Perilous: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 7)

by Cidney Swanson

  Fun. Fun was Gwyn’s antidote for everything. Sam wished she could be more like Gwyn, but in Sam’s experience, “fun” never fixed anything that really mattered.

  Halfway through the drive, Will turned invisible to write a message to Sam.

  LISTEN, I’M SORRY.

  For what? wrote Sam.

  I DON’T KNOW.

  And that was the problem.

  3

  THOSE WERE DARK DAYS

  A blazing fire greeted Will and the others as they rushed inside from the cold. Will wasn’t a fan of any weather under 50 degrees, and Midgard Adventure! Camp was higher and colder than Las Abs.

  “Good to see you, man,” Will said to Skandor as they thumped each other’s backs. Will had enjoyed getting to know Skandor over the past year-plus. Skandor’s inclusion in the group of ripplers seemed natural. Even better, it had meant Sir Walter was back to training them both in combat styles involving rippling. Well, once Sir Walter had gotten over his belief he couldn’t ripple anymore. Will shivered just imagining how awful that must’ve been.

  Sam was already beside Skandor’s Oma, presenting her with Sylvia’s gift. It shouldn’t bug him, the gift. Sylvia was just being kind, generous like always. He’d apologized to Sam. He hoped she understood. Will didn’t know why it mattered to him so much that he demonstrate his independence. Mick said it was his inner cave-man trying to prove his worthiness as a potential mate. Will had rolled his eyes, but maybe there was something to that.

  Sam, smiling, looked up and caught his eyes. She gestured for him to come over to greet Skandor’s Oma.

  “Happy birthday, Oma,” he said, kissing the old woman’s soft cheeks, once on each side the way she liked.

  “My little Wilhelm,” she said, delighted to see him.

  Will had decided long ago it was easier to let her call him “Wilhelm” than explain the genesis of his actual given name, Willamette, which was a river in Oregon next to the McKenzie, for which his sister had been named.

  Skandor passed out marshmallow roasting skewers and soon Will was engaged in contests with Skandor: fastest s’more-ready marshmallow; first marshmallow to flame up and dissolve; most perfectly golden-brown. Will made a s’more for Sam with the perfectly golden-brown one. She smiled and ate it, which was a good sign. Things were good between them after all, thought Will. He felt his shoulders relax. He couldn’t live if things weren’t good between them. It would be like trying to live without oxygen or the sun: he wouldn’t survive.

  After everyone had eaten too many marshmallows, he and Chrétien built the fire back up, and Gwyn served thin slices of extra-dark chocolate cake, bitter in a good way after the marshmallows.

  As they sat eating cake, Gwyn asked Oma about her favorite birthday, worst birthday, and so on. Eventually, this led to Sir Walter and Oma and Pfeffer falling into conversation about the dark days during the Second World War, when Helmann had experimented on his children.

  Feeling a tickle of worry, Will glanced over to Sam. She’d told him about a nightmare last week where she’d dreamed she was one of the children in Helmann’s experiments. February was a hard month for Sam; it was the month she’d lost her mom.

  Across the half-circle from where he sat, Will could see how Sam’s eyes were down. How her hands gripped one another tightly. Should he get up and go over to her? That would draw attention to her anxiety, and Will knew she wouldn’t like that.

  The conversation shifted as Oma regaled them with tales of tricks she’d played on Pfeffer, short-sheeting his bed and placing pinecones inside his shoes.

  Sam laughed. Her hands were now at rest in her lap. She was going to be okay. Will relaxed.

  “You were so serious,” said Oma to Pfeffer. “I thought you needed to laugh.”

  “No doubt I did,” said Pfeffer, a smile upon his face.

  “I used to think Helmann wanted to steal all our laughter away,” Oma said softly. “And I wasn’t willing to let him do that.”

  “Those were dark days,” said Pfeffer.

  A flicker of movement caught Will’s eyes: Mickie, taking Pfeffer’s hand and holding it tightly.

  “They were indeed dark days,” said Skandor’s Oma, gazing into the fire. “Now, of course, I see that Helmann meant to remove from us more than laughter. He wished to ensure none of us would be willing to risk forming alliances, tying ourselves to someone.”

