Descendant (Secrets of the Makai)
Page 6
"They don't know," said the vines along the west side of the cabin. "All you two-legged beasts look alike and I'm just relaying information."
She supposed she'd have to face Philip sooner or later. Reluctantly, she got out of bed and slipped a robe over her nightgown.
"Gram?" Dorian grabbed a towel from the hall closet. "Philip's on his way. Tell him he can rot with all the seething scumbags in Cowardville. Or wherever they plan to go hide."
"Yes, darling," Gram called from the kitchen. "I'll start some tea and biscuits."
Dorian showered and put on her work clothes—a natural leather that fit like a second skin. Straps gave her shoulders full range of motion and the length was short enough to stay out of her way, yet long enough for modesty.
She found Gram sitting at the kitchen table with Philip, who had a fancy paper cup with the words 'Starbucks' written on the side—a place he often went for coffee. His dark blue jeans looked stiff and uncomfortable, and under his unbuttoned shirt, the image of a happy pirate skull on a T-shirt made her smile.
She stared at the new streak of color in his hair. "Pink?" She liked the idea, but on him it looked like he'd been shot with a paint gun the night before and hadn't bothered to wash it out.
"It's not pink, it's orange. And if you'd get out more, you'd know it's pretty common."
Dorian liked the streak less with the insult. Her eyes darted to the open box in the center of the table. "You brought donuts?"
Philip's smile widened as he slid the box toward her. She tried to keep her expression blank, eyeing the dozen brightly colored pastries, some with sprinkles, some with nuts. Her stomach clenched and she glanced at Gram, who seemed to be reading her thoughts.
She knew it wasn't possible—no one had ever read her mind. It had seemed like a disadvantage for a long time, something that kept her locked out of conversations. But now it was a strength. She could keep her secrets, even from Gram and Oliver. Not that what had happened the first time Philip brought donuts was a secret. She'd eaten half a dozen and spent the next week with her head in a toilet. Just the thought of colored frosting made her gag.
"I thought you liked donuts," Philip said.
Dorian scowled. "Shouldn't you be packing or something?"
"We want you to come with us. Weren't you saying you wanted to get out?"
"Well, sure." That particular information wasn't something she needed to hide from Gram, they'd had this conversation before. "But I would never leave under these conditions. You and your father are a disgrace."
"How can you say that?" Philip asked. "We're doing something good! Something we can't do from here on the island."
"Only because Oliver made it seem that way." Dorian did her best Oliver impression. "Protect the helpless children and old folks and come back when the dust settles." She continued in her normal tone. "Or go on your stupid quest. I don't care."
"Who wouldn't want to go on a real quest? And wasn't it your suggestion in the first place?"
"Haven't you been paying attention? The very nature of the fang is to hide itself." Probably to keep the dragons' burial cave hidden. "You can't sense it or track it down, and you have no clues to go on. But do try, if it makes you feel less like a spineless slug."
Philip stood from the table.
"Can't you think for yourself on this one?" Dorian asked, surprising herself. Did she actually want him to stay?
Philip shrugged.
"Good luck, Philip. I never want to see you again."
"Trouble in paradise?" said a cheerful voice. Dorian and Philip turned to see her uncle standing at the screen door. Gram had made herself scarce.
"Yes," Philip said over Dorian's quick 'No'. "As soon as you guys stop treating this island like it's some sort of paradise, the better off we'll all be."
Uncle Eric entered the kitchen and held the door open for Philip. "Why concern yourself with what we think?" he asked, waving Philip out the door.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Dorian," Philip said.
"Oh yeah? I hope you find a backbone on your quest."
Philip straightened. "We won't be here for Summer Solstice."
Dorian's mouth fell open. "But we need you!"
Philip rolled his eyes and walked away.
"Don't forget your coffee!" Dorian picked up the cup and donuts, fully intending to splat them against the back of Philip's ridiculous haircut for more color. But he was gone. She passed the coffee and donuts to Eric on her way back to the table.
Usually a layer of sawdust covered Uncle Eric's golden hair. But today he was clean, with only a hint of varnish under the smell of soap. He looked about to say something, but his mouth clamped shut.
"What's up?" Dorian asked.
"I came to see if you're ready to start restoration on that spring. You wanted to do that soon, yes? I have time."
She slumped into the chair and shut her eyes. "Not today, I have a client."
"Tisk, tisk," Gram said, reentering the room. "Don't say it like that. Besides, I can handle this client."
"I can't believe you're willing to sell that stuff," Dorian said. "And to sell them together. You know that can't be good."
Gram sat in her chair with a fresh cup of tea. "Just because someone wants to buy fire, doesn't mean they intend to burn someone's house down."
"But he's not a regular. It surprises me that you aren't being more careful with someone who has this sort of shopping list. Don't you want to know what he intends to do with it?"
"I'm not shutting down the shop just because a few people decide to move."
Dorian turned away. She'd used some of the things the client was requesting, and couldn't say all the possibilities were terrible. If you were the creative sort. "You're right, I'm sorry.
"And Uncle Eric, please stop pretending you want to help me. I know you think you should've been there, but whoever it was would've come back by now if he was going to, so get over your guilt and stop the babysitting."
