That meant Tink. Mr. Alvarez was one of those teachers who called everyone by their last name.
“She’s fine,” I said. “I mean, she’s sick, but it’s not a big deal.” According to her, anyway. I wasn’t sure why Mr. Alvarez cared, since she hadn’t had class with him all year, and according to her, she never would again.
His eyebrows snapped together. “You’re sure?”
I bit my lip. Tink’s mom must have notified the school about her fainting episode. Tink couldn’t be happy about that.
I watched Mr. Alvarez. He was difficult to read, but I sensed his concern was genuine—and strangely tinged with alarm. His eyes were troubled, and there was a grim, foreboding look on his face. I couldn’t determine what it was, but he was worried about something. And given his history with Tink, it was probably something horrible. Like he thought she partied until dawn every night, and her weekends were filled with drugs, gangs, and orgies.
I hurried to dispel this notion. I found myself repeating Tink’s words. “It’s just the flu. She’s really fine.” Not that I believed that; I just hoped he would.
“Glad to hear it,” he said, but now he looked downright ominous.
And then—as my mother so often accused me of doing—I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Fainting runs in her family. And, um, she’s diabetic.”
Tink was going to kill me.
At least that got a reaction. He interrupted his frown in order to blink at me. “She’s not diabetic.”
“I meant anemic.”
Now he probably thought I was on drugs.
Instead of suggesting I take a trip to the nurse’s office, however, he gave me the ghost of a smile and went back to tapping his fingers. “I’ll let you go before you dig yourself any deeper.”
I passed Brooke Oliver on my way out. “Careful,” I warned. “He’s scarier than usual today.”
She looked at me like I was demented. I decided not to mention it to Gideon.
***
At lunch, Tink was still on my mind.
There was a reason my Knowing had flared up that evening at the Drought and Deluge, a reason I’d known I needed to help her. There was a reason I’d had that dream. Where most people saw coincidence, Gram saw connection. Patterns, she would tell me. Patterns in the universe. Events that merged, ideas that overlapped.
I thought back to my conversation with Tink: her assurances that nothing was wrong, her cheerful tone when she talked about missing school. That catch I’d heard in her voice now and then. The things she wouldn’t say. There was something. . . .
The Halloween party at the Drought and Deluge. Two were being held: one on Saturday, when the club would be its usual twenty-one plus, and one on Friday, for sixteen-and-up. The same crowd that had been there last week.
I closed my eyes, recalling the way my frequencies had suddenly cleared, the way my Knowing had screamed within me. Proximity was a factor with Knowing. Not the only one—but physical closeness helped. I couldn’t properly focus on what had happened at the Drought and Deluge while sitting at home.
Gideon’s plate clattered down beside me at our table. “Save your nap for Chemistry. We’re watching a movie.”
“I wasn’t sleeping, I was thinking,” I said. I pushed my coleslaw around with my fork. “How upset would your mom be if I missed the Halloween party?”
Each year, the Belmonte family threw a big Halloween bash. Gideon’s father converted the yard into a haunted garden, complete with fake gravestones, electrical skeletons, and flickering lights. He decorated the house in orange and black, with cotton cobwebs that dangled from ceilings and door frames. And every Belmonte was expected to be in costume, including the various Belmonte pets.
Gideon frowned. “Bad idea, Audrey.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair. Gideon might not have a Knowing, but he knew me, and I could tell from his tone of voice that he’d already guessed what I was up to.
“Something happened to Tink at the Drought and Deluge,” I argued, keeping my voice low. No one at the nearby tables was paying attention to us, but I didn’t want to chance starting more rumors. “I mean—something she’s not saying.”
“And so it makes perfect sense for you to go back there,” Gideon retorted. “What are you going to do? If there’s a problem, I’m sure your mom will look into it. Or tell the cops.”
But aside from warning me away, my mother hadn’t said anything. And she couldn’t be everywhere at once. Minneapolis wasn’t a small city, and there was St. Paul to look after, too, and the suburbs.