  Pfeffer had told Will and Sam that the old woman had lost all her favorite siblings to starvation in those final desperate weeks. Upon hearing this, Sam had cried. Will looked over to Sam to see how she was doing now. Her gaze was fixed on the orange flicker of embers in the fireplace. He couldn’t quite read her expression.

  Sir Walter sighed heavily, taking Will’s attention away from Sam.

  “Well, well,” said Sir Walter, patting Oma’s hand. “Helmann failed. You are surrounded by those who love you and whom you have loved.”

  “Indeed,” said Oma, looking up and smiling. “You must all forgive me. This is supposed to be a celebration. Skandor, where’s that Scrabble game you promised?”

  Skandor rose to get it, asking Will to bank up the fire.

  Only after he’d gotten the fire to a roaring, crackling blaze did Will notice Sam had slipped away, out of the lodge.

  4

  A BIT OFF-BALANCE

  Georg had conducted his first successful experiment in creating a caméleon from a normal human being without the gene. It hadn’t been hard to find a willing subject, once he’d demonstrated his own ability to vanish. He’d chosen a relief worker, judging that it was better if the first to gain the new ability was someone without a violent temper or military aspirations.

  The subject’s name had been Sanyim, and Georg had spent a week observing Sanyim, giving him pointers on where not to solidify and so on. After that, he’d released his very excited “patient zero” to live as he wished. Georg was using the designation “patient zero” loosely, of course. The transformation in Sanyim was not communicable to others, which was unfortunate. But the genetic drug treatment could be administered through drinking water, and this was huge. After sixteen feverish months of long days and sleepless nights, Georg had accomplished what he’d set out to do. And now he would change the world.

  But first, he needed help, which was where the hidden cadres of Angels would come in handy. Georg knew where they were, and he knew how to awaken them. He felt confident they would see the beauty of his plan. Perhaps he would tell the Angels this had been Helmann’s plan all along; he hadn’t decided yet.

  Today, Georg would choose and awaken the first Angels. He stared at the three slumbering forms before him: two young men and one woman. The other two in the cadre had been too large for Georg to bring into solid form by himself. He wouldn’t make Waldhart’s mistake—awakening an entire cadre and keeping them together. Who knew better than Georg the strength of the bonds that tied the members of a cadre one to another? No, it was better to keep a newly re-animated Angel a bit off-balance. Allow him (or her) to form new alliances. A single alliance, really: an alliance to Georg.

  Georg did not make the mistake of supposing he had the charisma of Father Helmann. He knew he didn’t. He was about as charismatic as a potato. Nor did Georg intend to rule with the iron fist of Uncle Fritz. Dear, departed Uncle Fritz. Georg smiled to himself. That had gone off spectacularly well, Fritz’s death. It was too bad Fritz hadn’t willed Geneses to loyal Georg von Helmann, but Georg could live without the pieces of paper that declared him the owner of the former corporation. He had what was important: Franz’s research, Father’s passwords, and the locations of the cadres worldwide. In the end, he had the only parts of Geneses that mattered.

  But musing on his good fortune wasn’t getting him any closer to choosing which Angel of the three before him to awaken. How should he choose? Should he awaken a girl, for Katrin’s sake? Hmm. Katrin, still slumbering, wasn’t exactly in a position to enjoy companionship at the moment.

  Father Helmann had
surrounded himself with four men for the one woman he kept in his inner circle. Perhaps Helmann had known something about the dynamics of men and women working together. Helmann had been crazy with regard to his aims, but that didn’t mean Father Helmann didn’t know something about the dynamics of the workplace, or whatever Georg ought to call this.

  He thought about it for another minute and then decided he would follow Helmann’s example—more men than women. Helmann must have believed men were more reliable than women when you had a task to carry out.

  And in any case, Georg found girls … inscrutable.

  Wrapping his arms around the slumbering female Angel before him, Georg transported her back to her invisible form. He regarded the two remaining men. One was blond—pale blond like Helmann. In fact, he looked just like Helmann. Georg returned the blond male to invisibility.

  And then, Georg leaned forward to whisper the passphrase that would awaken the remaining angel.

