by Amber Kizer
“Part of our vow is to stay in this world, fight the pull of the Dark, until we can help our brothers. We need you to find him and see if he knows who killed him or why.”
“Wait, I’m not a physic. Not a medium like on TV.” I shook my head.
“I know that. Hear me out. He was found dead at the track; he was in charge of making sure the grounds are safe.”
“The Indianapolis Motor Speedway? That track?” Tens shook his head. “What does that have to do with us?”
Timothy wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry, I forget you’re unschooled. There are places in the world where the veil of time and energy is thin. Where it’s transparent. Sacred places like Easter Island, the pyramids, the palace of Machu Picchu. Places human beings congregate over time—these absorb energy and feed the universe. It’s similar to the belief that saying the name of a god makes them more powerful. Prayer and thought convey strength to those they are directed at.”
“Mythology?” Tens asked Rumi.
“You have been paying attention, haven’t you?” Rumi looked pleased.
“So these sacred places get more or less powerful with human interaction?” I tried to follow.
“Yes, close enough.” Timothy nodded.
“And you’re comparing the race track to Giza?” Tens queried.
“Not the track itself but the land it’s on. Yes. For centuries it was of the First People, but with settling of these lands, the ancestors of Polly Barnett took ownership. She then inherited it from her family; her husband was a WoW member. They settled there to protect the land, the veil.”
Where had I heard that name? “Wait, Polly Barnett, the one who wandered around with a black cat looking for her daughter? That one?”
Rumi nodded.
“The same. We do not know much of the details, but in a battle with the Nocti, her daughter and husband were killed. Polly never recovered her mind, but her death allowed the land to be sold outside of the family. In 1909, it was sold again to developers who needed a racetrack for the burgeoning automobile industry.”
Trying to keep up, I asked, “The Indianapolis Motor Speedway is built on the sacred land?”
“Yes, and at every event, Woodsmen from this region converge to protect the people and the veil. We volunteer and man every position possible. What we cannot manage, our families do.”
“Do they know? The racetrack owners?” Tens asked.
“How could they not? They turn a blind eye to us because we all want the same thing. A safe and harmonious place. But every century, the Nocti converge somewhere in the world to elect a new Commandant. The elder is killed, his essence absorbed by his successor in a secretive ceremony.”
My stomach dropped. “Let me guess, this year Indy is the selectee?”
“Based on the chatter and rise in incidents there, that’s our guess exactly. We’ve sent spies in among them, but they’re always killed. We’re afraid that this year they are coming to the Barnett farm, the racetrack. Every place they converge, a terrible catastrophe ensues, usually with a huge loss of human life.”
“Why here and now?” Tens pressed.
“It is the Centennial Race—generations of race goers will show up. What better timing than to congregate at the race with hundreds of thousands of people? The more innocents the better. But we also think they are scared of this new Fenestra generation. You are stronger than you’ve found or accepted.”
Oh, really?
Tens turned the discussion back. “And the man killed?”
“He was a good man. He wouldn’t turn on us, and if it was possible, he’d stay and try to tell us what he knows.” Timothy’s confidence sounded sincere.
If a Nocti killed him, he wouldn’t stand a chance. A human sympathizer pulling a trigger, maybe. Tens and I shared a look that spoke without telepathy.
“Will you try, please?”
The pleading in the old man’s voice undid my reticence. “Sure.” What else could I say?
“Sir, we should turn on the television,” one of the young men interrupted us as he talked into a cell phone. “It’s the track.”
Rumi flipped on his new flat-screen television; every station he clicked through showed a local news crew. We sat silently stunned as images were replayed.
An Indy car smashing into a wall was obliterated in slow motion, while a newsman voiced over, “One of the worst crashes in racetrack history happened early in race practice for qualifying today.”
Fire spewed along the asphalt, up into the bleachers. Pieces of the car shattered and flew like shrapnel.
