Pull

by Anne Riley

My neck feels strangely naked without the necklace, and my chest has constricted a little. “I feel kind of freaked out,” I say.

  He leans the axe against the stump, keeping his eyes on the blade. “Do you want it back?”

  “Yeah.” I frown. “But not as much as I thought I would.”

  I’ve dreaded taking off that stupid necklace, thinking it would bring me to my knees with grief—but it hasn’t.

  Albert gives me an approving nod. “Well, let’s give it a go. Close your eyes.”

  I close them. He shuffles through the grass toward me. A breeze whispers through the yard, lifting a few strands of hair across my mouth.

  “Think about the moment you want to go back to. Pick something recent, like when I laid your necklace on the stump.”

  I picture the scene.

  “Focus on it with everything you've got. Hold your hands out, palms up.”

  I’m concentrating so hard that sweat is beginning to bead on my forehead, and I’m really starting to regret my breakfast of coffee with a side of coffee.

  “Reach for that moment with your mind. Want it like you’ve never wanted anything else in the whole world.” He’s standing very close to me now. So close I can feel his breath on my forehead. “Picture as many details as you can. The way the necklace lay on the stump. My voice when I asked if you were ready.”

  I think about the necklace, but then my mind drifts to the moment he picked up the axe. The tension in his muscles as he balanced it in his grip. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he said Last chance to back out. The satisfaction on his face as he watched it fly to pieces.

  I open my eyes. His face is inches away from mine.

  “Did you feel the mental handle?” he asks.

  “No." I swallow, letting my hands fall to my sides. "I don't think I want the necklace badly enough.”

  He watches me for a moment. Then he says, “We’ll try again later. Once you know what you really want.”

  I meet his gaze. “What do you mean, what I really—”

  “Until then,” he goes on quickly, “now that you’re privy to all our secret Servator information, I have an adventure for you. That is, if you’re available tonight?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending to think really hard about my schedule. “My parents and Nana are busy going through Papa’s things, and my brother is being a grade-A jerk, so I’ll probably watch some TV by myself and go to bed at nine. I’m swamped.”

  “Right,” he says with a smile. “I’m going on patrol downtown tonight. Do you want to come with me?”

  “I don’t know. What do you do on patrol?”

  His smile widens. “Only one way to find out.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, I LEAVE NANA’S HOUSE TO MEET Albert. He’s waiting for me just a couple houses down the street. His eyes are focused on the ground; he hasn’t seen me yet. I wonder how long he’s been pacing up and down that bit of sidewalk, and whether his hands have had a single moment of freedom from his pockets.

  “Yo,” I say when I’m near enough to be heard.

  He looks up, eyebrows arched.

  Yo. Did I just say that? Did I actually just walk up to Albert Shaw and greet him with a cheery yo?

  “Sorry,” I say as my cheeks burn. “Apparently I was a nineties rapper in another life. Won’t happen again.”

  This coaxes his lips into a smile. “You seem a bit nervous.”

  “Hmm.” I nod slowly, as if considering a piece of particularly insightful information. “Perhaps. So, where are we off to tonight?”

  He grins. “A counter question—how did you escape the house?”

  My stomach tightens with guilt; how many lies have I told my parents since we arrived? They’d think I was crazy if I told them the truth, though. I’m just trying to keep them from losing whatever remains of their sanity, which means it’s totally justified.

  Right?

  “James and I are seeing Les Mis on the West End,” I say, giving my hair an exaggerated flip. “We’re high-society like that.”

  “Obviously.”

  He’s still smiling, and I’m glad he can’t see how much the lying bothers me. No matter what I say to try to justify it or how tightly I try to pull the wool over my own eyes, I know what I’m doing is wrong. I just can’t face revealing the truth yet. Not about Albert, not about Papa, and certainly not about the whole talent-transfer thing. Mostly because I don’t fully understand any of it, which means I can’t effectively explain it.

  “Hey,” I say as Blackheath station comes into view. “Did you know my grandmother was the first person Papa ever saved?”