  “Helisaba est morta,” he murmured.

  A pair of dark eyes fluttered open.

  “So it begins,” Georg said softly.

  5

  NO GLUTTONY, NO MURDERING, NO SEX BEFORE MARRIAGE

  As Oma spoke of the past, dredging up those years of imprisonment, Sam began to have trouble breathing. She still had nightmares about the tormented children she’d read of in Helmann’s journals. Recently, Sam dreamed she was one of the children, singing to a sibling as he died from drinking poisoned water. Sometimes, the horrid dreams morphed into her old recurring nightmare, the one where she saw her mother’s death, and once, she had watched as Hans Lieberman struck down Will instead of her mother.

  Now the nightmare-memories crowded around her, pressing on her lungs. She couldn’t get enough air. She had to get outside. She had to think about something else. She hated how susceptible she still was to her old fears. And “fun” wasn’t the antidote she needed. Sam needed to run. Now. Rising as Skandor brought the Scrabble game over, Sam slipped outside.

  Running was the one thing that seemed to help. The path around the pond—the one Skandor called Lake Oslo—would do. Fortunately—or was it thanks to some premonition?—Sam had worn her old running shoes to the party. Outside, the air was biting and crisp, and Sam wished she’d grabbed her jacket. She took off sprinting to throw off the chill of the night air and the more potent chill of bad memories.

  It had been the right decision, coming outside. Even apart from the soothing pound, pound, pound of her feet on pavement, distractions abounded here, out of doors.

  A myriad of stars clustered overhead, interrupted by a stubborn, lone cloud to the south which hid part of Orion where he strode overhead. Sam focused her attention on the cloud, asking herself what color the cloud was. Night had reduced the palette to pewters, grays, and inky black, unless she looked down. The path around the diminutive lake was lit with motion-responsive solar lighting, which threw down small yellow circles from twelve inches above the ground. In those patches, Sam saw flashes of color—something green, something ivory: crocus pushing through the cold earth, sharp like blades of grass.

  She thought about colors. She thought about her mom’s paintbrushes. She didn’t let herself think about the anniversary approaching—the anniversary of her mother’s death.

  A few weeks after the fire that had claimed their home, Sylvia had been ecstatic when Sam got home one day. The crew hired to sift through the charcoaled remains of the house had found a metal box, still intact, and brought it to Sylvia. Inside was a set of Sam’s mother’s brushes and some paint. The paint hadn’t survived, but several of the brushes were in great shape.

  You’re meant to have these, Sylvia had said, her face glowing.

  Sam had thanked her step-mom and hidden the brushes, first under her trailer bed and then under her new-house bed.

  Tonight, she allowed herself to wonder what it would feel like to take up a brush again. Most likely, she hadn’t inherited her mother’s gifts, and it was probably too late to learn something as complicated as seeing the world with an artist’s eye. But, maybe. Maybe she would take those brushes out for a spin.

  The iron band around her chest had loosened, and Sam allowed her mind to wander, unfocused. She thought about Will. About how excited he’d been earlier when he’d announced the news about the scholarship to UCM. He still had it in his head she would apply to UCM.

  You’ve got plenty of time to decide, Sylvia had said. There’s no rush.

  Will didn’t feel the same way.

  Sam’s coming to Merced with me. Right, Sam? He’d asked with his broad grin, sure of her love, sure of her decision.

  And she did love him, didn’t she? So why wasn’t she excited to go to UCM with him? She didn’t know. She only knew that when she thought about it, an icy cold filled her belly.

  She was warm enough now for a little stretching. Slowing the last quarter of the circular path, Sam came to a stop and stretched her calves. She reached overhead, twisted. She bent down to touch her toes, and took a moment to tighten her left shoe lace.

  “Sam!”

  It was Gwyn.

  “Sam?” Gwyn peered around in the dark, head leaning slightly forward as though her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark.

  “Over here,” Sam replied.

  “Got a minute?” asked Gwyn, scampering down from the lodge and toward Sam.

  “Sure. I was thinking about lapping the lake a few more times. Want to join me?”

  “Mmm. Good idea. Except….” Gwyn held up her heeled boot. “Footwear issues.”

