Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix)

by Diana Rodriguez Wallach

  “I think I see it,” Marcus said, gesturing to a pub and its adjoining bed-and-breakfast, a gold logo displayed on a brick wall. The front of the building featured weathered white siding and large plate-glass store windows, showing a pub interior full of aging wooden booths and a rustic tin ceiling. A small inn rested above it, its windows lined with black shutters and its roof pitched. The entire structure looked like it had been transplanted from Beacon Hill in Boston. Except for the castle in the background. Because what self-respecting town doesn’t have a castle on a hill? They are to Europe what McDonald’s restaurants are to the United States—old, plentiful, and, lately, overlooked.

  I squeezed past a young couple holding a toddler wearing protective plastic goggles, as they watched a parade move along the ancient cobblestone streets, torches in hand. Only this parade had no feathered costumes or giant balloons, no two-story colorful floats or celebrity performances. Instead, there were lines of marching people who appeared, to this American, to be dressed in train conductor uniforms bedazzled by Michael Jackson. The men’s dark sport coats featured gaudy glittered rhinestone patterns worthy of a moonwalk, only instead of a single sequined glove, they wore sparkling train conductor hats, red neckerchiefs, and carried flames on sticks. All were filing toward a giant pile of wood and kindling that they planned to light ablaze at midnight—in a narrow street, lined with buildings built hundreds of years ago, mostly constructed of wood, surrounded by hordes of people, many of them drunk.

  There was no way this holiday would ever exist in America.

  “All right, we need to find this place before someone seriously singes my hair,” I joked, still clutching Marcus’s leather sleeve as we edged past a Tudor-style shop selling used books with a picture-perfect flower box anchoring its front window. More kindling. “I saw a five-year-old holding a torch back there.”

  “Americans are so uptight.”

  “Not playing with matches makes us uptight? Haven’t you heard of Smokey Bear?”

  “No,” Marcus stated plainly. “And if you think this is bad, you should see Las Falles de Valencia. Puts this little fiesta to shame.”

  “Oh, so the Spanish light things on fire, too?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Bigger than this,” he said proudly. Then he cocked his head in a teasing way. “Americans, Puritanos.”

  “You can’t call me a Puritan in a crowd of Brits. They invented the term.”

  He stopped short and pulled me toward him, gripping my waist. “I didn’t mean to offend.” He gazed into my eyes from inches away.

  There was smoke and literal fire encircling us. Only the heat I was feeling right now seemed to be coming from within me rather than the torches around me. I stared at his lips. We hadn’t had much time to be romantic. After rescuing my sister from super spies in Venice (following her captivity of four months, one week, and two days), I finally had my family back—my sole wish since I walked in on a claw-foot tub full of her steaming-hot blood. But Keira and I barely had time to enjoy our reunion before we learned of the sudden disappearance of Marcus’s brother.

  Marcus needed our help, and we owed him. So we aborted our reunion celebration and spent the last two weeks trying to locate Antonio, who was supposedly still working for Dresden but missing in action ever since Keira was rescued. This led to two theories—one, that Department D dangerously targeted Antonio because Marcus helped me find my sister or two, that he was safe and purposely laying low on the advice of Allen Cross. Julian, the billionaire son of a former Department D colleague, and Charlotte, our best friend and tech genius, confirmed that the last call made to Antonio’s phone was from Allen Cross, who had the honor of being the only person who knew my parents who was actually trying to help us. Except Cross insisted that he only left Antonio a voicemail informing him of our situation in Venice, just in case Marcus’s association with my family’s mess put Antonio in danger. If Department D went after my sibling, why not Marcus’s? We didn’t know if Antonio got the warning in time.

  But Charlotte was hacking around the clock to try to locate him. Despite many pleas from Keira and me, Charlotte refused to return to her regularly scheduled life in Boston, insisting she’d “seen too much to go back now.” (She’d been watching a lot of Netflix in the wee hours of the morning while scouring databases.) Instead, she moved to London and had been working alongside Julian. During that time, Antonio’s passport, credit cards, and bank accounts were completely inactive. Then, this morning, his name suddenly popped up on the registry for a B&B at the Guy Fawkes festival in Lewes, England—only an hour and a half from where we were staying in London. This from a man who hadn’t so much as touched an ATM for weeks and who hadn’t called his parents or brother to let them know he was okay. I thought it suspicious, Marcus thought it lucky, and Julian thought it a potential setup.