Eric scowled. "But I can make the work easier. I can bring you dirt, move boulders or make gravel if you need me too. I wasn't just—"
"I don't want to fix it!" Dorian gritted her teeth and stomped out of the room, slamming her bedroom door hard enough to make the windows rattle.
Her best friend was leaving like a coward and she couldn't say she was much better. She couldn't get herself to remove dead plants from the spring, and couldn't bear asking others to grow in their place. Especially after such a massacre. She'd give up controlling the spring and let nature take its course.
8
- THE CONNIVING TRUTH -
TRISTAN STARED AT the Florida shaped water stains on the ceiling. Morning light filtered through the sheet over his bedroom window. He felt for the pouch that held the coral, the cord tight around his neck, and thought about where he might find his mom. No matter what the police said, he had to get out of town as fast as possible.
He'd spent half the night packing, throwing away junk, and promising himself he would cut ties with his mother as soon as he could. The only thing he needed from her now was quick transportation away from this town—away from the cops who thought 'once a suspect, always a suspect', away from the murderer who might know he had some sort of map, away from the kids who saw him with the murder victim in his arms. With his mother's truck, they could cross the state line before dark. He even had cash for hotels and gas. Then he could worry about finding the emerald.
Tristan glanced at the folded bath towel on his desk. It was filled with tiny electronic devices he'd never seen before—spy stuff, hidden in every room. He should've busted them to pieces, but didn't want to draw attention to the fact that he'd discovered them. The towel might keep them from transmitting anything if they were listening devices. Or motion sensors. He couldn't see anything that looked like camera lenses. For all he knew, they could be remote controlled bombs. Tristan left the house with the towel tucked securely under his arm, placing it carefully in the nearest garbage bin.
Tristan opened his locker, only to find it empty, and went to his first class, twenty minutes early. He would not let a vague sense of panic get the best of him.
One student sat in the back row, reading a book. Halfway to his desk, Tristan stopped, recognizing the pulled-back hair. He'd seen this kid. Recently. At the murdered woman's house.
Tristan walked out of the classroom, then couldn't keep himself from running. He slid to cut a sharp corner and skidded to a halt when he came face-to-face with the other student he'd recognized at the woman's house: Victor.
Tristan turned abruptly again, shoving his way through the early crowd, and ran through a hall marked for staff. He continued through the cafeteria kitchen and out a back door, where a bread truck sat parked for unloading. After half a second's thought, Tristan ran up the ramp and squeezed through rows of wheeled carts. The truck bed shifted with the weight of someone and before he could think of what to say, the door slammed shut, plunging him into darkness. The engine roared to life and the truck lurched into motion.
* * *
Tristan reached the Tall Tex by mid-afternoon.
He'd gotten off the bread truck unseen and had weaved his way through every dark alley to stay off the main roads, paranoid about being followed by someone—Landon, Victor, the police, the murderer. Anyone could be after him. Worse, his mother wasn't even at the bar. All he could do was leave a message with someone who said, "I ain't no message boy."
Tristan headed home tired and cranky, more determined than ever to get out of town sooner than later. With or without his mother.
By the time he got to the trailer park, he felt more optimistic. He actually smiled when he spotted his mother's rusted truck. She'd missed the driveway completely and left muddy ruts through the front yard. Her bitter thoughts rang clear from within.
Tristan's shoulders sagged and his gaze fell to the ground. Someone was with her, a man whose thoughts were a tangle of drunken, cluttered frustration. Tristan took a calming breath and reminded himself that everything is temporary. Every boyfriend, every town they lived in. Every group of jocks and bullies suspecting him of hearing thoughts, something he could never hide for long. His whole life...nothing but temporary. He took another deep breath to ready himself for the inevitable as he entered his home.
"Tristan." Gloria sat at the kitchen table with a cigarette poised at her lips.
The TV was in pieces and the couch lay upside down with every cushion slashed, clumps of stuffing piled everywhere. Kitchen cupboards were open and bare.
His mother let the smoldering cigarette fall to the floor, then ground it into the vinyl with the point of her hot-pink shoe. "Looks a lot like you were going somewhere. Were you?"
Tristan shut his mouth, half-gagging in the smoky haze and perfume.
Where else could a kid hide money? A man came from the hall, adding the smell of fermented body odor to the cigarettes. "Nothing in his room," he said aloud. Sleeves of tattoos covered his arms and Tristan caught himself staring.
"We're being evicted," Tristan said, in answer to his mother's question. He pulled his gaze from the man's arms and looked him in the face. "What's going on here?"
"I heard you were back," his mother said smoothly. "Thought we should drop by."
"I'll be honest, boy," said the boyfriend. "I don't like your hiding and I don't like the way you've treated your flesh-n-blood mother."
I was in jail, you idiot. Why would they think he was hiding?
The man was probably dangerous, but Tristan had heard it all before. He could guess how things would go if he took the man's bait. "Joe's giving us one day to get moved."
The deadline was his, not Joe's. He hoped his mother hadn't already talked to their landlord. "I was packing. To make it faster. Assuming you want this stuff.... Do you?"
