Heart thumping, I follow Dean inside the quiet hallway, where a minuscule, ghostlike servant awaits. Eyes downcast, she presses her tiny body against the wall as Dean walks by, as if afraid to be seen.
“Nice meeting you,” I whisper before Dean and I make a turn into another, wider hallway.
My words echo in the still air, and I repress a shiver. What is this place? Are people not allowed to talk here? Do my parents only hire mutes? I grimace. All I know about them is what everyone else knows, which is to say not much. They’re very rich, and travel lots, and from the limousine and private jet we used, I would assume in style.
Looking around the mazelike house, I think “eccentric” is a better term. Displayed along every wall are hundreds of artifacts from all over the world. If it weren’t so quiet, I’d think we were in a museum. As it is, the whole place is more of a mausoleum—an apt setting for my demise.
We make another turn and find ourselves before a large, dark wooden staircase. The plush carpet muffles our footfalls as we go up to the second floor. As I step onto the landing, I get dizzy and waver. I fling out my hand to catch myself on the wall, but knock down the bust of some long-dead bearded man instead.
In a blur of movement, Dean catches both the old man’s head and my arm before either of us can crash to the floor.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
I didn’t think the idea of finally seeing my parents after all these years was going to affect me this much. I thought—I hoped—I would be immune to all feeling for them by now. But no matter what I may tell myself, my body can’t lie.
After a pause, Dean lets me go, though he keeps close to me. I force air back into my lungs as we arrive before a set of imposing doors. With a final look in my direction, Dean knocks on the wooden panel and opens it.
My mouth runs dry. After a moment’s hesitation, I follow the lawyer into a library, the parquet floor reflecting the multitude of lights from the chandeliers above. Lining the red-papered walls are ceiling-high shelves filled with books.
Two dark shapes in the back of the room draw my eyes away from the threatening volumes. I wish I were brave enough to run over to them and finally hug them, as I always do in my dreams, but I’m too scared of their reaction and remain frozen.
“I do believe your daughter’s here,” says the man, leaning against a high-backed chair in which a small woman sits reading.
“You married me. Hence, she’s yours as well,” the woman replies.
They’re both wearing matching black clothes that look straight out of one of those Victorian romance novels some of the girls at school sometimes snuck in. Frilly blouses cinched in tight jackets, tight pants for him, and a billowing skirt for her with so many ruffles one might mistake her for a doll—except for the leather army boots.
The man’s upper lip twitches. For a split second, I see disgust etched in my stepfather’s features, and I try not to flinch.
“Well, what have you got to say?” says my mother, her black-lined eyes never leaving the pages of her newspaper.
I feel the sting of tears despite myself. I take a deep, shaky breath, pull my shoulders back, and raise my chin. “I didn’t do it.”
Mother looks up then, her unblinking stare boring into me. After having the time to do two Paternosters and an Ave Maria in my head to calm myself down, she finally speaks again. “Just go to your room.”
Not exactly the warm welcome I’d imagined, but at least they haven’t executed me on sight. Which, relatively speaking, is a rather good turn of events.
Chapter 2
I watch the distant waters of Lake Winnebago turn from glittering blue to brilliant orange, then dull down to gray before turning a blue black indistinguishable from the fields before it. My stomach grumbles, in total agreement with my thoughts—despite this being the first time in nearly two decades my mother’s seen me, she’s already forgotten about my existence and left me to die of famine in this godforsaken place.
Hands in fists, I face my prison. The bedroom’s spacious at least, I’ll give them that. There’s hardly any furniture though, just a bed, a desk with accompanying chair, and some cumbersome wardrobe. All look solid, if not comfortable, and clearly state I should refrain from punching them.
Instead, I grab the first thing my hand falls on—a large book—and hurl it across the room. The volume bounces off the door and lands with a dull thud on the floor. My blood drains from my face—Saint George’s balls, I’ve just thrown the Bible!
I rush over, pick the sacred volume up, dust it off, then carefully set it back down on the desk.
“I’m really, really sorry,” I say, darting glances about to make sure nothing’s going to strike me down. “It’s all her fault.”
My mother’s features spring back before my eyes—all compact coldness, like an ice cube. Any thought I’ve ever entertained that she didn’t raise me because of my stepfather has vaporized, and, for the first time in my life, I let myself get angry at her.
There is no way I’m the fruit of her loins. For one, I’m probably twice her height. Then, I don’t have any of her angular features, and where her hair’s a darker shade of blonde, mine’s jet-black. Quod erat demonstrandum.[4]
I sink to the floor next to my luggage that’s been placed at the foot of the bed. If only I were adopted, then I’d have no qualm about leaving this horrid place. But if she believes sharing her genes makes me indentured to her, then she’s barking up the wrong tree. In fact, I might as well leave right now instead of waiting for my eighteenth birthday, for all the difference my presence makes.
Filled with newfound purpose, I grab my small suitcase, march to the door, and carefully crack it open. I peek through into the hallway, then, the coast clear, ease my way out of the bedroom, and stop.
