by Carter Roy
“Okay,” I said. I wasn’t happy about any of it. Greta, Mom, Dad—no one was who they were supposed to be. “So all this time, he was one of the bad guys.”
“One of the worst guys,” my mom said, squeezing my hand. “Sorry, honey.”
The doors at the back of the hangar suddenly banged open and Greta came running out. She embraced her father and then they got to work tying up the fallen Bend agents—the sort of father-daughter activity they did together all the time, I guess. They’d nearly finished when Dawkins strolled out, leading Sammy and Ogabe, who still carried the Pure woman in his arms. Dawkins took in everything with a quick, wild-eyed look, then proclaimed, “Strong work, team!”
He drifted outside, to where Mom and I stood in the sun. “I must tell you, Bree, your son has been truly heroic, and kept himself—and Greta—out of trouble.”
“Did you know about my dad, too?” I asked Dawkins.
He glanced at my mother and back to me. “Look, Ronan, your mother didn’t know for sure—none of us did. But even if she had been certain, there is no easy way to give a boy that kind of news about his father. It would have destroyed you.”
How would I have reacted if my dad had gotten to me first, before my mom? What if he’d told me about his work with the Bend Sinister, revealing that my mother was a liar and had a secret life? Would I have sided with him? Signed on for his vision of the world to come? Would I have felt for my mom what I now felt for my dad—that sickening swirl of disappointment, betrayal, and fear?
Dawkins raised up a fist. “Instead, she made you your own man. Gave you the means to make the right decision—Blood Guard or the Bend Sinister?—should you ever be faced with that choice. One that, as your mother, she never wanted you to have to make.”
“I am truly sorry, Ronan,” my mom said, looking straight into my eyes. “More than I’ll ever be able to express to you. But I don’t regret a single thing I’ve done.”
“Nothing?” I asked, looking right back at her. “You named me Evelyn.”
Mom smacked my shoulder. “Your great-uncle was the best man I ever knew. And a member of the Blood Guard.”
“You really need to get over that already,” Dawkins said, smiling. “It’s a grand name.”
CHAPTER 28:
OUR FATES ARE DECIDED
A bit after that, Greta found me and asked, “Are you okay, Ronan?”
I didn’t really know what to tell her. I wasn’t hurt or anything, but I was confused and a little bit angry. I wasn’t okay at all. Not that I could explain any of that to Greta. So instead I said, “I’m glad your dad wasn’t hurt.”
Her smile was big enough to make me forget for a minute why I was upset. “Me too! And I’m happy about your mom.” She looked out at the choppy waters of the Potomac and asked, “Did she manage to find and rescue your dad? He’s all right?”
“It was all a dumb mistake,” I lied, turning away from her and back to the hangar. “My dad was never in any danger at all.”
Just then, a squadron of Blood Guard arrived in a half-dozen white vans and saved me from having to say anything more. They were too late to rescue the Pure or to stop my dad from escaping, and for some reason I felt guilty about that—like it was all my fault somehow. The eighteen men and women were led by a cranky Overseer named Bruce, who barked orders while his team quickly cleared the facility.
“All of these people are part of the Guard?” I asked Dawkins when he came back out.
He shook his head. “They’re not all Guard proper, no, but they…help us. Every organization needs people who keep the business organized—even a secret society of protectors.”
They herded the bound Bend Sinister agents into one of the vans, loaded the comatose Pure woman into an ambulance, and packed away the Eye of the Needle.
“I just pray we can find some way to reverse engineer this thing,” Bruce muttered, scratching at his beard. “Because I don’t know how long we can keep her alive without her soul. But if we can get this thing to put souls back into bodies, maybe we can undo what they’ve done.” He scowled at the seven of us. “Dawkins, Ogabe. Truelove, Sustermann. No one blames any of you for what happened here today, but—how should I put this?—it was a complete and utter disaster.”