“I’m going to find out,” I told Gideon. “I think I can help.”
I had to go with instinct on this one. And if there wasn’t anything to it, if I was wrong, at least I’d know.
Gideon was less convinced. “Help how? You don’t even know what happened.”
“Hence going to find out.”
He hesitated, leaning back in his chair and giving me a dubious frown. “You sure you’re not just out to prove something?”
I matched his frown. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, that you’re a badass like your mom?”
He had me there. I would’ve liked nothing more than to have been parceled out a share of my mother’s abilities, and he knew it. “Well, there’s nothing like having a superhero in the family to make you feel inadequate,” I admitted. “But that’s not what this is about.”
“You swear?”
“I swear. It’s just—it’s something I need to do.”
Gideon sighed noisily, shaking his head. “Then I suppose I’d better go with you.”
9
Fall announced its presence overnight.
I woke Friday morning to the wind beating against my window and a dense cloud cover blotting out the sun. A cold rain began before Gideon arrived to pick me up in the morning, and by the time school was over, the streets and gutters were full of wet leaves. Thunder rumbled, low and ominous as night fell. The sky looked bruised. Suitable weather for Halloween, I thought.
By six that evening, I was beginning to wonder if it were some kind of sign. As a rule, I didn’t believe in omens, since nothing in life had taught me that nature was a better predictor of the future than my own intuition, but I began to feel a hint of unease. Still, it was only a storm. I wasn’t about to change my plans because of a little water.
Mom had been complaining about the storm since I arrived home. Being a Guardian meant going out even when the weather was nasty, but—as my mother often told me—that didn’t mean she had to like it. Fall and winter had the effect of making the Guardian lifestyle seem a lot less glamorous, even if the cold didn’t affect her the way it did me.
At least the rain gave me a convenient excuse to have Gideon pick me up at my house, thereby avoiding questions from his various family members.
“Honey? Are you still getting ready? Gideon’s here.”
I jerked slightly. I’d been sitting on my bed, trying to come up with some sort of plan for the Drought and Deluge. Just because I went there didn’t necessarily mean I’d discover anything. Last time, I’d had trouble sensing anything in the crowd.
“Almost!” I called down the stairs, which was a complete lie. I darted across the hall to what had been Gram’s room.
After Gram died, Mom and I had boxed up most of her things. I’d taken her books, and Mom kept some of her jewelry, but almost everything else had either been sent to the basement or given away. Only a few of her belongings remained, tucked away in her room, quietly gathering dust. Though I hadn’t been in her room for months, I remembered what it held. I pushed the door open and felt for the light switch.
“What’s your costume?” my mother called up to me. She probably hadn’t meant to shout, but her voice was strong. It was a good thing we had few close neighbors.
Gideon’s words were quieter. “She’s going as Teenage Angst,” he said.
“A clever disguise,” my mother remarked.
&n
bsp; “I heard that!” I shouted at them, then turned my attention to Gram’s room.
The air was dusty. One of the light bulbs had burned out, and though the blinds were closed, I saw flashes of lightning outside. I moved slowly about the room, pausing at her bed. Gram’s bed was neatly made, with the same quilt she’d always used. I trailed my fingers across it, feeling the patchwork. It seemed to me there was something unique about the spaces people used to occupy. Not just memory, but a quality to the air, a particular presence. Things left behind. In Gram’s room, I smelled lavender beneath the dust. I could picture her sitting on the floor across from me, her hands moving across the Nav cards as she spoke.
She wouldn’t approve of me sneaking out. But I thought she might understand.
I crossed the room and tugged open her closet. Most of her clothing was gone, but the piece I wanted hung directly in front of me. I pulled it from the hanger, dusting it with my hands. A long, red hooded cloak. It smelled of her perfume.
I held the cloak against me, running my hands down the fabric. It wasn’t the most original costume, but there was something comforting about the idea of wearing it. Gram would have enjoyed it. Gram had loved fairy tales.