“The driver was pinned under the chassis of the car, lodged against the safer barrier for several long minutes while safety teams worked to put the fire out and rescue him.”
The camera cut to a person lying inert on a gurney. Thankfully there were no close-ups. “And what’s the latest on his condition? Have you gotten any medical updates from Methodist?” asked the studio announcer.
“Yes, here’s what we were told moments ago. His eyes are bandaged and it’ll be several days before we’ll know whether he lost his sight. Both legs are broken and he suffered a collapsed lung. Most concern is focused on his head trauma and the brain swelling over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. It’ll be touch and go.”
The pertly made up newscaster said into the camera, “We do know this driver’s dreams of racing in the 500 this year are over. We’re praying for him. The whole team must be shaken. Do they know what happened?”
“They’re speculating that there was a radio miscommunication.”
“This is the third mishap or accident at the track this month. It’s shaping up to be a very dangerous time at Indy. What do you think is causing all the trouble? Is anyone saying?”
“I’ve heard everything from tires to weather. Seems like no one, not even the veteran owners like Foyt and Penske, can pinpoint why the track is so edgy this year. Hopefully the weather will cooperate for the rest of the month.”
By the second replay, I was sick to my stomach.
“It’s beginning already.” Timothy lowered his head to his hands. “Will you go?”
“Yes.” My stomach pitched to the floor.
As we headed back to the van, Tens’s cell phone rang. After his conversation, he reported to me, “Nelli has news. The second set of child’s remains have disappeared and Bales uncovered the rat among us.”
A rodent or a human?
CHAPTER 27
Tens and I drove down Nelli’s driveway and parked behind her car. Bales and Nelli waited for us with grim expressions.
“I’m so sorry.” Nelli hugged me as soon as I stepped out of the passenger side.
“What’s going on?” I asked, unsure.
Bales stepped forward and ushered us inside, closing the door. “I’ve been working on who in Nelli’s office is corrupt.”
“It’s my boss.” Nelli’s lips quivered. “And Sergio.”
“I followed Sergio the night of Nowruz,” Bales said. “The kid just didn’t add up to me. So I’ve been dogging him. He’s got some interesting older friends, including Nelli’s boss.”
“That’s not surprising, though, is it? For Sergio and his boss to meet?” I asked. My stomach clenched. Sergio? The boy who empathizes with Juliet and is so helpful?
“Not on the surface. But at night and in the dark along the river canals? They were sneaking around, pretty classic body language. But it wasn’t until a woman showed up that I was able to link them to the Nocti. I think Ms. Asura was there.”
Tens perked up. “Can you describe her?” he asked Bales.
“Sure. Tallish for a woman, though she wore stilettos of five-plus inches. Black hair, worn straight and long. Nutmeg complexion, naturally smooth, no moles or spots, but her face was webbed as if she suffered in a terrible fire. She dressed in a silk skirt suit with a matching scarf and hat, though when she spoke to them, she removed both.”
“You think she wanted them to see the scars?”
“I do.”
This sounds exactly like Ms. Asura.
Bales continued. “She wore lots of silver jewelry, rings of colored stones and long earrings. I didn’t know immediately it was the same woman Nelli described to me, so I got as close as I could without them seeing me. I listened to their conversation.” He paused. “Took photographs.”
“What did they talk about?” I asked, butterflies flying in my stomach.
“It could be out of context; I didn’t hear the whole thing,” Bales warned.
“Just tell us,” Tens demanded.
“They were discussing needing the book and using Juliet to retrieve it. Almost exactly what she said at Nowruz.”
“Did you hear other threats? Anything else?” Tens asked.
“They spoke in a shorthand code, not a language I recognized. It seemed like Sergio was newer to the plans than the others, though. Sergio stared at his feet a lot, kicked the ground, and stooped in on himself.”
“What does that tell you?” I asked, intrigued.
Demonstrating, Bales went from standing straight and upright to curling his shoulders and folding down. It was an instant transformation and I saw immediately why he’d mentioned it.