What exactly am I doing? I don’t know this town, this country…this continent! I don’t have a dollar in my pocket. I don’t know anyone, except perhaps for Dean. For a moment I consider asking him for help, but quickly give up on the idea. He is, for better or worse, my parents’ bona fide lackey, and though he’s always helped me in hairy situations before, there’s no doubt this is not one of those times.
I rub my aching head. This is way-too-intense thinking for me to be doing when I’m jet-lagged and starving. Ah yes, that is how this whole mission started: food first, then escape.
◆◆◆
I don’t know who designed this house, but whoever it was ought to be hanged, and quartered, for good measure. I make another turn and find myself in the living room. Again.
I retrace my steps around the perimeter of the mansion, careful to check every door and passage for a sign of the kitchen. This has got to be a trick, a ploy to keep me sequestered here so I can never tarnish my parents’ good name again! As I find myself once more in the living room, I give up, and face the embers glowing in the fireplace.
Hanging above the mantelpiece is an intricate metal-and-wood carving of two dragons standing back-to-back on their hind legs, each holding in its talons a large, glittering jewel. The Pendragon family sign! I draw nearer the sigil until I walk into the chimneypiece.
“You called, mistress?”
I jump nearly twenty feet in the air at the voice. Standing behind me is the small maid I’d seen upon my arrival.
“I didn’t hear you come in!” I say shrilly.
“Apologies, young mistress,” says the little woman. She readjusts her bonnet over her perfectly round head.
“Wait,” I say before the maid can disappear in whatever hole she’s come from. “I, uh…” I fidget, unsure whether she’ll report my unapproved activity to my mother or not.
The maid’s eyes look as big as apples in her pale face.
“Uh, the kitchen?” I ask.
“Is the mistress ready for her dinner?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer, then add as an afterthought, “and as many snacks as you can come up with.”
The little woman nods. “As you wish, mistress. It shall be d
elivered in the dining room in—”
“No!” I look quickly around to see if my outburst has caught anyone’s attention, then resume, more quietly. “In my bedroom. Please.”
The servant curtsies, and, as quickly and quietly as she appeared, she leaves me alone once again. I take one last look at the foreboding dragons, having no difficulty pretending their faces are those of Irene and Luther. No, it definitely won’t be hard for me to leave.
I carefully make my way back upstairs, wishing for the maid to be quick. I don’t know whether the house is ordinarily so quiet and empty, and I don’t want to jeopardize what may be my one and only chance to flee.
“The Lamoraks have sent us notice that, apart from Notre-Dame du Chablais, they haven’t seen another instance.”
I freeze at the mention of my school. I slowly turn around toward the sound of my mother’s voice, for there is no mistaking her clipped tone.
“But Clarence says that he’s gone to investigate a murder that’s taken place in Annecy,” Luther says.
Step by cautious step, I make my way toward the library door, which has been left ajar, letting a wedge of flickering light fall on the red carpet. Another murder, in Annecy? That town’s only a few miles away from my school…They couldn’t possibly think I’m a serial killer now, could they?
“And if that’s the case,” my stepfather continues, “that means there’s a clear path between the first case and Morgan’s.”
My feet reach the edge of the light beam streaming past the door. I can hear the crackle of the fire now and smell the faint scent of burning wood. I tilt forward until I can see my parents. They’re both standing by a long table, poring over what looks like a map.
“Luther, could they know?” my mother asks. It’s the first time I’ve heard her sound nervous. “I mean, that’s exactly how her father died.”
I feel like I’ve just been hit by a train. I lean against the wall to prevent myself from collapsing. My father, dead before I was born, was killed by the same strange poison that got Agnès? How is that even possible? I cross my arms to stop myself from shaking.
Luther bends further over a second map. “More importantly,” he says, “our team’s extrapolated three different sources for the nefarious activity we’ve detected.”
Irene has to rise on the tips of her toes to see what Luther’s pointing at.
“No!” she gasps. “There’s got to be a mistake.”
“I’m afraid not,” Luther says.
He starts pacing the room, hands behind his back. I pull away, afraid they might see me. If only they could say something that made sense to me. Like the fact the inspector has given up his search for evidence against me, or that Agnès turned out to have died of some severe case of diarrhea.
“All we can do,” Luther says, “is wait to find out whether the murders will pop up again, and where. Maybe then we’ll be able to narrow the epicenters down to one or two.”
Goose bumps rise along my spine. They talk about those murders like they’re nothing more than items on a grocery list.
I hear a furtive sound behind me and spin around just as a hand clasps around my mouth and someone drags me backward.
“Who is it?” I hear my mother call out.
I try to fight back, but my opponent is taller and more powerful than me. He lifts me off my feet and drags me away into a dark room. The door closes just as I see Luther’s face poke out of the library.
Panic makes me lash out. It’s the murderer! He’s somehow tracked me down to this house and is now going to kill me! I kick furiously and feel my heel connect.