  But like me, Marcus was willing to walk into that setup willingly if it meant finding his brother at some quaint bed-and-breakfast. And like him, I wasn’t going to let him go alone.

  Keira wasn’t too thrilled about our plan, but there was no way I was letting her accompany us on a potential Department D setup operation. I’d already lost her once. And given I was the one who found her, I knew I could handle myself. I’d proven that, and I was not going to argue this point with her or anyone else. Marcus needed me, and I was going.

  He squeezed my waist. “Thank you for coming here, for helping me,” Marcus said for the millionth time.

  “Dresden Kids stick together.” I repeated his infamous line.

  “I don’t know if I could have done this by myself.”

  “I know the feeling.” I thought back to my sister, to Marcus saving me in Cortona while Luis cut me with a knife. I was plagued by nightmares—sometimes of Keira’s dead body in our tub, sometimes of Craig Bernard fighting me in Venice, and sometimes of Luis Basso pointing a gun at my head. I didn’t tell anyone about what woke me up at night (I didn’t want Keira to feel worse), but the puffy purple circles under my eyes were becoming more noticeable.

  “Once we find Antonio, we’ll be okay. It’ll be over,” Marcus said, lightly brushing my dark circles with a fingertip, his voice so monotone it was obvious even he didn’t believe his words. We weren’t safe. Keira and I were living under assumed names. Marcus dropped out of high school. Charlotte was hacking databases against a criminal empire. And Julian was funding the entire anarchist operation.

  We were so far from okay, I didn’t even remember what it felt like.

  “I’m sure Antonio’s here,” I lied, not really knowing what we’d find but really hoping it wasn’t a B&B full of assassins. Or worse, another bloody tub.

  Marcus nodded too quickly, eyes distant, like he was forcing himself to agree with my words. Then he pressed his forehead to mine and sighed, his whole weight leaning into me. I closed my eyes, feeling his hair brush against my cheekbones.

  “I have to find him,” he whispered, his mouth incredibly close.

  “I know.”

  He breathed against me, the heat of his face adding to the heat in the burning air.

  Then his face shifted slightly, his lips moving toward mine, almost blindly, like he was searching for me by scent in a pitch-black room. When we touched, it was barely a flutter—a kiss so sad, it felt desperate. And the sensation was oddly familiar—only I had never been on this end. I could sense him trying to forget the world, forget his fears, forget where he was. I knew what he needed. I had been there myself not too long ago.

  So I grabbed his hair in my fists. I pressed my mouth hard, moving my tongue against his until I felt a sudden shift within Marcus, like a light turning on. He pushed me against the brick wall of the building behind us, the stones sticking to the wool of my peacoat as his mouth moved with a new excitement. I moaned slightly, and he slid his hand behind my head, gripping my hair, protecting my scalp from the hard brick and pulling me closer.

  Around us crowds cheered; the bonfires must have been starting. I could feel torches glowin
g brighter, hotter, closer.

  Much closer.

  I cracked open my eyes and was instantly startled by a man standing inches away, a fiery torch in his hand. He was watching us with a creepy grin on his face. I pushed back Marcus—visions of Department D, Craig Bernard, Luis Basso, and endless threats of setups flashing in my head. Marcus jerked, panic spreading across his flushed face as he noticed my reaction.

  Then he turned toward the stranger.

  Only then, did the man move the torch closer, illuminating his skin.

  That was when I recognized his familiar features—the dark hair, the double dimples, and the near-black eyes that clearly ran in their bloodline.

  “Hola, hermano.”

  Acknowledgments

  Before I even got to Boston University, I met a student who talked about a professor in the College of Communication who used to be a communist spy during the Cold War. This man specialized in disinformation, before emigrating to the U.S. and teaching budding journalists how to tell when they were being fed false information. I never had the pleasure of taking a class with this professor; he retired before I got there, but something about his story stuck with me. So when I decided to write a YA spy thriller and needed to create a specialty for Anastasia’s parents, I instantly thought of this spy from BU and the concept of disinformation. Thus, I would be remiss if I didn’t start my acknowledgements by thanking Lawrence Martin-Bittman, a real-life 007 from the Czech Republic and now a painter in Massachusetts. You were my first spark of inspiration for this book. Thank you for meeting me in your home all those years ago, and thank you for corresponding with me on email since. Without you, Department D wouldn’t exist.