She’d taught me all the classics: houses of candy and straw spun to gold and girls locked in towers. But she’d taught me her own tales as well, words that still haunted me. Stories that went beyond myth, stories that kindled within me and woke me in the dark, straining to hear voices in the wind. Stories of great battles, of villains and champions, of the Old Race, who dwelled in the Beneath, where red stars cast red shadows. Stories that told the source of our gifts, she said. A pinprick of light in a vast, cold darkness, where all hope began.
A shiver ran down my skin. Holding Gram’s cloak, the fabric pooling in my hands, I could almost hear her. Let me tell you about the dark, she would say. So that you don’t need to be afraid.
I left Gram’s room and headed downstairs.
In the kitchen, Gideon stood with my mother and Leon, eating sugar cookies in the shape of pumpkins. Mom wasn’t dressed to go out yet, which I supposed was because of the rain—even though Halloween was the one night of the year she could walk around as Morning Star and not be questioned. Last year, half a dozen little trick-or-treaters had come to Gideon’s house with eight-pointed stars painted on the backs of their sweatshirts.
Leon was in his usual slacks and button-down shirt, his tie crisp and neat. I wasn’t certain how he fought crime at all. With a cookie in his mouth and his wet hair sticking straight up, he looked about as menacing as a day-old puppy.
It was a shame I couldn’t just stick him in a kennel.
Mom lifted an eyebrow when she saw me.
“What?” I said. “I’m Little Red Riding Hood. My costume is better than his.” I hooked my thumb at Gideon, who was dressed up as some sort of video game character, or so he’d informed me. From what I could tell, he’d just put on a bandana and drawn stubble on his chin with black marker.
It was a good thing neither of us embarrassed easily.
“Don’t be out late,” Mom told me.
Outside, I heard one last blow of thunder—and then the rain stopped.
***
Thanks to the Halloween party, the Drought and Deluge was even busier than it was most Fridays. Gideon and I stood outside as the line was gradually ushered inside. In the aftermath of the storm, the sky was clean and bright, though the lights of downtown Minneapolis drowned out the stars.
“You realize this is a stupid idea, right?” Gideon said, adjusting his bandana as the line pushed forward. “And your mother will murder me if she finds out I helped.”
“So why are you helping? You’re not scared of her?”
He grinned at me. “I’m more scared of you.”
“As you should be,” I said, nodding approval.
Within the Drought and Deluge, it was difficult to sense anything. Though the air outside had cooled, the heat inside became increasingly unbearable. Wearing a heavy cloak among so many bodies was probably a bad idea, especially since most of the other girls were dressed in sleek outfits with cat-ear or devilhorn headbands.
“What’s next?” Gideon asked after we made it to the refreshments table. The watery punch and bowls of chips set out for partygoers hardly seemed worth what we’d paid to get in, but since it had been my idea to attend, I wasn’t going to complain.
“We wander,” I suggested. I turned, searching the crowd. For what, I wasn’t certain—something out of place, a particular shift of light, some hint I would recognize. The lights were low, everything shaded. I recognized a few faces, but no one I’d spoken to before.
Gideon and I wove through the throng until we found a free table on the second floor, tucked in a corner where a boy dressed as a vampire was doing some serious sucking on a bunny girl’s neck. We didn’t have much of a view of the dance floor, so I let my mind drift, listening to the sounds that flowed around me. The air was warm, thick, and beneath the music I heard glasses clinking on tables, footsteps and the rustle of cloth, voices, whispers, someone’s happy laughter floating up from below.
I considered trying to find the man from the alley. He’d worn a Drought and Deluge shirt, so I figured he must be an employee, but I hadn’t seen him when we entered the club. He’d been rather unsettling, and the thought of encountering him again made me nervous, but if he hadn’t hurt Tink, maybe he’d been telling the truth; maybe he had been there to help. Either way, he must know something. It was possible I could get a sense from him—provided he was present at the club.