  Albert nods. “Edward told me the story several years ago.”

  “Who was the first person you saved?”

  The silence that follows is so long that I wonder if I asked the question out loud, or if maybe I only thought it.

  “Nobody I knew,” he finally says. “Some bloke who fell off a ladder while painting the outside of his house.”

  We enter the deserted Blackheath station and dig our Oyster cards out of our pockets, tapping them on the circular readers and slipping through the partitions. After taking the train to Charing Cross and picking up another one to London Bridge, we end up on a busy sidewalk downtown while Albert coms his sister. He keeps his back to the street so that no one will notice him talking into his shirt collar. His face is mostly shadows in the dusky light, green eyes glinting whenever the setting sun catches them.

  Albert finishes his conversation and turns to me. “Good news. Casey’s covering my patrol so that you and I can relax.”

  I like Casey, but she doesn’t seem like the type to just randomly offer her brother a night off. “Really? Why?”

  “You’ve had a rough go of it, haven’t you?” he says quietly, leaning in so that no one will overhear. “And to be honest, so have I. Might be nice to have a bit of a rest.”

  Our eyes meet, and I see the gift he is trying to give me—an evening in central London, just the two of us. No grieving family. No messed-up brother. He’s trying to give me fun.

  This night was never about going on patrol.

  “Casey’s a bit of a loose cannon, but she can handle anything that crosses her path,” he says.

  I guess he thinks I’m not responding because I doubt his sister, when really, it’s not that at all.

  “Sometimes I wonder if she’s tougher than I am, you know? But if she has an emergency, I’ve still got this.” He pulls his ear down, showing me the tiny black com stuck near his ear canal. If Casey needs something, all she has to do is call, and Albert, Dan, and Isaac will come running. “So no worries, yeah?”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah. That’s great.”

  “Stay close to me,” Albert says, turning toward the street. “Mortiferi or not, London isn’t the safest city in the world.”

  I ease toward him until our elbows brush. “I’ll try not to slip away.”

  NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES I COME TO LONDON, I’M always amazed at its constant motion. Men and women in business suits rush along crowded sidewalks. Herds of pre-teens migrate from one clothing boutique to the next. Cars, buses, and taxis race around corners and through roundabouts on their way to a million different destinations. The Thames surges through the middle of it all, rising and falling twenty-three feet each day—a fact I learned from Papa years ago.

  Albert and I walk up Borough High Street at a quick pace. I cast sideways glances at him as we dodge loud tourists and irritated locals; something about the way he moves is distinctly South Londoner. It’s a definite swagger, but not a strut. He exudes confidence, but not arrogance.

  He slows down as we reach London Bridge, and I match his pace. “You know,” I say, “I always thought London Bridge should be fancier.”

  “It’s funny—the original was sold to an American,” he says. “I believe it’s located in Arizona now. Londoners joke that the man who bought it actually meant to buy Tower Bridge.”

 
He nods toward the elaborate structure a little farther down the river, glowing with colorful lights. It looks like a postcard, all lit up like that, and I have the weirdest feeling of being on a stage with a painted set. Like I could knock the towers over with a bump of my elbow and they’d fold, nothing but cardboard.

  “I’d pick Tower Bridge over London Bridge, given the choice,” I say. “Any structure that gets its own song should look the part, don’t you think?”

  This earns me a laugh. “It’s not exactly a cheerful song, though, is it? ‘London Bridge Is Falling Down?’ Do you know where that song came from?” He smirks in a way that makes me think I probably don’t want to know, but of course I can’t resist.

  “Go on,” I say with mock irritation. “I know you’re dying to tell me, Mr. Librarian.”

  His voice instantly transforms into the same professorial tone I heard in the Batcave. “There are lots of theories, of course, but I believe it’s about the Vikings pulling the bridge down during their attack in 1014.”

