I had to recover my egg. I had to thwart Hans and Helmann in every way possible.
Now all I had to do was convince Christian to help.
Excerpted from the personal diary of Girard L’Inferne.
Circa 2005
Our first purge has begun. After decades of collecting data on those who carry the chameleon gene, we have begun to eliminate them in numbers small enough to raise no suspicion. Hans, especially, understands the need for secrecy, in the more sensitive areas of the world, such as the United States. He pleases me, in his diligence to be certain the deaths might have happened to anyone.
Any hesitations I felt six decades ago, when I made available the medication which counteracts Helmann’s disease—these hesitations are laid to rest now. The medical records of the recipients lead us infallibly to eliminate potential carriers.
The way is being cleared for the future. For the day when I shall offer to the deserving the gift of life eternal. For their children at any rate. Although, who knows but that we may, in time, find ourselves able to fuse the gene for invisibility into the DNA of an adult. I am certain we shall not lack for volunteers should the day arrive!
I estimate we can eliminate ninety–five percent of all living carriers in the next several years. Those who escape us? Well, once I have the run of the planet, it will be a simple enough step to convince the jealous to turn in their neighbors or their family members.
It has been done before.
I hesitated briefly over removing the last of Elisabeth’s descendants. But I must show strength and not weakness in this matter. Who are they to me? Merely the offspring of her bastard bratlings.
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
ONLY MADMEN DRIVE IN ROME
· WILL ·
“You think she was kidnapped?” I asked. “Did Pfeffer ‘hear’ us somehow?”
Sir Walter frowned and glared, the nearest I’d seen him to angry. “Formerly, Pfeffer never gave any indication that he could hear the thoughts from my mind unless we were both invisible. I tried for years to train him, but it was in vain.”
“Like me,” I said grimly. “But let’s say he did notice us: where would he take her?”
Sir Walter brought a fist down on the kitchen table in the first display of anger I’d ever observed. The bowl of pasta rattled and settled beside the computer. A flicker of light caught my attention: the monitor, coming to life, out of screen–saver mode.
“There’s a note!” I said, leaning over Sir Walter to read a brief message that had been typed onto the computer screen.
I went to Saint Peter’s. Got stir–crazy. Back for dinner. Make it good! ;)
“WHAT?” I roared. At Sir Walter. ‘Cause he was the only person in the room. But it wasn’t him I was pissed at and next thing I knew, I’d kicked a dining chair that bumped the table as it fell. The bowl of pasta teetered and slipped, dumping dinner all over the fallen chair.
“Church? Really? Now she gets religion?” I paced back and forth, uttering foul things about my sister and her sense of timing. I really wanted to kick another chair over, but I knew Sir Walter would be the one paying for damages. I settled for pounding my fist into my left hand. Repeatedly.
Sir Walter’s soft laugh filled the dead space. “Perhaps an invisible run would be in order?”
Somehow, him asking that just took all the fight out of me, and I sagged onto the couch. “I should’ve known to check the computer,” I mumbled. “We always leave notes on the kitchen table. It was so obvious.”
Sir Walter’s mouth curved up but just on one side. “Calquecop le pa que be quand las denses s’en soun anandos.”
“Am I supposed to understand that?”
“It is a saying in the tongue of my youth: Sometimes the bread shows up after the teeth are already gone,” he replied.
“Hmmph,” I grunted.
“It is a way of saying that bad timing happens, my young friend.”
He was trying to help. I made an effort to be less grizzly bear. “That sounded like Spanish. You spoke Spanish when you were a kid?”
“Occitan,” he corrected. “It is similar to Spanish. Or rather, to Catalan.”
I sighed, stretching my hands high above my head. “So you figure she’s okay, then?” I asked.
“I think it unlikely Pfeffer will venture to St. Peter’s cathedral this evening.” He tugged at his goatee as he answered my question. Meaning he was just a little worried.
Right then I heard Mick’s special knock at the door.
“You better get it,” I said, folding my arms over my chest, anger returning.
““I’m so glad you’re back,” said my sister, entering. “Locked myself out. It smells like heaven in … here.” Her eyes found the upside–down bowl of dinner as she removed sunglasses and some kind of head–covering. “Oh. Bummer.”
“Yeah,” I said. “A little casualty of your need for fresh air.”
She looked at me, puzzled, a questioning smile on her face.
“We thought you’d been kidnapped,” I said.
“I left a note.” She pointed to the computer.
“Yeah, well, first we thought you’d been kidnapped. Then we saw the note and realized you’d just been selfish.”
My sister closed her eyes and did her little count–under–the–breath thing. “I needed to get out, okay, Will? This apartment gets a little claustrophobic with that old grandma sweeping all day and shaking her head at me if I get too close to the window.”
My anger evaporated as I thought of the nonna muttering at my sister all day. I laughed. “Dude, she’s hysterical, huh?”
Turning, I asked Sir Walter about the exchange I’d seen between him and the old grandma.
“Ah, yes,” said Sir Walter. “It now appears most fortunate that I secured the use of her deceased husband’s Fiat.” He looked sadly at the pasta. “I believe we shall dine out this evening.” Taking one of my sister’s hands in both of his, he smiled. “A little celebration for things feared lost but happily recovered.”