The man lets out a muffled curse and releases me. I trip against something hard and fall down. A green light flashes out of the corner of my eye, and I somehow find myself lying comfortably on a thick rug. I hear the killer move, and then the lights turn on.
Blinking, I sit up, noticing the coffee table laden with articles next to where I’ve landed; its sharp corners look angry to have missed my head. I then look up to find a tall boy staring down at me from behind dark blond strands of hair, his muscled frame reflected in a mirror that takes up a whole wall. He doesn’t look quite as ogreish as I’d imagined, but then again, the spark in his hazel eyes tells me he isn’t that innocent either.
“Who are you?” I ask. Then, deciding I don’t quite like the lack of vantage I have while sitting on the floor, I get up.
The boy smirks. He doesn’t look quite that young anymore, about my age. “I should be the one asking you that,” he says. “You’re the one who was caught spying.”
“I wasn’t spying,” I say, offended. “I was just…on my way out.”
“Leaving?” He looks at me for a long second, and I feel myself blush. It can’t be that bad of an idea, can it? “You do realize,” he finally continues, “that should you disappear after having been accused of killing off your classmate, there’s bound to be a price on your head?”
I feel myself turn a couple shades darker. To hide my embarrassment, I pick up a newspaper cutting that’s fallen on the rug, and its title jumps at me.
ARE ALIEN ABDUCTIONS BEHIND THE DISAPPEARANCE OF WILL AND AVA KRUEGER?
For a moment, the strangeness of it makes me forget where I am entirely, until the guy takes the article from my hands and replaces it on the table.
“Look, I’m saying this for your own good. You better not get caught snooping around here.”
“I wasn’t snoop—” I start, but he takes a few steps toward me until I’m backed up against the wall. His eyes are so close to mine I can see the specks of gold spattered over the light brown of his irises. I swallow hard. Apart from Dean and the inspector, who are both much older than me, I’ve never been this close to a guy before.
“Fortunately for you,” he whispers, his breath brushing my burning cheeks, “I won’t say anything…Sister.”
He pulls away suddenly, strides back to the door, and opens it with a flourish. “By the way,” he adds, “you probably shouldn’t be found lurking around our parents’ office either.” And with that warning, he’s gone.
My knees go weak, and I slide to the ground. Brother? I take deep breaths to clear my foggy mind. Now that I think about it, I vaguely remember Dean mention to me once, ages ago, that my mother had given birth shortly after I was sent away.
Somehow, I’d conveniently forgotten that detail. Now, however, I remember seeing him mentioned from time to time in the few articles dedicated to my parents’ work around the world. A quiet, polite little boy named Arthur.
Except he’s not that little, and far from polite. I glare at the door as if he were still standing there. “Jerk!”
Chapter 3
Not for the first time since this whole ordeal began, I can’t bring myself to fall asleep. Who would’ve thought that the wish of meeting my family, held for so many years inside me like a rare and fragile orchid, would turn into a nightmare?
Whenever I close my eyes, I see Agnès’s corpse taunting me, her cracked lips black against the white of her skeletal smile. A smile once shared by my father, whose face I’ve never seen, not even in pictures.
I toss around in bed and kick at the covers. Then, with a worn-out sigh, I resign myself to dealing with the next worst thing that’s happened to me since the murder: meeting my family. Perhaps, if my father had still been alive, all those letters I sent for years on end would have gotten responses. Instead, my mother’s shriveling looks are inked to the back of my eyelids like some insipid tattoo I can’t get rid of. Anger broils in me as I relive the moment of my dismissal, like I was some booger she’d flicked off her dainty little finger. But before I can garner the strength to punch my fat pillow, another face flashes before me, all crooked smile and mocking eyes.
“You!” I mutter, shaking my fist in the air. “If I weren’t so tired, and you so big and strong, I’d teach you to be dutifully respectful to your older sister.”
The words feel strange in my mouth as I utter them, like tasting a chili-covere
d candy for the first time. I let my hand drop back down on the covers. I don’t think I’d like that kind of candy.
Seeing Arthur, my brother, live the life I’ve always wanted, surrounded by parents who have never kicked him out or would even dare think he could commit a murder…My eyes prick with the onset of tears, and I sniffle them back down.
“Life is just not fair,” I whisper. “I’ve tried everything I can think of to conform and be accepted, but nothing’s worked. Then again, when my own mother doesn’t want me, there’s no reason for the rest of the world to want me either.” I feel like toxic waste.
Stop whining. You’re not five anymore.
I glare at the ceiling. “Who asked for your advice?”
That was more of a recommendation, actually, because I know you’ll be kicking yourself come morning.
“Can’t you, for once, just allow me a minute, make that five, of self-pity? It’s not like I ever asked you for anything.”
Except to listen to you every time you have a problem.
I growl. “That’s your role. You’re my guardian angel.”
You’ll feel better once the light of day comes, he says. Things always seem worse when it’s dark.
“But I feel like the night’s never going to end.”
No answer comes, of course. I’m not quite sure what’s worse right now: the fact I was expecting one, or that I’m talking to myself again.
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