  “Wow, that’s kind of morbid.” I imagine the bridge tumbling into the river under a hail of flaming arrows while metal-clad Vikings cheer on the destruction—all while “London Bridge” plays merrily in the background. I can’t imagine how such a lighthearted melody was born out of such horror.

  “Ever thought about ‘Ring Around the Rosy?’” Albert says, pulling me out of my weird London Bridge daydream. “That one’s about Bubonic Plague. ‘Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.’ As in, fall down dead.”

  “Charming,” I say with a scowl. “I’m so glad we teach that song to children.”

  We reach the end of the bridge and continue on Borough High Street. We’re silent as we walk, and when the Tower of London appears on our right like something out of a medieval fairy tale, Albert says, “Awfully pretty to be the site of so many nightmares, eh?”

  “Yeah. It always makes me feel a little ill.” I pull out my phone and check the time. “Whoa! How is it already 8:30?”

  “Well,” Albert says, “when I met you on Camden Row, it was already early evening. It was a ten-minute walk to the train station, and the better part of an hour and a half to get from Blackheath to this point, so when you add it all up—”

  “You get a punch in the gut,” I finish, lunging at him with my fist. He stops me, even though he’s nearly incapacitated with laughter, and manages to get both my wrists in a death grip before I can come at him again.

  “You think you’re so hilarious,” I say, failing to keep a smile from my face.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I know I’m hilarious.”

  I roll my eyes, still grinning. “Are you done?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He lets go of my wrists and hooks my hand on the crook of his elbow.

  “You’re escorting me now?” I ask, nodding at our hand-elbow arrangement. The callouses on his hand scrape over my skin, and I picture him swinging that axe in his backyard as he sliced Stephen’s necklace into smithereens. Give him a plaid shirt and a beard, and he could pass for a lumberjack. A lumberjack with a South London flair, of course.

  He shrugs in response to my question. “Dangerous city, remember?”

  “Of course,” I say. “But it seems considerably less dangerous when you’re with a time-manipulating bodyguard.”

  “Does that make you Whitney Houston, then?” He gives me the side-eye. “Is this the part where we sing ‘I Will Always Love You?’”

  My jaw drops. “You’ve seen The Bodyguard? I didn’t think anyone under thirty knew it existed!”

  “Casey’s got a thing for older films, and her obsession with Kevin Costner is legendary,” he says with a laugh. “I’m pretty sure he couldn’t Pull in The Bodyguard, though, so we’ll take a rain check on the musical number. It just wouldn’t fit our situation.”

  I sigh dramatically. “Too bad. I’ve always wanted to do that song as a duet.”

  “Next time,” he says in a wistful tone. He pats my arm and gives me a one-sided grin.

  There’s a smile spreading across my face—I can feel it. And it’s absolutely massive, and I can’t make it stop, and the worst part is I think I know why it’s there. Oh, sweet mercy. What am I going to do now? How am I supposed to function with all these feelings going on?

  His eyes narrow. “Why are you smiling like that?”

  I snort out a laugh. “I—nothing. It’s nothing.”

  “I don’t buy it, but I will say your poor lying skills are fairly endearing. Are you really not going to tell me what that enormous smile is all about?”

  He’s got to stop asking questions. I’m not prepared to answer them just yet, and if he keeps pushing me, I might blurt out something really embarrassing.

  “Look,” I say, letting my arm fall away from his. “I’m just a little punchy from this week, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

  He stares at me.

  “Seriously. There’s nothing else to it.”

  “Hmmph,” he says, but I hook my hand on his elbow again, which seems to pacify him. This time, I manage to hold it together—except for the smile. That, I can’t shake. No one, not even Stephen, ever made me smile this idiotically.

  My necklace has been gone for a few hours, but I just now feel free.

  We continue walking toward Tower Bridge in silence. The breeze flutters my hair over my shoulders as I gaze out at the river, which twinkles and whispers under the city lights. When I turn back to Albert, I notice he’s scanning the crowd with a sharp focus. His posture is rigid.

  “I’m no expert on relaxing,” I say, “but you don’t seem terribly calm right now.”

