by Gwenda Bond
I choke out my own last name, barely stopping to wonder that it’s stayed the same all these years later. Being chained to a cursed name is a curse of its own.
“Is that the end?” Grant asks.
I flip the page to finish: “‘The devil and his cohort are bound to return, my boy, and it will be your task to prevent them from staying, to prevent him from bringing a black night over this world. He will claim his acts are of nature, but they are not. He is clever and powerful, and he will not be alone. But know, Grant, that you are not alone either. Let your gift guide you. Use all the strength available to you, and protect this land as we are sworn.’”
I stop and look up. “It ends there. She didn’t even sign it.”
Grant runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “So John Dee’s the devil.”
“And I’m a traitor.”
Chapter 26
GRANT
This is difficult ground to navigate. Land mine, trapdoor, quicksand ground.
The late afternoon light traces shadows under Miranda’s eyes, hollows out her cheeks. I wish for more light on her face, enough light to see inside her head. Gram’s letter, which she’d probably be horrified to discover anyone besides me has read — not even getting into the Blackwood thing — is clutched in Miranda’s hand.
“You are not a traitor,” I tell her. “The letter did not say that.”
Miranda holds her hand next to her face, flourishing like a showroom model. “Because the serpent is equal to light and sunshine, and agents of betrayal are all the rage.” She lowers her fingers, the gesture tired. Not defeated, tired. “That’s exactly what it said. Grant… maybe you shouldn’t be helping me. You have a job in all this, on the side of the angels” — her lips quirk to one side — “literally, I guess. And I have the exact opposite.”
I come close enough to lift the letter from between her fingers. I’m careful not to snatch it away. A surge of shadows appears and looms around us, talking, talking, talking.
This is the key —
All we have to rely on —
She knows it —
The devil, the devil is here HERE —
I do my best to shut them out. This is between Miranda and me. I look at her so hard I can’t see another thing.
“I’m supposed to protect the island, right?” I say. “How can I do that without protecting you? Your dad…”
“He’s the devil in this now, isn’t he?” Miranda says. She used that same flat tone when she found out about his death. “He has to be,” she continues. “He was dead. We saw his body.”
I wave the letter. Her eyes follow it like the single piece of paper has made solid everything she suspected about what her family curse means. I fold the page quickly — better to put it away, out of sight — and shove it inside my pocket.
“Gram never met a situation she couldn’t add drama to. She and my dad had that in common. But that’s not your father. You told me it didn’t feel like him when he looked at you. Your father’s gone.”
“Like the people from town were gone?”
She’s too smart for me to manipulate. And I don’t want to. The beginnings of a theory about the disappearance and the return hangs unspoken between us. What if the people who came back aren’t the ones who left, but rather ones meant to be long dead?
“If the Blackwoods are betrayers and traitors, then maybe it is my dad,” Miranda adds when I don’t reply.
“Even if it is, or some part of him, or an ancestor…” I reach for her hand, but she skitters away. “He isn’t you. You aren’t your family.”
“No. We are our families. Both of us. That’s why we’re in this. We are the historical baggage twins. That much, I get.” She blows out a breath. “If I do turn out to be the bad guy, you have to promise me something.”
I already don’t want to do whatever it is. “What?”
“This town has never treated me like anything except its trash. These people — most of them, anyway — have never done anything for me, except call me a freak. Except make me feel like one. And that’s okay. That’s what people do. They whispered about my mother after she died. She wasn’t one of us. She deserved better.”
I want to tell her she never has to do anything for the people she’s talking about, that they don’t deserve her consideration. Gram’s words prevent me, though. My family is sworn to protect the island, and I’m guessing that includes the people who live on it. My mother and father are among that number.
I’ve been the first to run from my responsibilities, but no more.
Miranda isn’t done. “They couldn’t help themselves. All that was part of my being a snake, a Blackwood. But if I’m the bad guy, you have to promise not to let me win. I’ve resented all this, all these people, for so long. But I can’t be responsible for whatever Dee, my father, whoever, has planned. I won’t prove them all right.”
Her shoulder trembles. I don’t dare touch her, but I say, “I promise not to let you be the bad guy.”
“Thank you.”
“But what does he have planned? You have the weapon, which seems to be the key to everything.” I stop when I detect a hint of sirens in the distance. Did they just start or did I not notice them before? I answer Miranda’s questioning look with, “Sirens. You hear them?”
They’re coming —
Go, boy, go —
You have your marching orders —
I press the spirits’ voices away, as much as possible.
Miranda pivots toward the sound of the sirens. We’re both facing the doorway when Mom steps into my room.
A shadow glides in front of her.
Listen — God — go — go —
“I’m sorry,” Mom says, “but what was I supposed to do?”
She has on gardening clogs instead of real shoes. I’ll bet anything she didn’t go much beyond the driveway.
I underestimated her. My mistake.
