"You haven't heard the last of me, Frederick Galvanni," she whispered in my ear, before softly biting it. "I'll bring trouble to you yet."
I felt slightly light headed as I watched her leave, and even more light pocketed when the bus rolled up, and Lisa pulled my wallet out to pay for the fare.
She appeared on the news a day later, clusters of reporters and vans circling around a downtown soup kitchen. And there was Lisa, serving spoon in hand, and a tear upon her cheek.
The reporter on screen spoke over the din of the kitchen, which was now largely cleared of its usual occupants for filming.
"A full week after her disappearance, Karen Miles has finally been identified at Arrow County Soup Kitchen. Miss Miles, do you have an official statement on your disappearance?"
"I didn't mean for you all to be so worried," Karen stammered from behind the counter. "I just felt that I could do something to help those less fortunate. That maybe I could make a difference in the world."
She managed to smile at the camera as her manager barged onto the scene, waving away reporters, and ushering her away to a limousine waiting outside. And that day, Miles Media sold more records than any week since its inception.
I shook my head as I watched the commentators on the news, expressing how much of a better place the world would be if every girl had the same spirit as Karen. And I laughed as she stole the affection of the people.
But now, Marco and I stood alone on the steps. A new caretaker had been hired in the orphanage, and our belongings were already on the curb. The wind was blowing, the sun was setting, and our cab was waiting.
"And so," I said to Marco, turning from the orphanage and staring down the road before us, "it begins.”
Chapter 29
The invitation came on the fourteenth of April, in a small, crimson envelope with the address written in professional calligraphy.
"It came sooner than I thought," said Angel, holding it in his hands as Julian looked over his shoulder.
"Sooner indeed, brother," said Julian, and he took the letter in his own hands, holding the unbroken, wax seal to the light.
Just last month, the twins had attended a dinner party hosted by the actress Mary Nicoto, famous for her role in the heart wrenching romance In War We Die, In Love We Live, the tale of two lovers separated by the draft and reunited as nurse and soldier on the battlefield, only for one to die in the other's arms. The work had earned Mary praise from all corners of the film industry, as well as requests for her to show up in films ranging from eroticas to popular remakes of children's movies. There were even some whispers that Mary was none other than the famous Megan Suril, who had died just a generation before, and had yet to come before the Passkeepers.
Mary was hot on the market right now, and not just the market—she turned down more invitations than she accepted, and to attend one of her parties was an honor available only to the highest in the social scene.
Or, in the case of the twins, if your mother donated a small fortune to Mary's charity of choice—Fost-and-Found—an organization devoted to placing young non-original orphans with their former families instead of foster homes.
Already, the twins had been hard at work developing identities for themselves, assuming that lavish meals, countless arranged dates with feminine members of the higher class, drinking many more glasses of scotch than the doctor would approve of on a regular basis, and regular box seats to their local professional sports teams could be considered “working hard.” Foot by foot they were climbing the social ladder, using their mother as a springboard into the realm of fortune and fame. And that night at Mary's party was no different—for rumors flew across the higher social circles that Mary had recently become single after a six-month relationship, and Mary was not one to stay single for long. It was an unpassable opportunity for the plan.
And it was an undeniable opportunity for one of them, for Mary was one of the most beautiful women they had seen in all their lives.
As the twins parked their matching sports cars outside her estate and were escorted up the narrow, pebbled walkway lined with marble fountains to the atrium, they caught sight of her through the mansion's wide, front windows for the first time.
Her skin was olive, a color that complimented her green eyes like sparkling emeralds, and contrasted the curling, jet black hair that fluttered to her shoulders. She wore a dress that night, a dark red that mischievously draped too low in some places while too high in others, revealing just enough to sharpen an already-piqued curiosity.
And as she disappeared from that window, smiling at an elderly pair who had just entered the estate, Julian and Angel met each other's eyes and spoke at the same time.
"Dibs."
Together they climbed the polished stone steps, shouldering each other for the slight advantage before they reached the doorway. Mary made eye contact with them from inside, her smaller stature causing her pupils to peer slightly upward, and started moving toward them. But just as they entered, a plump face, reddened with excitement and alcohol, turned to see them, and uttered a small shriek before rushing over, cutting directly across Mary's path.
"My, my, look who it is! Angel and Julian! I absolutely love your suits, and you have grown up so well! You must tell your mother that I absolutely adored the velvet cake she sent—her chef is most talented. Come here, come here. You're not too old to give me a hug, are you?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Huddleston," said Angel as she embraced him, peering over her shoulder for another look at Mary. "I take it your husband is doing well?"
"Oh, him? He's too busy locked up with the Haley case to make it. Couldn't even spare an hour, the wretched man."
"You're too hard on him, Mrs. Huddleston. Being a court justice is no easy job, especially for the higher courts. But even a man such as him must suffer from insanity to not spend his time with you.”
“Oh, Angel, you’re making me blush,” she said, and turned embrace Julian. “You can’t fool me with that silver tongue of yours. And Julian, whatever brings the two of you here tonight?”