“Yes, sir,” my mom said. “Though I do—”
But Bruce talked right past her. “The Bend Sinister made off with this woman’s soul. Their Head escaped. This Needle’s Eye device has been ruined. That you’re alive at all is more luck than anything else.”
“We understand what you’re saying, sir,” Dawkins began, “but the situation—”
“The situation is as I’ve described it—a mess,” Bruce said, glancing at his watch. “Debriefing is at the Arlington safe house at thirteen hundred. After that, we mobilize.”
Bruce swung himself into the passenger seat of the lead van. As they all began to roll away, he leaned out the open window and said, “Oh, and Ogabe? Put your head back on. You look ridiculous.”
We stood in silence as they drove off, all a little ashamed, I think.
All of us except for Dawkins. “That gives us two hours,” he said, breaking the quiet. “Anyone else hungry?”
Mr. Sustermann drove us all to the safe house in one of the white vans Bruce and his gang had left behind. The whole time, my mom and Dawkins argued about how best to reattach Ogabe’s head.
“Glue won’t do the trick,” Dawkins said.
“I can sew a nice cross-stitch with some thread,” my Mom suggested.
“Thread is not going to keep a massive head like Ogabe’s in place,” Dawkins objected. “We need something strong and durable so he can keep it together until the wound has sealed itself up.”
So duct tape it was.
I wondered exactly how the smooth skin on the end of Ogabe’s neck would reattach itself to his head, but no one else seemed worried, and before long we’d pulled into the driveway of a nice-looking two-story house set back behind a line of trees.
In the garage, while Ogabe held his head in place, Dawkins wrapped his neck round and round with silver tape. He bit off the excess and patted down the end. “There you go! Good as new.”
Under the tape, his body parts sealed themselves with a barely audible, disgusting, wet slurp sound.
“Wild,” Sammy said in a hushed voice. “That’s all you have to do? You’re all better now?”
Ogabe grimaced and cleared his throat. “Hardly! I’ll have to wear this tape for a week at least,” he said in a voice that was a lot higher than I’d been expecting. He scratched under the edge of the tape. “And it itches something fierce.” He looked at his reflection from a few different angles. “This looks terrible. How am I going to be inconspicuous with a band of tape around my neck?”
Dawkins put an arm around his shoulder. “My friend, you’re six foot eight and two hundred and eighty pounds. There is nothing you can do to be inconspicuous.”
As if in argument, Ogabe’s stomach growled.
“My thoughts exactly!” Dawkins said. “You don’t have to tell me twice!”
“The big dilemma,” Dawkins said a half hour later, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “will be what we do with you three.”
We were sitting around a big trestle table inside the safe house, the remains of lunch in front of us. “Normally,” Mr. Sustermann said, “you kids wouldn’t be allowed to know about any of this—not the Blood Guard, not the Bend Sinister, nor any of our activities. What we do is secret, and has been for centuries.”
“It’s a little too late for that now, isn’t it, Dad?” Greta asked.
Mr. Sustermann busied himself with his food, not looking up.
“There is a method by which the Guard can remove memories,” Ogabe said, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s not very, um, precise. In order to erase a few days, they have to blank out years.”
“NO,” Sammy said, standing up. “No way. My memories are the only place where my mom is still alive.” He grabbed Greta’s arm. “
Tell ’em, Greta. Ronan? You won’t let them do that.”
“Mom,” I pleaded, catching her eye. “You can’t. That’s as bad as what the Warners were going to do.”
“Everyone take it easy,” Dawkins said. “Ogabe’s not recommending anything. He’s just telling you one method Bruce and the other Overseers may suggest. Me, I have other ideas.” He smiled. “But first: Ronan, what do you think should be done?”
It seemed obvious. “We join the Blood Guard.”
Mr. Sustermann laughed as though I’d made a joke, but then stopped when Dawkins said, “Precisely!”
“Absolutely not,” my mom said, pulling her eyes from me and glaring at Dawkins. “I can’t believe you’d suggest that!”