Miranda’s alarm is clear, which means I need to stay calm, even if the sirens are getting closer. “You faked leaving?” I ask.
“I’ve learned a few things from you over the years,” Mom says. “And you know how I hate borrowing your father’s car. I drive a stick like somebody your age, not mine.”
“Were you listening the whole time?”
“Your dad shouldn’t have given that to you,” she says, looking at the letter in my hand. “I wouldn’t have let him. And I won’t have you sacrificing yourself for this island. Not for anyone on it. I love you too much.”
“So you called Dad.”
Mom drops her false calm. “You drugged a police officer and an FBI agent?”
She’s pissed. I understand.
“You did what?” Miranda clamps her mouth shut as soon as the question’s out.
“It’s not good for Miranda to be mixed up in this either,” Mom says, appealing to both of us. “Your father can protect her.”
I wish.
“Mom.” I sigh the word. “I know you’re worried and feeling all maternal, but you have to let us go. If they take me in now, no college, no nothing. Jail. If we stop without finishing this then…”
“The devil?” Mom prompts. “The devil will come back and what?”
The devil is already here — go — get out —
I realize then that she waited to come in until the sirens were on the way. She’s trying to delay us. She didn’t want us to leave before the squad cars rolled in. “Why didn’t you warn them not to put on the sirens?” I ask.
“The feds were a little too upset to go the quiet route.”
Maybe I can use her worry to convince her to let us go. “If we stop what’s happening, then it won’t matter so much what I did today. Miranda’s dad is, um, back.”
The tilt of Mom’s head means she’s listening, but the sirens are getting closer. “How is that possibl
e?” she asks. Then she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. There’s no other way for me to protect you from getting in even worse trouble.”
GO, GO, NOW
Sirens. Voices. All getting louder.
“Yes,” I say.
Boy, you have to go —
Even the snake knows —
She can’t stay here —
I look with longing at the window. If only I had time to plan an escape. The voices pick up in pitch, their shadows streaking the room in frenetic motion.
When I look back, Miranda is pointing John Dee’s antique gun at my mother.
The sight isn’t my favorite. But I’m not worried — even if it does go off, the black powder won’t hurt her.
I fight to focus on the two of them.
Mom shakes her head. I don’t mistake how angry she is. “That’s clearly a museum piece, and the police will be here any minute,” she says. “Guys, I’m the adult here. I rarely pull rank, but I’m doing it now. Listen to me.”
Miranda ignores her — or pretends to. “Grant, can you help me get over to the tree? You’ll go first,” she says to me.
I doubt getting out will be that simple, but it’s worth a shot.
“Yeah,” I say, “I think we can make it.”
I cross to the window, and Mom moves to stop me. Miranda blocks her, leveling the enormous jeweled gun. “No,” she says.
Mom barely pauses, and I watch as Miranda’s finger squeezes the trigger.
I shut my eyes, a reflex against the memory of the powdery burst, a burst that shouldn’t have been possible from an unlit matchlock. It’s a magic gun, no fire necessary.
Only this time, there’s the immediate scent of burning. The first sign something is wrong.
The second is the way Mom collapses in a heap on the ground, her head rolled back against my duffel bag. A film of pale dust coats her upper body. Her face is white as a cloud.
The snake —
We keep saying —
Blood, blood, blood —
They’re here —
Miranda tosses the gun on the floor, and dives for Mom. “Oh God,” she says. “Oh God. I shot your mom. I didn’t mean to.”
I struggle to blot out the renewed roar of the spirits, the sudden rush of blood in my ears. I’m by Mom’s side, my shaking fingers on her throat, feeling through the chalk on her skin to find her pulse. It’s steady, if slow. Her breathing is regular too but shallower than normal. I gently smack her cheeks, check her pupils. No response.
They’re here and so —
The snake will know —
You get out —
Careful now, son —
The sirens are almost here — at least two cars, maybe more. I fight to think, to breathe. Mom. We’re in a terrible place. And Mom is out. What’s wrong with her?
Before I know what I’m doing, saying, I turn to Miranda. “How could you?”
“I didn’t,” Miranda says, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. I see her through a gray movement, a ghost between us. “I didn’t mean to. It’s the curse.”
Whatever the gun did, the cops won’t have a clue. We can’t leave Mom here. Dr. Whitson might be able to help us figure out how to fix it.
“We have to take her with us,” I say, a snap decision. “There’s no time.”
YES, WE SAID TO —
IT’S LOUD HERE NOW —
The sirens are so close now; they scream louder than the voices of the spirits. I swear I hear gravel flying at the end of the driveway.
I heft Mom into my arms and cradle her against my chest. I can’t carry her far like this, certainly not through the woods. Dad’s personal car — wherever she parked it — is the only possibility we have for getting away.
“I need you to be ready to help me, just in case, okay?” I say to Miranda. My voice is colder than I mean it to be.
She didn’t do it on purpose. It’s the snake. Not her.