“Well, Mary supports a charity foundation dear to our hearts,” said Julian, raising his voice slightly and directing it toward the actress, who sipped a cocktail a few feet away, “and we convinced mother to become an annual donor. It’s for the best of causes.”
“Truly,” said Angel, stepping around Mrs. Huddleston to stand directly in front of Mary while Julian was still caught in an embrace, and offering a small bow. “Mary, truly it is my honor to be in your presence. Your work over the years for Fost-and-Found is inspirational, to say the least.”
“Why, thank you,” responded Mary, sipping from her cocktail. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
“Angel, Angel Livesgate, you should know—”
“Ah yes, one of the senator’s sons, correct?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Angel, willing his cheeks to redden as he looked to the floor. “You see, Mary, your charity means so much to me because I wasn’t always the son of a senator. No, once I, too, was an orphan, living off the streets.”
Mary’s mouth opened slightly, and her eyes softened.
“Truly?”
“Truly. Without the Livesgates, I don’t know where I would be today. Half the man I am now, at best, and a tenth if I were lucky. Which is why I would do anything to help support your charity. I have a few ideas, if you wouldn’t mind me suggesting them, on how to improve it.”
“You do? Of course, I’d love to hear them,” she said, leaning forward.
“First, I’m parched, Mary. Could you lead me to a drink? We can discuss it over a scotch, and toast to those lives less fortunate than our own.”
Mary took his elbow, and led him through the crowd, eyes staring and wondering at who now occupied Mary’s side. Before entering the next room, where the bar was located, Angel turned back to look at his brother, his eye closing in a near indistinguishable wink, and mouthing a single word.
Dibs.
Chapter 30
“Scotch,” said Angel, resting an elbow on the bar and making eye contact with the bartender, “single malt.”
The bartender nodded, reaching up to remove a small, teardrop-shaped bottle from a shelf behind him and pouring the amber liquid into the glass. Angel swished it, then sniffed before taking a sip, the alcoholic fumes filling his nostrils. Taking the drink with him, he led Mary to a small, open table, pulling her chair back for her before seating himself.
"So, you were saying?" asked Mary, her hand over the tabletop, red nails contrasting the white beneath.
"Ah, yes," said Angel, taking another sip of the scotch, "I was—"
"Mary!" came a shout from behind Angel, and he frowned as a slender figure in a blue dress rushed past. Mary's face brightened as the other woman threw her into a hug, pulling back to kiss her left cheek.
"Oh, Mary, it's been forever," she said. "And look at you, talking with a Livesgate twin of all people!"
Then Karen Miles turned around, beaming.
"You two know each other?" Mary asked.
"I don't—" started Angel, but was immediately cut off.
"Oh, don't tell me that you don't remember our fling last summer," Karen said, raising her eyebrows.
"Well, I, erm—"
"It was so romantic, the beach, the nights at the pier,” she sighed. “It's a shame it would never have worked out. You sure do know how to treat a lady, Angel."
Then she smiled, a mischievous smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth as she cupped a hand and whispered something in Mary's ear. The actress' eyes grew wide as Lisa pulled away and placed a hand on Angel's shoulder.
"Anyway, I’d best be going. Good to see the both of you."
Then she winked at Mary, and her left hand subtly ran down Angel's back to squeeze his left cheek before walking to the bar.
"Long Island," she said to the bartender, keeping her eyes straight ahead as he mixed the drink, “double.”
A man walked up beside her, waved to the bartender, and ordered.
"Scotch, single malt."
"God," she said, turning to face Julian, "just because you're twins doesn't mean you can't be original. He'll take a martini."
"What the hell was that about back there? And why the hell are you here? Frederick made it clear you were to pretend not to know us."
"I'm here because I belong here, honey. It's part of the whole pop star actress gig," she responded, sipping down nearly a quarter of her drink. "That was about me making sure he seals the deal."
"What did you whisper to her, then?"
"Oh, that?" she said, and the mischievous smile returned. "I said he was the best I'd ever had. I was a little more creative with the wording, a little more explicit in the details, but you get the point. No, Mary, will not be sleeping alone tonight."
"We could have done it without your interference."
"Of course you could have, honey. But it wouldn't have been as fun. Plus I told her that Angel over there inherited all the sexiness of both twins so you wouldn't be inclined to steal the girl."
She smiled again as Julian scowled, and she spoke again after his silence.
"Anyway, toodles!"
And she left him alone at the bar.
Chapter 31
"Look, I'm not saying I know who owns it. I'm not saying I know where it's been. All I'm saying is I can sell it to you. And I know you want it dearly."
The professor stared from behind his desk as his student spoke, the ticking of the clock behind him the only noise in the office, the time matching the availability on the "Office Hours" sign hanging from his door knob. In his hand was a single photograph, a picture that he stared at intently through his thick spectacles, before looking up at the student before him. Pete.
Pete reached forward, plucked the photograph from the professor's hand, and fluttered it in front of him. It was his picture, a picture of him holding the frame of a painting with faded colors.
"Like I said, I know it's real. I've got the eye, as you know I do from my success in your class, and you'll be able to verify it yourself."