The man growled and Tristan clamped his mouth shut. No point in packing up the furniture, destroyed as it was. He needed to seem less anxious about getting to his bedroom. The man tugged his pants up and folded his arms over his Buddha belly.
"What's the plan, then?" Tristan asked. He could've been long-gone by now, if he hadn't considered his mother's truck the quickest way.
"Do I really need to spell it out for you?" His mother left the table for the liquor cabinet, finding it empty.
"Are we moving or not?" Tristan asked. "Can you pay back rent?"
"One more word in that tone, I'll beat you to high heaven and enjoy every minute." The man stepped between Tristan and his mother, pounding his fist in the palm of his hand.
Tristan raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender and walked around the man, toward the hallway to get to his room. He didn't usually feel so driven, but he wasn't about to think he could fight the dude.
He had to get away from this place. Now.
In his room, he found books ripped open and thrown to the floor. Boxes from the corner were dumped upside down, along with drawers from his desk. His mattress lay slashed and thrown aside. The removable molding was clearly visible where the bed had been, but not out of place. Which hopefully meant his cash was safe.
His backpack must have been one of the first things searched—before the desire to destroy everything came into play. A quick glance in the side pocket proved what he suspected—his pocketknife was missing, his only real weapon.
He retrieved the money and quickly stuffed half the stack in his front pockets, the second half in each of his socks. If they searched him, hopefully finding a quarter of the money would be enough. If they weren't satisfied and searched both pockets, they'd only get half. He replaced the molding and dropped beside his backpack, making to look as though he'd been putting school papers back in place. He didn't think the man was looking for the map, but tucked it in with his lecture notes to be on the safe side.
"Find anything interesting?" said the man, filling the doorway.
Tristan kept his eyes on his notebook, stuffing it into the backpack. "I have homework to do at the library." He'd leave tonight, though the thought of packing schoolwork instead of clothing made his teeth clench.
"Don't look at me like that."
Why was the guy so desperate to start a fight? "Whatever." Tristan regretted it instantly and the man stepped forward. A crash in the closet startled them both. The man crossed the room, ripped the sliding door from its track, and threw it against the wall.
With nothing but harmless boxes in the closet, the man glared at Tristan, biceps flexing. "What does it take to get a straight answer from you?"
Now in a throwing mood, the man picked up an empty desk drawer and threw it at Tristan. He blocked it with his backpack and tried to think of something logical to cool the man down. "Whatever you guys do is fine. I figure I'm off to do my own thing."
A cement block from his makeshift bookcase flew over his shoulder, busting clean through the bedroom window. The nailed bed sheet swooshed away with it.
Tristan grabbed the backpack and made a run for the front room. All he needed was cash, and he had it.
His mother stood in the living room, waiting for him. "You can't leave. We still have unfinished business to discuss."
The man blocked the hall to his room. Tristan backed up until he hit the front door. At least they were both in view.
"Let's see how far you get," the man said, pulling out Tristan's own pocketknife as he walked to stand beside his mother. Would she let him use a knife?
"Where's the money?" she asked, standing with hands on her hips. "You owe me."
"Money from what? I've been spending pa
ychecks on…." Tristan scratched his head, drawing a complete blank for what kids spent money on if they weren't saving to run away from home.
His mother gripped the man's arm just as the knife spun toward him, stabbing into the door above his right shoulder with a wobbling thud.
The man glared at her. "Don't play games if you ain't willin' to get dirty." He pulled a small handgun from the back of his waistband.
"We don't need to kill him quite yet, is all," she said.
Tristan stared at his mother, astonished. It wasn't that she'd never threatened his life before, she had, but this was a step further. He heard her mentally debating the chances of getting caught, the necessity of it all, and the fact that she wasn't sure she could hold back her addictions if Tristan wasn't there to keep her in line.
How did he keep her in line? He avoided her as much as possible. But whatever made her mess up the man's aim, he was glad. Until her thoughts swung the other way: Too much risk to kill him like this, in his own home, with Jimmy's prints on the knife. An easy fix. Jimmy has a record that would work in my favor.
"If you do as you're told," his mother said calmly, "you just might walk away."
Tristan heard opposite thoughts from the man. But at least his mom was still undecided.
"I expect you to empty your pockets," the man said, Jimmy according to his mother's thoughts. "Hand over the money."
"What money?" Tristan bit his lip. How did they know he had any money at all? The guy wasn't drunk enough to miss at ten feet with a gun.
"Because I aim to see she gets it." Jimmy raised the gun to make his point. "Before it's covered in blood. We know you have money somewhere."
His mother sighed. So much easier to take care of your father.
Tristan held his breath and stared at his mother. She rarely thought of his father—not even when asked a direct question. But something about her tone made him angry, made him want to pry into her secrets. It had been years since he tried to get proof of his suspicions and this would be his last chance.
He ignored the gun, and whatever the man was saying. "Did you...have my real dad murdered?" Every time he and his mother moved to a new state, Tristan left a few clues behind, hoping his father had really faked his death and had stayed one step behind them. He knew it was childish thinking, but what a fool he'd been. "Seriously. You're going to kill me anyway, right?"