“He was uncomfortable?”
Bales nodded. “And afraid I’d say. Coerced most definitely.”
“So maybe he’s not working for them; maybe your boss is trying to get him to, but—”
Bales and Nelli both shook their heads.
“What are we missing?”
Bales pulled out photographs of extreme close-ups, enlarged to the point where the pixels were grainy. “He handed her papers. Now, I couldn’t get great photographs, but you can read some of it.”
I saw a list. Instantly recognizing what it was. “Details about the Nowruz at DG?” I asked, noticing our names and things like the bonfire and ritual prayers in larger shaded lettering.
“Uh-huh. Keep looking.” Nelli’s tears escaped down her cheeks.
“That looks like a page from Auntie’s journ—” I broke off, gasping.
“He ripped a page out?” Tens scrutinized the photograph.
I sat down hard. Which page? Anything important? What’s not important in there? Why?
“I think he only got one. He wasn’t ever alone with the journal during the ceremony.”
“We don’t have it with us.” Oh, Auntie, I’m sorry.
Tens frowned. “We’ll look when we get home. He couldn’t have had time to be picky, could he? A rip and stash?”
“They probably just want to get a sense of what we know and don’t know. If these were humans, I’d have a better profile, but my guess is Asura has something Sergio needs or wants desperately or she’s threatening someone he’s trying to protect.”
Like she’s doing with Juliet.
“The Nocti know who we are. Why aren’t they simply coming after us?”
“We have something they need? Does Auntie’s journal say more than we think it does?”
“There’s more. I know where they’re camped out.” Bales showed us a map of downtown.
“How do we tell Juliet?” My heart broke.
“Do we have to?” Tens asked.
I nodded. “Of course. Not tell her? We can’t keep her in the dark.”
“Will she be able to pretend she doesn’t know?”
“We can’t let him continue to be around us. Or her.”
“We have to, Meridian,” Nelli disagreed.
Tens agreed. “She’s right, Supergirl. It’s the only way to find out what they know or think they know.”
Bales said, “I think Asura’s living in the bottom of the Indiana Medical History Museum. It has signs all over it that it’s closed for renovation and remodeling, but she went in the basement door. Didn’t come out before I left. I saw a few more men and women come and go from the backyard. If I was still on the force, I’d say it was a drug house, but maybe it’s just your Nocti. Do we need to go take it out?”
“It’s not that easy,” Tens said. Then he and Bales broke off into a conversation about the pros and cons of trying to confront Ms. Asura on our own.
I was still stuck back at Sergio playing both sides. How could we miss that?
I tuned back in in time to hear Bales say, “I’ll keep an eye on them. I think there might be a connection between Juliet’s father and the Woodsmen.”
“Anything specific?” I asked. That’s a huge leap.
“I don’t know. A hunch. When I know something, I’ll tell you. I’d rather have concrete proof.” Bales wrapped Nelli against his chest. “Don’t be crying, Nell-Bell. We’ll make this right.”
I turned away to give them a moment of privacy and laid my hot face against the cooler windowpane.
Tens slid his arms around me from behind. “Fara will help us convince Juliet to keep going.”
“Are you sure?” Won’t she protect Juliet at all costs?
“I’m sure. We’ve talked about the Protector code. There is one thing ancient cultures understand, and that’s biding time to strike back.”
“The what code?” I asked, peeking over my shoulder at his face.
“Her father instructed her that her allegiance is first to her Fenestra, then to other Protectors and Fenestras. But not at the expense of the other. She has to tell us if there is danger. Our safety cannot be sacrificed even for herself. It is how her bloodline stayed strong for so many generations.”
“Then won’t she sacrifice us for Juliet’s needs? Even if that means Juliet never knows what happened to her mother and father?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“I hope you’re right. We should go talk to them now.” I sighed.