“You think it’s safe for us to go out?” Mick asked.
“Now you think of that?” I asked, rising to clean up the mess of pasta.
I had the satisfaction of seeing my sister flush red and stop herself from responding in kind.
“I’m really sorry, Will,” she said. “Forgive me?”
I nodded.
“I left a note,” she said.
“Screen–saver kicked on,” I replied.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t think of that.”
She seemed so genuinely repentant, I didn’t have the heart to mutter “obviously.”
“We don’t have to go out for dinner,” she said. “I know I took a risk earlier today—”
Sir Walter interrupted. “No, no. I believe the population of Rome should be sufficient to keep apart Pfeffer and ourselves.”
“Don’t forget Franz. He knows what you look like, too, doesn’t he?” I asked.
Sir Walter shrugged in a way that I translated as, “Yes, but it matters not.” Or maybe just, “I’ve made up my mind, dweeb.”
He turned to my sister. “You were wise to conceal your appearance.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Something Pfeffer taught me.”
“For when we used to visit his lab,” I explained. I didn’t mention how they used to force me to dress like a girl. Seriously, the sooner some things are forgotten, the better.
We grabbed hats and scarves, me and Sir Walter swapping, which was pretty hilarious, seeing him wearing my Nintendo stretch–cap.
“You really want to look different, you could shave,” I said, tapping my chin.
He looked at me like I’d just suggested he cut off his right hand.
My sister defended him. “He looks plenty strange wearing the hat.”
Apparently our landlady agreed, shaking her head and clucking under her breath as we piled into her car. Sir Walter made me and Mick sit in back.
�
��You will be more hidden,” he said.
I shook my head. If he wanted hidden, we could grab my sister and ripple. But Sir Walter was in “be nice to Mickie” mode right now, and he knew she hated that form of transportation.
We pulled into the alley fronting our apartment building. Cars lined both sides of the narrow street. Most were parked half on the sidewalk, half on the street. I didn’t see how we were exiting this road without taking a few side–mirrors out, but Sir Walter managed it okay. The alley dumped into a little roundabout circling a fountain, and that was where things got interesting.
A group of guys my age were out on Vespas, two or three to a bike, zipping around the circle like it was a race. They called insults to one another, laughing as they passed us by, some of them reaching out to thump the hood of our car. There was no way Sir Walter could enter the roundabout without taking out a couple of the mopeds, so we just sat there until one biker took off down another alley, followed by the rest of them.
We reached a wider street where two–way traffic was a possibility, barely, and joined a handful of other cars, all in a hurry, like their nonnas were gonna give them what–for if they didn’t get back for dinner.
Sir Walter drove a little too slowly for some of them. A car would be coming our way, and we’d see, to our left, that someone had decided to pass us. It would look like collision was inevitable, but then Sir Walter and the oncoming car would each part just a tiny bit toward the outside, and maybe up on the sidewalk, and the passing car would zip through. Crazy.
We made another turn, onto a still–bigger street. I tried counting lanes, but it was tricky as the Roman drivers didn’t seem to stay in a lane for very long. I could see white stripes on the pavement, but clearly these lines meant nothing to the drivers. Apparently traffic signals didn’t mean much either. Even red lights. Eventually, though, enough cars at the front of traffic would stop for a red light and that would force everyone behind to stop as well. Except for the motorized bikers. They would zip between cars, or down the sidewalk, and line up in front of all the cars waiting for the light to change. When the signal turned green, the cars would pass the motor–bikes and race towards the next traffic light where the cycle repeated. All without staying in lanes.
Although it was February, and cold, many motorists drove with a window down so that they could communicate via hand–gesture, apparently a method preferred over turn–signal blinkers. Sir Walter did okay with all of it. I thought it was sort of funny, since I didn’t have to drive. Beside me, Mick clutched a beaded rosary necklace I was sure she hadn’t owned before her trip to Vatican City. Her lips hadn’t stopped moving since we’d left that first roundabout.
We hit a downhill stretch where you could get a look ahead to see how bad the traffic really was. White lights coming towards us for miles, red lights stretching into the distance until reaching a really large roundabout. I saw at least eight cars–widths of fluid, lane–changing traffic. We inched towards the roundabout. As we got closer, I saw a uniformed official directing traffic from atop a small cement column. Not a job I envied. I leaned my head against the window, wondering how much farther to dinner.
None of us were prepared for what happened next. A motorcyclist took advantage of a slender aisle between several cars and rushed forward to catch the policeman’s “Go” signal before it switched to a “Don’t even think about it” signal. The biker wasn’t going to make it. The Mercedes in front of us was attempting to sneak through while the policeman shook a threatening hand at the motorcycle. The car behind us apparently assumed Sir Walter would do the same. At the last minute the car in front of us changed his mind without notifying the guy behind us, who then rammed into us so hard that our hood crumpled into the Mercedes. Mick’s head jerked up from praying.