  ...

  There is someone else who has supported this book since the very first draft in 2008—my agent, Taylor Martindale Kean. You were an intern when I first dreamed up Anastasia, and you were one of my first readers. I’m so glad that you remembered this book years later when I decided to dive into the manuscript yet again, and I’m beyond delighted that we’ve accomplished this together. I believe this is how it was always meant to be. Thank you!

  ...

  To my editor, Alycia Tornetta, I will forever be indebted to you for seeking an “international YA thriller” right when we decided to go on submission. I’ve loved working with you, and I know you are the perfect editor to help me craft this trilogy. Thank you to everyone else at Entangled, especially Stacy Cantor Abrams and Melissa Montovani, who has supported this book, through countless book covers and millions of promotional questions. You truly go above and beyond.

  ...

  Thank you to the friends, family, and colleagues who read Anastasia in one of its many drafts. Your notes made this book what it is today, and the generosity of your time and effort is greatly appreciated. Specifically, major thank-yous go out to: Jenoyne Adams; Melissa Jeglinski; Megan Kelley Hall; Aisha O’Connor; Ellen Larson; Candice Smith; my BFF since seventh grade, Melanie Raby; and my wonderful copy editing in-laws, Paula and Larry Wallach.

  ...

  Special thanks to Chris Klock for taking every author photo I’ve ever had. You’re an awesome photographer (and your wife, Sheri, is pretty awesome, too). Thank you to those who have helped with marketing this series, from social media advice to interning to media attention, specifically: Riley Londres, Jenee Chizick, Kari Oriolo, and my teenage book-blogging niece, Marissa Nicole Rodriguez. Thank you my BU family for help with marketing and networking, specifically Steven Schaefer, Evan Schapiro, and Tom Fiedler. Thanks to my awesome Street Team members, I love and appreciate all your enthusiasm!

  ...

  Thank you to the generous friends and family who let me use their homes as a writing retreat—Jen and Ed Hanna, and Matt and Cristina Wallach. It’s amazing what peace and quiet can accomplish.

  ...

  To all of my friends—my Ridley Girls, my college friends, and my new mommy friends and neighbors—thank you for encouraging me and acting interested as we shared a few drinks. Thank you to all the family members who resisted asking me “how the writing was going” even though I know they wanted to. I hit the jackpot when I joined the Wallach family, and I thank you all for your support.

  ...

  Thanks to my Rodriguez family! My brother, Lou Rodriguez, is probably the most generous entrepreneur in the world, and he’s always been willing to introduce me to anyone who might help promote my books. My sister, Natalie Jansorn, has been a copy editor for me and has never questioned why I keep writing. Thank you to Nicole and Prao for always being fun. And of course, a special thank you to my parents, who read the first draft of this book and insisted every day since that it would be on the shelf one day. Your belief in me, and this novel, kept me from giving up.

  ...

  If there’s one person who deserves a lifetime achievement award for supporting my writing, it would be my husband, Jordan. You’ve read and edited this book more times than anyone else. You never told me I was crazy when I said I was going to try to rewrite it one more time. You supported me emotionally and financially to make sure I had room to give this writing thing a shot. And you’ve always dreamed bigger for me, and this book, than I ever could. Thank you for loving me.

  ...

  To my kids, Juliet and Lincoln, I hope one day you read this and realize you were toddling around when I first sat down with a blank page. I know the stories ahead of you will be epic, and I can’t wait to watch them unfold.

  About the Author

  Diana Rodriguez Wallach is not the child of super spies, as far as she knows. But she is an avid traveler, and every scene in her books comes from a place she has lived or visited—from her senior year apartment in Boston, MA to the hotel where she stayed in Cortona, Italy. In addition to the Anastasia Phoenix series, Diana is also the author of the award-winning Amor and Summer Secrets series; the Mirror, Mirror short story collection; and essays in both Dear Bully: 70 Authors Tell Their Stories and Latina Authors and Their Muses. She is an advisory board member for the Philly Spells Writing Center, and is a Creative Writing Instructor for Johns Hopkins University’s Center for Talented Youth. She holds a B.S. in Journalism from Boston University, and currently lives in Philadelphia with her husband and two kids. But of course, this all could be a masterly crafted piece of disinformation…

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