let’s see what exactly you can do. Malcolm’s heart raced as he moved to choose SKIP HISTORY. He stopped short when a metallic thunk sounded from outside. He spun in his chair to see Mr. Crane in his driveway, half-disappeared under the hood of his vintage red pickup truck.
Good. Now he could accomplish today’s real purpose. Closing the watch, he set it back on the desk and rummaged through the bottom drawer. The object he wanted sat under a pile of old papers. Standing, he slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. Malcolm owed a debt and he wanted to pay it immediately.
The October days were cooling off, so he pulled on a long-sleeved gray shirt. After leaving a note in the kitchen explaining where he’d gone, he slipped outside.
Funny—he’d faced death last night, but this still made him nervous. Pushing his jitters aside, he approached the neighbor’s driveway just as the truck’s hood slammed shut. Mr. Crane stood there with his usual scowl.
“Looking for another house to vandalize?”
Is that a joke? Malcolm tried to force a laugh but ended up clearing his throat. “Actually I came to thank you.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You thanked me last night. Didn’t ask for it then, don’t need it now.” He moved toward the truck’s door.
“Wait!”
Mr. Crane stopped with his hand on the door handle.
“I thanked you, yeah. But not enough.”
Malcolm produced a leather square the size of a wallet. Set into the leather was a bronze coin two inches across, embossed with the head of Abraham Lincoln. Above it, 1809–1909 shone in gold letters. He held it out.
Mr. Crane’s eyebrows raised. He hesitated, then accepted it. “The Lincoln Centennial Coin,” he whispered.
Malcolm nodded. “Never been out of the case, as far as I know. It’s not as old as your Little Mack, but it’s intact.”
Mr. Crane turned it over, examining every corner. “These are rare. Where did you find it?”
“Buried in an antique shop back in Chicago.” Malcolm smiled. “They didn’t know what they had.”
Mr. Crane stood dumbfounded. “I-I’ve never . . .” He wrapped both hands around the leather with reverence. “Thank you.”
“You saved my life, Mr. Crane,” Malcolm replied. “Thank you.”
He turned to head back home, feeling uplifted. Hours of working up the courage for this moment—it had been more than worth it.
“Hold on a minute.”
Malcolm turned back, puzzled. Mr. Crane was still standing there, looking as if he wanted to say something but hadn’t figured out what.
“I . . . well, how’s that project going? The one you interviewed me for.”
Malcolm worked to hide his shock. “A little slow. We’ve been busy with, uh, other things, and there aren’t many people to interview.”
Mr. Crane stared at him, then nodded as if he’d decided something. Fishing keys from his pocket, he opened the truck door. “Heading into town if you want to come along.”
Malcolm nearly fell over.
“You want some history? I’ll show you the oldest man in town. Lunch first, though.” He climbed into the truck. “You coming or not?”
Malcolm shook to his senses and jogged to the passenger side.
Nothing would be completely better until Valentine could talk to Malcolm. I just want to apologize. They fought so rarely, and nothing felt right when it happened. This would help, though—seeing her friends, making sure they were okay.
“Bye, Oma,” Valentine called into the car.
“Call me when you’re ready for pickup, dear,” Oma Grace replied.
Grocery bag in hand, Valentine turned up the ramp to the hospital’s main entrance. The doors whooshed open, sending out a rush of sterilized air. On reaching the fourth floor, she stopped at a door halfway down the east wing of the hospital. With a knock on room forty-two, she went inside.
“Whoa!”
She ducked as the remains of a dinner roll sailed past her head and smacked into the wall behind her.
“Sorry!” Winter called. “Thought you were John.”
Smiling, Valentine went to hug Winter and sit on her bed.
“Good shot, though. S’up, Red,” Fred said. Perched on the adjacent bed, he waved one of his thick casts.
Valentine pulled a plastic container from the bag and set it on the table between the beds. “Hey, Fred. Feeling better?”
He brightened at her attention. “Couple broken arms ain’t keepin’ me down. You can’t stop the dawg that easy.”
Winter tossed a ketchup packet at him. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s been crashing in my room all day, moaning about missing basketball this year.”
Fred’s brow furrowed. “Don’t play, don’t get a scholarship. You know that, girl.”
“Whatever. What’s in the box?”
“Oma Grace sent fresh cookies.” Valentine popped the lid.
“Oooh, grandma cookies? Gimme.” Winter plunged into the box and drew out a handful. “Uh, I mean thanks.”
Valentine regarded Fred then, puzzled. “You’re going for a scholarship?”
Fred nodded. “Yep. I gotta—”
“Hold on, quiet,” Winter cut in.
She stared at the door and grabbed a fistful of ketchup packets. The knob turned. She waited an instant, then let them fly. The door opened and the condiment missiles slapped against John’s chest. One fell into the sling cradling his arm.
He glanced down at them without breaking stride. “Hello, Winter.”
Winter put on an innocent face. “Why’d you think it was me?”
“It’s always you.”
Her innocence melted into an evil grin. “That’s right!”
“I showed your parents to the cafeteria. They will come back with dinner,” John said. “Is your father flying home, Fred?”
“Naw, I told him I’m fine. Why should he come all the way back from London for a couple broken arms? I got it covered.”
John nodded, then turned to Valentine and smiled. “Hello, Valentine.”
She smiled back, praying that her cheeks weren’t red. “Hi, John.”
As he spoke, his gaze remained on her. “So, the doctor indicated that you’re both staying one additional night. You’ll check out tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, come on,” Winter protested. “I’m going crazy in here!”
“Why they keepin’ us? We’re good.” Fred glanced down at his casts. “Sort of.”
“Venturing a guess,” John replied, “the cause of your injuries is unusual. They may want to ensure there are no surprises.”
A heavy quiet fell over the room, and Valentine’s mind went back to the events that led them there. The light. The exp
losions. The screaming. She could smell the burning wood, taste the bile rising in her throat as her friends fell. Then you yelled at Mal, and then you were rude again before bed. Another hot spike of guilt stabbed into her. He was just trying to help. I’m the worst sister ever.
“So,” Fred broke the silence. “We gonna talk about what happened? Cause it sure wasn’t natural, and we all know it.”
Valentine sat forward. “Well . . .” she began, then hesitated, thinking of what she and Malcolm had found in the forest clearing afterward. If she told them everything now, would it help them or just put them in more danger? “I guess we’ll never know for sure. At least we’re alive.”
Winter groaned and pressed a hand to her bandaged ear.
“Are you all right?” John asked.
“Meds are wearing off.” Winter gasped. “God, this hurts.” She clutched the ear tighter and squeezed her left eye shut, as if she were trying to block out the pain. “How am I supposed to work like this? I’ve got to keep digging if I’m going to find Patrick.”
“Have they found any clues yet?” Valentine asked.
Winter shook her head, disheartened.
“I’ll find a nurse for you.” Valentine slid from her bed.
“I’ll show you where they are.” John joined her at the door and they left together.
Valentine walked next to John as he led the way to the nurses’ station. She stole glances at him and her stomach fluttered. Why was it doing that?
Come on, you know why.
“I hate that Winter’s in pain,” she said.
“It’s difficult for her to feel weak,” John replied. “I believe that’s more painful to her than the injury.”
Valentine nodded. “I can understand that.”
Okay, I admit it. He’s cute.
“How is your shoulder?”
It’s more than that, though.
She shifted, feeling the bandages flex. “It stings, and I have to be careful how I move. But everyone needs one cool scar, right? Aren’t scars supposed to be sexy?”
She mentally kicked herself. Why did you just say that?!
John chuckled. “I believe I’ve heard that.”