  Sam smiled at Gwyn’s horribly impractical shoes.

  “We could walk,” suggested Gwyn. “If you don’t mind, I mean.” Gwyn’s usual take-charge voice was soft, which had the effect of making her sound fragile. “Or you can just go running. We could catch up later.”

  “Of course not,” said Sam. She sidled up to Gwyn and put an arm around her shoulder. “I can run anytime. We’ll walk. And talk. What’s going on?”

  The two strolled down the path together, curving around the lake-in-miniature.

  “I’ve got a secret. It’s a huge secret,” said Gwyn. “You can’t tell anyone. Not even Sylvia or Will. Well, actually it’s okay to tell Will.”

  “Your secrets are always safe with me,” said Sam.

  She hoped this wasn’t going to be like last week’s secret talk where Gwyn asked Sam to come over while Gwyn tried on a series of peignoirs and bustiers and asked Sam to rate their potential attractiveness to the male of the species.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, giggling. “I can’t go all Victoria’s Secret Runway on you out here. I’d freeze to death.”

  A small laugh escaped Sam’s throat. “Good decision.”

  “It’s just … I mean … Okay. The reason I wanted to ask you about the sexy lingerie last week is that … well … Chrétien and I are getting married.”

  Sam stopped mid-stride. Her eyes widened in shock. “You’re what?”

  The very stars seemed to lean in for confirmation.

  “You heard me,” replied Gwyn.

  “I’m just…. Really?” Sam shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s been obvious for over a year. You can’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.”

  “Um, no, Gwyn. I can honestly say I didn’t see this coming.”

  “Really?” Gwyn sounded disappointed.

  Sam backpedaled. “I mean, that’s great. If it’s what you want. It’s just … aren’t you both really young for this kind of decision?”

  Gwyn released a deep belly laugh.

  “Okay,” said Sam. “You are very young. Chrétien is very … I don’t know how you can classify him by age.”

  “Exactly,” said Gwyn. “We’re so much more than just our ages. Right?”

  “Well….” This was not the point Sam had been trying to make.

  Gwyn continued. “I mean, when Ma was my age, she was three months pregnant and making plans to raise me on her ow
n.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “What? Ew! No. I am not repeating Ma’s mistakes.”

  Sam raised one eyebrow.

  “Oh quit snickering,” said Gwyn, “Obviously I wasn’t a mistake. You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Sam, chastened. “You’re not your mom. Chrétien’s not Oncle Henri.”

  “Right. And besides, Chrétien would never let that happen.” Gwyn sighed heavily. “He won’t sleep with me until we’re married.”

  “Wait. Let me get this straight. You’re not … fooling around?”

  “Chrétien’s Catholic. Like, really Catholic. The super strict kind. There is no fooling around. But listen, the point is, we’re getting married, and we’d like you and Will to be there, to stand up with us.”

  Sam was silent. Something white flew across the path ahead.

  “Oh, an owl! Owls are good luck,” said Gwyn, clapping her hands together. Then she frowned. “Or maybe bad luck. Auntie Carrie would know.”

  The two continued forward, Sam on the lookout for lucky owls. She didn’t have a clue how to respond. How could Gwyn be thinking about … marriage? Sam felt another pinch of anxiety. Was her friend about to make a terrible mistake? Should she try to stop it? Or was this … no big deal? It was Chrétien, after all. Solid, dependable, honorable Chrétien. Who was head over heels crazy about Gwyn.

  “So … Sam? Hello, Sam? What are you thinking, here?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sam, shaking her head. “You just caught me by surprise.” She tried to infuse a bit more cheer into her tone. “Wow. Marriage. Wow!”

  Sam had the feeling she wasn’t managing to infuse much in the way of cheer. She reached over and gave Gwyn a warm hug. “Of course I’ll support you at your wedding. I’d be honored.”

  Gwyn twisted her ankle and yelped.

  “Are you okay?” asked Sam.

  Gwyn gave her ankle a little test. “Yeah. I’m fine. Oooh, and I didn’t swear!”

  “You didn’t swear?”

  “I’m working on being a good Catholic.”