“Carrying her like that won’t work,” Miranda says. She scoops up the offending weapon and jams it back into her bag, then motions for me to release Mom’s legs so we can each get an arm under one of her shoulders.
“She’s not nearly as heavy as my dad was,” she says.
Out —
Go —
Now you have to the devil —
Is here losing time —
You are —
The sirens reach the house, followed by the sharp sounds of car doors slamming.
“We have to go now,” Miranda says.
The protest and frenetic movements of the spirits are difficult to ignore as we go down the stairs. They urge us on. They’re not incapacitating, though. Just like at the station, it’s as if the spirits are paying attention to what’s going on. Is that even possible?
We hit the first floor. People are talking outside, and the cruiser lights project a colorless pattern against the walls in the daylight shadows.
“Back door,” I say.
I put my hand on the doorknob to the sound of the front door exploding open on the other side of the house. And we’re out.
Chapter 27
MIRANDA
I shoulder the door open. We put on an extra surge of strength to lift Sara over the threshold without speaking, neither of us looking back toward the noise of our pursuers entering the house two rooms away. Twisting his body so he can use the hand not supporting his mom, Grant closes the back door behind us.
I spot his dad coming around the side of the house before he does. Chief Rawling’s weapon is unholstered, if not trained on me. Compared to Dee’s old pistol, the black handgun gleams like a toy fresh off an assembly line.
Oh, the irony if he shoots me.
“Chief,” I say, “it’s not what it looks like.”
Truthfully I’m not sure what it looks like. No one would leap to the conclusion that moments before I accidentally shot kind, funny Sara Rawling with an antique magic weapon.
Except it wasn’t by accident — not exactly. I no longer harbor any doubt that being a Blackwood brands me a traitor. Not one part of me planned to pull the trigger of John Dee’s gun. I removed it from my bag as a phony threat. This wasn’t even like when I shot Grant — no phone, no sudden jarring sound. Only the repeat of the sirens and Sara moving toward Grant. Only the snake on my temple crawling with fire and the need to use the weapon.
I was powerless to stop the contraction of my finger on the rickety mechanism. And that blast of white powder and smoke… who knew why it shot in a different color this time? Not me.
Grant stiffens at the sight of his dad. “It’s really not. Dad, you have to let us go.”
Up close, Chief Rawling’s face looks like a combat zone. His mouth drops open as he realizes whose body we’re supporting. He rushes toward us.
“Sara… what’s wrong with her?” He doesn’t forget himself enough to speak loudly, but his questions tumble out one after another. “Will she be all right? What happened?”
“I don’t know yet,” Grant says. “I think she’s stable, but it’s hard to tell.”
Chief Rawling touches the pale skin of his wife’s cheek, relief clear when chalky powder comes away on his finger. His attention darts between Grant and me, taking in the smears of powder on our shirts and skin, then to a small storage shed at the edge of the yard.
“Over there.” He swoops in to lift Sara from our arms, carrying her easily.
We follow him to the scant cover the shed affords. Grant doesn’t wait for a better chance to bargain. “Dad, we have to get out of here. I think… we need to take her with us.”
The chief asks, “What happened? No, there’s no time for that. What are you going to do for her that I can’t?”
Sara’s peaceful face is tucked in to Chief Rawling’s chest, like a fairy tale princess sleeping under some witch’s enchantment.
“I’m going to take her to Dr. Whitson’s,” Grant says, “while we figure out how to stop what’s going on. All this” — he nods at his mother — “has to do with the missing people. You brought me here because the island needed me. I’m here. And I’m telling you there are things going on that do not follow your laws. Things that can’t be explained.”
The chief looks down at Sara’s face. “I know. I believe you. Your mom parked my car in your usual spot — I won’t tell anyone I saw you. But you find a way to get me updates.” His fingers rake across his wife’s hair, smoothing the powered strands back with a tender care that steals my breath. “I wish my mother were still here. She could fix this.”
I remember the conversation I eavesdropped on the other night and what Grant’s grandmother wrote in the letter about her son’s unwillingness to believe, his inability to understand. Apparently that’s changed.
“Dad, what changed your mind?” Grant’s surprise is plain.
“I saw the new and improved Hank Blackwood earlier.”
I go cold. The man wearing Dad’s body isn’t bothering to hide his wrongness. And the chief would recognize him even if nobody else did, after all the time he spent as Dad’s personal police caretaker.
A woman, not so far away, shouts “Chief Rawling!” and the chief turns to us. “Give me two minutes to get their attention elsewhere, and then get out of here. Grant, I know you’ll help her. Do what you can to help us all.”
Grant takes his mother from his father’s cradle hold. His dad leaves us at a fast clip, disappearing around the side of the gar-dening shed. I nearly close my eyes at the way Grant is looking at me over his unconscious mother. His sympathy is plain. He must know how terrible I feel about having done this to Sara.