“But Ronan’s right,” Greta said. “The only safe place for us is in the Guard. The Bend Sinister know who we are. They’re never going to leave us alone.”
“And me,” Sammy said. “Don’t forget me.”
“Trust me,” Ogabe said. “No one is forgetting you.”
“Isn’t this what you’ve been training me for all my life?” I said to my mom. I glanced at Greta. “What did you think was going to happen?”
“You’re only thirteen,” my mom said. Her voice was deadly calm—usually the sign a storm was about to be unleashed.
“And how old were you when you were recruited, Bree?” Dawkins asked her.
She said nothing, which I knew meant she didn’t like what she’d have to answer.
“The Blood Guard is in a shambles,” Dawkins continued. “Bruce told me we’re not the only group attacked in the past twenty-four hours, and we can only assume the Bend Sinister has more dire plans afoot. Our identities have been compromised. And we have allowed a Pure soul to be captured.” He swept his gaze over everyone at the table. “There is a battle coming, and soon. We are going to need all the help we can get.”
“I’m ready,” I said, but Dawkins raised a hand for silence.
“No one is ready for what’s coming, Ronan,” he said, sighing. “Nonetheless, I’d rather we tried to make you three as ready as you possibly can be. Which means training. It won’t be easy. In fact, more candidates fail than succeed. But that is what we can offer you—likely failure—if you want it.”
“I do,” I said, looking at my mom and daring her to tell me no.
She seemed to be evaluating me. After a moment, she nodded.
“That’s what I want, too,” Greta said.
Her dad and Dawkins exchanged a look, and I guessed what it meant: Greta was always going to need protection anyway; what better way than to surround her with the Blood Guard and to train her in their methods?
That or they were plain terrified of telling Greta “no” about anything. I know I would be.
“I want that, too,” Sammy said, sitting down again. “I mean, I don’t want to go to another foster family. That has not worked out so great, if you know what I mean.”
“The Guard can arrange a new family for you,” Ogabe said. “One within the Guard. One where you’ll be safe.”
“Maybe,” Sammy said. “I’ll think about it and let you guys know my decision.” He dropped his eyes to his plate and smiled.
“Fair enough,” Dawkins said, clapping his hands together as a car pulled into the drive. It was Bruce and three others. “Time for our debriefing.”
They made us wait in the living room.
Sammy, Greta, and I waited on a couch, glancing back over our shoulders every now and then at the closed dining room doors where our parents, Dawkins, and Ogabe argued our fate with the other four Blood Guard Overseers.
“Promise you won’t let them mess with my head,” Sammy said.
“They’ll have to get through us first,” I told him.
“Getting through you’d be easy,” he replied. “Greta, though, is another story.”
It was frustrating, sitting there. “Why is this taking so long?” I wondered. The longer we waited, the more likely it was that woman would die, or the Bend Sinister would capture another Pure’s soul, or my dad would get so far away that we’d never stop him, or—
“Isn’t it weird that my dad and your mom are both in the Blood Guard, Ronan?” Greta asked, turning to me. “Who do you think they’re guarding?”
“Beats me,” I said, thinking of the Verity Glass in my pocket. I’d have to make sure Greta never looked at herself through it. “Maybe they’re not guarding anybody right now.”
“Maybe it’s you, Ronan,” Greta said. “Maybe that was how you survived that fire in Brooklyn. Maybe the Blood Guard saved your bacon.”
“Nope,” I said, thinking of my dad and feeling my cheeks grow warm. “That was just dumb luck, plain and simple.”
“And we know it can’t be me,” Greta said, scoffing. “I pick locks. I’m—I’m proud and sort of boastful. I even boast about boasting, that’s how bad I am.”
“You are pretty bad,” I agreed, though I knew the Pure didn’t lead perfect lives—but no need to tell Greta that. “I wonder who it could be?”
“Guys, isn’t it obvious?” Sammy said. “It’s me. My foster parents had me on that table and were going to run me through that Eye of the Needle thing.”