Closing my eyes, I tried to focus on him. I hadn’t seen him clearly, so I concentrated on what I’d felt: the shiver in his voice, that smile that didn’t reach his eyes. In the back of my mind, some nagging voice whispered that perhaps I shouldn’t try to speak with him, or find him, or read him, that perhaps he was dangerous, but I dismissed it. I wouldn’t confront him alone, and if he meant me harm, I’d be able to sense it.
Except, as it turned out, I couldn’t sense anything. No images or impressions, no fleeting emotion, no hint of Knowing. If the man were there, he wasn’t close enough for me to get anything from him. So much for that idea.
Beside me, Gideon let out a long sigh and said, “Well. This is exciting.”
Distracted from my musings, I opened my eyes and turned toward him. From the look on his face, I knew he was about to remind me we could be back at his house, which might not be the most fashionable scene in the Twin Cities, but at least had chairs that didn’t stick to the floor.
I decided to strike first. “You’d really rather be at home, watching your grandma scare trick-or-treaters?” That was another Belmonte tradition. It wasn’t Halloween until some poor kid ran screaming into the street. I loved Granny Belmonte, but she didn’t need a costume to look undead.
Not to mention, I knew how those parties went. Last year, his mother had actually made us bob for apples.
Gideon gave me a grumpy look and crossed his arms.
“You have to admit your family is weird,” I said.
“Pot. Kettle.”
“Say what you will, but I guarantee you my mother has never bobbed for apples.” I glanced away. An awkward combination of spooky music and some dance remix played overhead. The heat made me a little light-headed. I wished again I’d thought of a more practical costume.
Then a thought struck me. What was it Tink had said?
She’d gone into the alley because she needed air.
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I said, leaving Gideon at the table and heading for the stairs. I had a sense of—something. A certain pull. I trailed my hand down the railing. I pictured Tink, the swirl of her dress, her footsteps fading, the way her hair caught the light. In my mind, I followed her path: the dance floor, where suddenly everything was too bright and confined, the overbearing smell of cologne and sweat and grease; the hall, where a door swung open to the alley and the cool gleaming night; and then outside, the wind b
risk against her skin.
The night air, I thought.
The sweet night air.
The crowd was thicker on the first floor, a tangle of limbs and costumes and voices. I stepped near the dance floor and skimmed my eyes over the throng. There was an energy here, a rush of pulses, something communal that ran through my blood. I felt what Tink must have—the flicker of panic beneath my ribs, the need for space. The urgency. Turning, I headed for the ladies’ room.
A jolt of Knowing surged through me.
It wasn’t a sound, precisely, but I heard it. Like a whisper, a voice beckoning, frightened, far away.
Then I saw her. I knew her by the fall of her hair. The long dark sway of it, near her hips, curled just slightly. Iris St. Croix. The girl who wore the triple knot. I caught only a glimpse: sleeve and shoe and black hair disappearing down the same hall Tink had taken.
Coincidence, the rational part of me said.
Connection, my Knowing screamed.
And I thought—It’s happening again.
I should have stopped. I should have turned and gone back and alerted someone, anyone. I should have found Gideon. But I didn’t. I could only move forward, slowly at first, my hand touching the wall as I followed Iris around the corner. It was exactly the same: the smell of bleach, the closing door. The corridor was empty. Iris had gone into the alley.
I hurried the last steps, not sure what I would find. My breath came fast as I shoved the door open and rushed out into the night.
Outside, the street had grown cold. I saw my breath on the air before me. The alley was empty. There was nothing but brick and trash cans and the gray siding of the nearby buildings. A handful of feathers, blown up by the wind, swayed downward onto my cloak. No trace of Iris.
I called to her. My voice sounded harsh and loud. A strange dread seized me. I thought of Kelly Stevens disappearing into a hazy twilight. That could have been Tink’s fate. Perhaps the night itself would have swallowed her, seizing her, taking her— somewhere. I imagined a hole opening in the world, shadows spreading across her ankles, dragging her down into it.
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