"How much?" asked the professor, flipping over the "Office Hours" sign to "Vacant" and closing the door.
"Thirty-two grand, and you know that's about half what it should be. I was able to haggle the buyer down. Plus, I'll even exclude the transaction fee, in lieu of a small favor.”
Wrinkles crossed the old man's face as he considered, thinking so long that Pete could nearly see an extra layer of dust forming on the already unkempt desk.
“I may be in academia, boy,” said the professor, straightening a pile of papers on his desk, “but I understand the concepts of business. And there is no charity in business. What do you want then, if it is not a fee for your services? Surely you are not asking for a grade boost, considering you’re in the top ten percent of your class. And if you were, I should decline it—there are lines that I do not cross.”
“Of course not, I wouldn’t want to put your reputation in jeopardy,” said Pete, and he gestured to the wall behind the professor where seven pictures were protected by a sheet of glass. The first five were drawings, sketches from before cameras had existed, each one signed by the professor’s hand and stamped with the official seal of the Passkeepers. The remaining two were photographs, both black and white. Altogether they catalogued his past seven lives, spent in dedication to the pursuit of artistic knowledge and teaching at the university. Seven times his spirit had returned for the same purpose.
And seven cycles, Pete knew, that he had used to grow his fabled art collection rumored to be hidden somewhere on school grounds. An art collection the old man was always seeking to grow.
“Well, what is it then, boy? And what’s to stop me from reporting you, here and now, for what is undoubtedly a thinly veiled theft?”
Pete raised a finger.
“First off, I never said I stole it. I take great offence to that, professor, that you would question my staunch morality in such a fashion. And second,” he said, raising a second finger, “we both know that if you want the painting, you’ll have to go through me. And as I already mentioned, I already know you want it, and you know I’m giving it to you for a steal.”
“Spit it out, what are the terms? At this rate, and in my old age, I’ll die in this office before you tell me.”
“I don’t want cash, and I don’t want passing marks. No, all I want are names.”
“Names? Names of what?”
“Of every sleazy art dealer you’ve come across in the past who I can do business with. Every urchin, crawling in the depths of the black market, that helped you acquire your massive collection.”
The professor huffed, then threw his head back and laughed.
“This has to be a joke. I’d be murdered if my sources knew I’d given up their identities.”
“I assure you, I will act with utmost discretion.”
“And how do I know you’re not with law enforcement?”
“Because if I was, Professor, I already would have confiscated your collection,” said Pete.
“You’re assuming such a collection exists.”
“I know it exists. I’ve seen it.”
Pete passed a second photograph across the table, and the professor choked as he saw the insides of his own gallery carefully documented in the picture.
“But, but how?”
“The deal you made last month, for the sixteenth century statue of Artemis the Hunter, had a tracker inside. I followed the signal back to your hideout.”
“You bastard! You thief!”
“Again, not a thief, Professor. I merely know where your collection is, I haven’t stolen it. But I assure you, my young legs can run faster than your old ones, and I can change that fact. So, you’re left with two options. Lose your collection, the work of nearly eight lifetimes, or keep your collection, hell, even add another painting to it for next to nothing, all in exchange for a list of names.”
Pete lea
ned across the table, his eyes glinting as they met the old man’s.
“So, Professor, what’s it going to be?”
Chapter 32
"Damn it," cussed Smokestack as he snuck another pinch of chewing tobacco inside his lip. Above him in the cockpit, a yellow light flashed in tune with a warning buzzer as the nose of the jet pointed toward the ground at too steep an angle for the landing. Already the runway was approaching fast, and with the limited fuel supply he had left, he'd only have one chance at a landing.
Flying, Smokestack had discovered, was not his forte.
Everyone else in the plan had been assigned something they were skilled at from a past life—Frederick, planning. Pete, bringing together the black market for stolen and "missing" art. The twins, socializing. Lisa, seduction. But in all his years, Smokestack had never come remotely close to being a pilot, nor had he particularly enjoyed heights. The position was a mismatch. A necessary one, so that he could get to stage two of the plan, where his real talents would come into play.
In front of him the throttle jiggled as he hit turbulence, the entire plane shaking as he fought back panic, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do in that situation. Hit the flaps? Lower the gears? Change speed?
He flicked two switches that appealed to his memory of the textbook, two switches that made the engines start to whine and his speed to increase. Two wrong switches.
And now his left engine was smoking.
His fingers tightened on the seat of his chair, steering forgotten, as the plane raced toward the ground. And he braced himself for impact.
An impact that never came, as the overhead lights in the simulator turned on and the screens in front of him turned blank.
The door in the side of the cockpit opened, and his instructor stuck her head inside, a frown forming on her face. It seemed she was always frowning since he had begun working with the simulator, and she had taken up the role of guiding him.
"You are aware," she said, her voice dry, "that the Gladdensworth Aerial Academy is considered to be top notch? I've seen your test scores—everything would insist you should be adept in our program. I won't accept mediocrity, which is above your current marks for practice flights, from someone who has done so well in the past. It reflects poorly on me as an instructor."
Til Death Do Us Part Page 9