  His eyes slide from the river to my face. “Sorry. It can be a bit hard to switch it off sometimes. Do you like pizza?”

  It takes me a second to follow his subject change. “What? Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “Great. Let’s grab a bite, yeah? I’m a bit peckish.”

  He guides me down a small access road that runs several feet below street level. There’s a restaurant called Strada at the end of the road—a small Italian place with a few metal tables on the sidewalk. The smell of dough and tomato sauce drifts past my nose and my stomach clenches with hunger.

  “It’s nothing fancy,” Albert says, opening the door. “But the pizetta pollo will blow you away. And yes, you have permission to make fun of the way I just butchered that pronunciation.”

  I laugh. “I would have butchered it worse. And for the record, ‘not fancy’ is my favorite kind of food.”

  “Mine too. How about we get takeaway and eat it on the bridge?”

  “That sounds amazing.” I nod at one of the outdoor tables. “You mind if I sit out here and text my mom while you order? Here.” I fish a ten-pound note out of my pocket.

  He waves the money away. “I might let you pay next time.”

  Next time?

  Hmm. So he expects there to be a next time.

  As Albert disappears into the restaurant, I pull my phone out and sit in one of the cold metal chairs.

  It’s just now intermission, I type to Mom. Okay if I’m home late? James wants to go out for coffee afterwards.

  Ugh. More lying. But what am I supposed to say? I’m with a guy who can rewind time and we’re on a secret outing-type thing. Might be home a bit late. XOXO, Rosie.

  Yeah. Lying is the better option. Doesn’t make it any easier to stomach, though. When my phone buzzes, it almost startles me out of my seat.

  Fine. Glad you’re having fun.

  I grimace and shove the phone in my pocket.

  “Okay,” Albert says, coming out of the restaurant. He’s got a pizza box in one hand and two cans of Coke pinned between his arm and his ribs. “Ready to go?”

  “Wow, that was the fastest service ever.”

  He shrugs. “When you save the owner’s life, you get to jump the line. And you get free food.” He nods at the pizza. “So now you definitely don’t owe me any money.”

  He saved the owner’s life. Of course. “Man, I’m impres
sed! You’ve got connections everywhere.”

  “Yeah,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s a burden, being as cool as I am. I try to bear it gracefully.”

  “I was going to offer to carry something, but after that line, you’re on your own.”

  He laughs. “Fair enough.”

  We walk back up to the road that leads to Tower Bridge. I run my hand along the blue rail, not really thinking about anything in particular, just enjoying the breeze and the chatter of everyone around us.

  “Everything okay?” Albert asks as we reach the bridge.

  I look at him. “Yeah. I’m good.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I should be thinking about my grandfather, or the Mortiferi, or my brother, but I’m not.” I smile. “It’s nice.”

  Albert adjusts his grip on the pizza box as we approach the first tower. “Good. You deserve a break.”

  We follow the sidewalk to a circular lookout point lit by a single streetlamp. Albert leads me to the edge of it so we can overlook the Thames. He sets the pizza box on the stone ledge and hands me a can of Coke, its surface already dripping with condensation.

  “Actually,” I say, “there is one thing bothering me.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “The whole James thing. I hate lying to my parents, you know? Especially right now. It feels icky.”

  He stares at me with a funny look on his face.

  “What?” I say.

  He turns back to the river and pops the top of his drink. It hisses and he brings it up to his mouth to catch the overflowing fizz. He swallows, wipes his lips, and says, “Rosie, you’re not the only one who’s been holding back around here.”

  I pick up a slice of hot pizza and blow on it, trying to act casual. “Oh?”

  “Remember earlier, when you asked me about the first person I ever saved, and I said it was the guy on the ladder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it was, but…” He hesitates with a piece of pizza halfway to his mouth. “Your question reminded me of the first person I should have saved.”

  “And who was that?” Again, the look on his face tells me I probably don’t want to know—but this time, there’s no hint of playfulness.