And then there was this massive chain effect, like, once a few cars saw us get sandwiched, they thought, hey, looks like fun, let’s all try it! Must have been a hundred cars smashing into each other’s bumpers. And probably three–hundred angry, gesticulating Italians shouting at one another and the one policeman. No one seemed to feel it was important to stay inside their car.
Sir Walter was trying to get our car started again, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. I rolled my window down, sticking my head out to see how bad it was up ahead.
Sir Walter cursed, looked behind us to confirm what Mick and I could both see. “Grab your sister and let us disappear.”
“What?” I asked. “Why?”
“I do not wish to have our identities brought to anyone’s attention while we stay in Rome. I will instruct the nonna to report the vehicle as stolen.”
He extended one hand for me to grab, looking in all directions to see if it was safe to disappear. Everyone’s attention was directed away from us. “Go!” he said.
My hunger disappeared the moment my body did. That was a relief anyway. The three of us eased through the screechy metal doors, and then Sir Walter must’ve decided passing through all that metal and all those angry Italians was too much, ‘cause he angled us towards a strip of dirt planted with trees every ten or so feet. That felt a lot better. For Sam’s sake, I tried to pay attention to what the trees tasted or smelled like, but honestly, I wasn’t picking up on anything much.
Eventually, we made our way back to the alley where our apartment sat. As soon as we solidified, Sir Walter excused himself.
“I believe there is a vendor selling pizza around the corner,” he said.
Pizza sounded good. Bed sounded good. Never, ever driving in Rome again sounded good.
We ate and crawled off to bed.
Any hopes I had for sleeping in late were dashed way too early the next morning. Mickie and Sir Walter were talking in very excited voices that I couldn’t sleep through. I stumbled into the kitchen.
“The sun’s not up,” I complained, grabbing a roll off the table.
Mickie looked at me, her face wrinkled with worry as bad as I’d ever seen it.
“What?” I asked.
She looked ready to burst into tears.
Sir Walter indicated the computer. I looked and saw an news article about last night’s car pile–up. With a photo showing about a mile of cars, although only those in front were really visible.
And then I saw what had my sister so upset.
Me. Sticking my head out the window, which I’d done for, like, all of two seconds. In front of me, looking ridiculous in a Nintendo stretch–cap, sat Sir Walter.
Thanks to some stupid cell phone camera, we were officially headline news.
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
AROUND ALL THE TIME
· SAM ·
“Hey, Christian,” said Gwyn. She sidled herself next to him in the one–person passenger seat of my Blazer.
“Really, Gwyn?” I muttered, pulling the car into reverse.
She’d called, insisting it looked like rain and would I please swing by the bakery to pick her up. The bakery was directly across from the school parking lot.
“Over there,” she said, pointing to the far side of the lot. “I saw a good parking space.”
What she saw was an opportunity to hang out thigh to thigh with Christian. She flung an arm around his neck as I revved over a speed–bump.
“Hey, careful, Sam! Not all of us are seat–belted in here!” She smiled at Christian and murmured, “Sorry,” indicating the drape of her arm along his shoulders.
She was patently not sorry.
“Oh, darn,” she said as another car took the spot. “Guess we’ll have to circle around again. I didn’t see David Lopez aiming for that parking spot.”
I’d bet crazy kinds of money she did see him. I was familiar with the species Gwynicus Prowlicus and its devious ways.
Later, over lunch, Gwyn timed her seat–grabbing perfectly. That is, she waited until she could tell which seat Christian meant to take and then angled herself in so that he spent a brief moment upon her lap.
As he stood and apologized, she
blinked at him innocently, something she’d perfected through years of hiding bad behavior from her mom.
Christian flushed while speaking to Gwyn. “Allow me to point out that this might be avoided, had you allowed me to remain standing until you had chosen your seat.”
Gwyn had told Christian he should quit doing things like remaining standing until the girls were seated. Or rising from the table if a girl got up to buy another soda. As far as I could tell, Gwyn’s ideas of Christian’s habits came from watching Jane Austen movies with her mom rather than from actual knowledge of seventeenth century court life in France. But Christian was too polite to say anything to embarrass her. Or maybe he found it all amusing. Or maybe he wasn’t listening. His vigilance on my behalf had definitely scaled way up since my kidnapping.
I found myself keeping my eyes open as well. I scanned faces in the halls instead of tracing the flow of cracks in the concrete as I moved from class to class. But no one was looking at me. They all stared at the guy walking beside me. He’d altered his gait since coming to California. I wondered how he’d been able to do it so well until he told me that walking lessons had been part of his daily routine as a young courtier.
“We studied the rules of motion and how to present ourselves most attractively to the world,” he’d said. “I understand an entire art–form has grown from our efforts and survives to this day—the ‘ballet,’ Sir Walter informs me.”
All I knew was that Christian had figured out how to blend in and yet still attract a heck of a lot of stares. As the three of us walked together to biology, every girl we passed turned her head back over her shoulder to keep her eyes on Christian.
“Dr. Yang’s going to wonder why the sudden outbreak of neck strains in high school girls,” I murmured to Gwyn as we sat for class. “It’s ridiculous.”
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