“We promised Timothy we’d check out qualifying. See if we can’t get more information about what the Nocti have planned.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t go right to Juliet?”
“I don’t think a few hours will matter, will they? Pole Day is today only.”
“Okay, we’ll wait.” I had a bad feeling. Very bad.
Tens flipped on the news radio and listened for any tips on navigating the traffic as we headed toward the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. I listened with half an ear until I heard a controlled radio voice say:
“Now an update from the Speedway. Jessica Martin, what can you tell us?”
“This race month gets more bizarre with each passing day, Jonathan. Earlier today, a team of wildlife experts was dispatched because a coyote was seen roaming the infield.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, it was chasing geese in the lake. There are reports it was seen in a concession stand and also near the garage area. No one is sure how it got onto the property or where it’s hiding. Officials are asking that no one approach the animal. It is wild and will probably be on the defensive.”
“We don’t want folks getting hurt.”
“Be on the lookout, folks—it’s a jungle out there.”
We drove toward the main gate of the Speedway track entrance. A mobile home park across the street turned their neighborhood into a paid parking zone. Entrepreneurial and convenient.
“Coyotes don’t live in the jungle,” Tens said to me as we joined the throngs heading toward the ticket shacks.
Our recent bout with coyotes put us both on edge. “I think she was trying to be funny,” I said.
“She wasn’t.” Tens’s usual stark demeanor was shadowed by Bales’s explanations and worry. I knew him well enough to know that he would stew, brood, and contemplate until he was ready to speak. I’d relaxed into understanding his processing took time that mine didn’t. Isn’t that what love is? The real kind of lasting love, like Auntie and Charles shared? Understanding the other person as he is and not changing him to suit me?
Yet again, I wished Auntie were able to give relationship advice to me. Even if my mother were around, I’d die before sharing with her or taking her advice on anything.
“I know.” Over the brick S
peedway gates hung a huge golden wheel with wings that seemed to be the emblem for the Speedway. “Tens—look up. Is that the symbol?”
“Could be, but where’s the stick thing Juliet drew?”
“I don’t know.”
Tens handed over a couple of twenties for our tickets. “No assigned seats?” Tens asked.
“Open seating, folks. Go anywhere you like. Don’t sit on anyone’s lap unless you ask nicely first.” The ticket taker cracked himself up.
Everywhere I turned, people wheeled coolers, held the hands of children, generations massed together all heading inside. They wore tank tops or T-shirts and shorts of every color of the rainbow. Most of the guys wore ball caps. I couldn’t peg the demographic of the crowd. It seemed like everyone was represented, from glammed-out designer labels to guys who looked like they hadn’t heard of bathing or doing laundry. There were even soldiers in uniforms wandering in the crowds.
The ticket guy saw our expressions. “This your first Pole Day? Like it better than the race myself. You can go anywhere you want to—infield, up in the expensive seats, any turn, any place. If you aren’t allowed, someone will tell you. Just look for the guys in yellow and black if you have a problem or a question. Enjoy yourselves. They’re just about ready to reopen the track to qualifying.”
“Are there accidents often?” I asked.
He nodded. “Every year—rookies who don’t know what they’re doing, changes in the tires or the cars. Remember, the cars are supposed to break apart to protect the drivers—so often crashes look much worse than they are.” He lost his smile.
“Is this year different?”
“We’ve had more serious injuries. More fender benders than usual. But the weather is fluctuating wildly from cold to hot. Hot weather makes the track slicker than a Slip ’n Slide.”
“If it’s so unpredictable and dangerous, why don’t they cancel it?”
“Haven’t canceled a race since the second World War. Drivers and owners know this is a dangerous sport; that’s what makes it exciting. Defying gravity and death at two hundred twenty-five miles per hour.” He whistled. “You don’t stop a horse race just because one horse breaks a leg. We don’t stop a 500 because a rookie hits the wall.” He turned to the people waiting behind us. “Enjoy your day, folks.”