“That’s true,” Greta said. “Maybe it is you.”
“I totally bet it is,” Sammy said. After a second, he said, “So what’s a Pure?”
Dawkins’ voice boomed out before I could respond. “Never mind that, Sammy. The question you all should be asking is, what comes next?” The doors to the dining room had opened, and the eight adults had come into the living room. Greta, Sammy, and I stood up together and turned. So this was it. Our fate.
“Sure,” I said. “So tell us: what comes next?”
“Well, Ronan, Greta, Samuel,” Dawkins said, raising his arms like a salesman about to make a pitch, “it’s going to be a complete doolally, I’m afraid. You three will likely find it more than a little bit dangerous and quite probably a whole lot insane.”
I grinned at him. “You’re in luck,” I said. “I’m perfect—we’re perfect—for the job.”
A smile broke out across Dawkins’ face. “Exactly the response I expected,” he said. “So gather round. We’ve got work to do.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If the idea of the Thirty-Six is even remotely real, then I’ve had the embarrassing good fortune to be surrounded by more than my fair share of these blessed people. Lucky me.
The following all deserve much more consideration than I could ever hope to fit on a single page:
Margery Cuyler, Kelsey Skea, Tim Ditlow, and Larry Kirshbaum of Amazon Children’s Publishing—good-humored trailblazers who take risks with new writers;
Melanie Kroupa, gentle editor of endless patience and perfect pitch, as well as Kerry Johnson, who repaired many unspeakably wonky sentences; Katrina Damkoehler and Vivienne To, who made the book look fun and beautiful;
Alice Swan, Genevieve Herr, Stephanie Thwaites, Sam Smith, and John McLay—UK stalwarts, pitiless in their smarts and sharp-eyed wit;
Ted Malawer and Ruth Katcher of the Inkhouse, both of whom give their everything in support of their writers and their stories;
Dan Bennett, Bruce Coville, Christopher Stengel—true friends all;
Beth Ziemacki, without whom, nothing.
Raoul, feline sidekick for nearly seventeen years. He passed away during the revisions on this book, and his absence is felt daily. Good night, little guy.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE: PLAYING WITH FIRE
CHAPTER 1: TRUST NO ONE
CHAPTER 2: THE MOST DANGEROUS MOM ALIVE
CHAPTER 3: I TAKE A BATHROOM BREAK
CHAPTER 4: YOU’VE GOT TO PICK A POCKET OR TWO
CHAPTER 5: PUSH COMES TO SHOVE
CHAPTER 6: ALL MESSED UP AND NO PLACE TO GO
CHAPTER 7: THE RIGHT MAN FOR THE WRONG JOB
&nbs
p; CHAPTER 8: WHEELS OF MISFORTUNE
CHAPTER 9: GRAND THEFT AUTO
CHAPTER 10: UP THE CREEK
CHAPTER 11: WE GET TAKEN FOR A RIDE
CHAPTER 12: THE PERFECT FAMILY GETAWAY
CHAPTER 13: A NOT-SO-GREAT ESCAPE
CHAPTER 14: A HAND FOR A HAND
CHAPTER 15: HATCHET JOB
CHAPTER 16: NEVER SAY DIE
CHAPTER 17: THE SOUL OF THE MATTER
CHAPTER 18: WAITING FOR THE END OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER 19: JACK DAWKINS, FISHER OF WALLETS
CHAPTER 20: MY WAY ON THE HIGHWAY
CHAPTER 21: A THOUSAND LITTLE TESTS
CHAPTER 22: GRETA, PURE AND SIMPLE
CHAPTER 23: OGABE LOSES HIS HEAD
CHAPTER 24: DOWN A GIANT’S THROAT
CHAPTER 25: MAN ON FIRE
CHAPTER 26: THE EYE OF THE NEEDLE
CHAPTER 27: ALL IN THE FAMILY
CHAPTER 28: OUR FATES ARE DECIDED
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS