Perilous: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 7)

by Cidney Swanson

  “Some of them think they’ll heal faster if they use their ability to disappear,” said Martina. “The need for education alone….” She broke off, shaking her head again.

  “And Georg just … left?” demanded Katrin, her brows pulled together.

  Martina nodded. “I tried to meet with him. He vanished any time Matteo or I approached him.”

  “The cowardly worm,” muttered Skandor, his eyes dark and flashing.

  “But he’s definitely gone,” said Martina. “One of the relief workers with Clean Water For All saw him and the others boarding a ferry heading to Nassau. From there, he can fly anywhere in the world.”

  Will grunted and then spoke. “He could ripple anywhere in the world, too.”

  Martina looked over and said, “Georg doesn’t like to journey invisibly.”

  “This fault in him might make it easier for us to trace him,” suggested Chrétien, who had been silent until this point.

  Pfeffer nodded. “Sir Walter will join us soon. We’ll discuss our next move when he arrives. But for now, I think we should offer as much assistance to the islanders as we can.”

  Martina agreed. “Matteo has drawn up a list of recommendations. There are just so many fronts to address, and we’re the only ones with any experience with the caméleon gene. Until you arrived, I mean.”

  “I saw signs in some shop windows,” said Will. “There were warnings that if someone came solid to steal anything, they would be shot on sight. Have there been any … murders?”

  Martina nodded. “Three. In addition, nearby islands are reporting thefts from diamond vendors and casinos. Our island is poor, but there are many with incredible wealth nearby.”

  “Meaning some of the Milagros islanders have figured out they can drift over the water without danger,” said Will.

  “Or they took their boats,” said Martina. “But however they got off the island, the vandalism is spreading.”

  “Which means things are gonna get worse for everyone left on Milagros when the rest of the world figures out where this started,” said Skandor.

  39

  THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HORSE

  The sun would be setting behind the foothills soon, for which Sam was grateful. It had been blisteringly hot all day. Sam’s step-mother and Dad had gone down to the valley early in the day, where they reported it was ninety-nine degrees.

  Sam had been outside painting since Sir Walter left for Milagros at ten that morning. Sir Walter had asked her if she wanted to go, too, but she had decided, considering her recent panic attacks, that she might be a hindrance to the group. The decision had not been an easy one. She longed to see Will again, and she’d been doing well for several days, but she didn’t want to slow anyone down if things got rough.

  Only after it was too late did she realize this was a sort of refusal to take a risk. She felt disappointed with herself. But, perhaps next time she would recognize the hesitation in time to make a different choice. Like with painting. You had to make mistakes to figure out what you needed to do differently next time. You had to take small steps to make lasting change. Small steps. Go slowly. More Sylvia wisdom.

  Sam stepped back and considered her latest canvas. None of her trees so far had turned out right. Her oaks spread and spread until they looked impossibly top-heavy. Her digger pines were stubbornly thick; the ghostly quality of the needles eluding her completely. She was about to put her brushes away for the day when she got an idea. What if she were to make a huge picture of a small thing, as if putting the subject under a microscope.

  She smiled. She’d done plenty of looking at things under a microscope this past week, at least where her feelings and emotions were concerned.

  As she reached inside her art bag, she knew this was the solution she’d been looking for. Start small. Go slowly.

  “In art as in life,” she murmured. It was something her mother used to say, and she wasn’t sure she understood what it had meant to her mother, but something about the sentiment resonated inside.

  “In art as in life,” she said again, shaking out her arms and hands to begin again.

  Hastily, she sketched the crescent curves of a single willow leaf. It was composed of half a dozen colors. She held the leaf up, moving it from shadow into sunlight. More colors appeared: a dozen shades of gold and as many of green. There were hints of orange along one curving edge and Sam caught an intimation of blue piercing through from the back. She looked back at her canvas. The outline of the leaf was huge. Intimidatingly huge. And yet … Sam smiled. There was enough room for every single one of the colors she could see.

  She was nearly done with the left-hand side of the leaf when Gwyn drove into the parking lot of Murrieta Park, brakes squealing.

  “Sam!” called Gwyn, her head leaning out the rolled down window.

  Sam looked up, squinting into the setting sun that backlit Gwyn’s dark braid. Gwyn’s black hair reflected blues and a thin line of sharp white where it threw the sunlight back like polished glass. Sam blinked, but the additional colors remained. Another small step forward: she was learning to see….

  “Come look,” she called to Gwyn.

  Gwyn was already running over. As she crossed toward Sam, the sun was no longer behind her, and Sam saw a worried expression darkening her friend’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Sam, her brush hand falling to her side.

  She felt the blue paint colliding with her jeans and didn’t care. What if something had happened to Will?

  “It’s Milagros,” said Gwyn. “Chrétien called with an update.”

  Sam nodded, indicating Gwyn should continue.

  “They made it to the island just fine. Georg’s gone, and the island is in complete chaos, like Martina said, and it’s spreading to nearby islands—”

  “Rippling is spreading?” asked Sam.

  “No, no, no. The looting and pillaging and violence are spreading.”

  And suddenly Sam knew she’d made a terrible mistake not leaving with Sir Walter. If there was an increase in violence, then Will was in peril. What was she doing here?

  As Gwyn described the instances of new ripplers coming solid with body parts inside solid objects, of clannish warfare, of the difficulty of administering antidotes, Sam made a decision.

  “Help me get this stuff packed up,” she said to Gwyn, her heart racing. “I have to go. I can be ready to leave in less than an hour.”

  “Leave? What? Chrétien didn’t say anything about you leaving.”

  “Chrétien is not in charge of me,” said Sam. “I have to go. Will could be in danger!” Sam finished wrapping her wet brush in plastic wrap and shoved it her art bag. She put lids on a few of the tubes of paint she’d forgotten to close earlier.

  “Sam!”

  Sam looked up. “I have to go. Don’t you see?”

  “No. I don’t see that. What I see is my best friend panicking and rushing into a situation she knows nothing about.”

  “Will is out there, in mortal peril, and I’m on the wrong side of the Atlantic seaboard!”

  “You think I don’t get that?” demanded Gwyn. “Trust me; I get it. But Will is not your mom, and this is not ten years ago. Will is not going to die. Georg left the island, and Chrétien and Will and the others stayed behind to help out. You missed out on the training already, and if you go out there, someone will have to stop whatever good work they’re doing just to get you up to speed.”

  “Oh,” murmured Sam, her eyes falling to the ground. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Besides which, I’m sorry, but Will can take care of himself. I won’t let you go running off like this.”

  “I just….” Sam’s face crumpled, but she took a slow breath and stopped the tears. “I didn’t go with Sir Walter earlier because I didn’t want to slow them down in case I … you know, had another panic attack. But then I realized I was saying no to taking a risk, and I told myself I’d do better next time.”

  “Oh, Sam,” said Gwyn, s
ighing. “Better doesn’t mean you go falling off the other side of the horse.”

  Sam looked at her palette, at the swirl of color. She felt an identical swirl inside herself, but she wasn’t going to let it overwhelm her.

  “You’re right,” she said at last. “I was panicking. And Will can more than take care of himself. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, girlfriend, don’t be sorry. Trust me, I know how you feel. If I could ripple….”

  Sam stuffed her palette in a large plastic bag and gave Gwyn a hug.

  “Now get in the car,” said Gwyn. “Sylvia left me with strict orders to get a decent meal in you, so I asked Ma to bring over a pizza.”

  “I sort of forgot to eat lunch,” admitted Sam. “And Gwyn? Thanks for talking me down.”

  “All in a day’s work."

  40

  SEVEN SILENT GHOSTS

  Two hours before sunset, Georg and his Angels drifted into Las Abuelitas like seven silent ghosts. Silent ghosts that would forever change the destiny of the sleepy town.

  It took them some time to locate the town’s water source—a creek of all things. The creek water was routed through a filtration system, stored in a series of tanks which pumped water into town. In addition, there was a single water tower.

  Invisibly, Georg smiled. This was too easy.

  He came solid, ordering the others to do likewise, and gave instructions to Owen. “Disable the pumps so they have no choice but to use the water in the tower.”

  Owen nodded, then checked his phone and frowned at a text. Looking up, he addressed Georg. “It’s Sanyim again.”

  “He can wait,” snapped Georg. Then he turned to Raoul. “You will place the serum in the water tower.” He rubbed his hands together in his eagerness. “The rest of you, come with me. Two of you will stand guard at the print shop; the other two will assist.”

  Four blond heads nodded, took hands, and disappeared along with Georg.

  As he wandered the dark streets of the quiet town, Georg felt flashes of déjà vu. He recalled how fearful he’d been, the time he and Hansel had been forced to come here to negotiate for Helmann’s journal. The thought of Hansel, his steady head and unwavering friendship, made something inside Georg tremble. He locked those feelings away.

  There was de Rochefort’s home, where Georg had recovered Katrin’s starfish necklace. There were no lights on. Unlike the other times Georg had visited Las Abuelitas, Waldhart de Rochefort was gone. Invisibly, Georg smiled.

  Coming solid in an alley beside the print shop, Georg loosed a soft chuckle. Waldhart’s inability to leave things alone had created this opportunity to stroll into town with no one to challenge Georg’s presence. If Pfeffer and Waldhart had been less eager to stick their noses where they didn’t belong, Georg’s job this evening would have been far more challenging.

  The print shop was closed. Georg nodded. So much the better.

  “Inside,” he whispered to his followers. Then he vanished, passed through the glass front door—how he hated the sickly tug of glass—and came solid on the far side, hidden in shadow. Turning the lights on, Georg examined the two printers, chose one, and fired it up.

  It was the lights-on that caught the attention of a passerby who then informed the shop owner someone was tinkering around inside. Georg hardly bothered to look up when the owner showed up asking what the blazes he was doing inside, without permission. Instead, Georg gestured with a flick of his head. Two blond men materialized and took the shop owner to the back room, where Georg instructed them to hold him for another five minutes while he finished the final few copies of his opus, Advice for the Managing of Your New Life as a Caméleon.

  He badly wanted to wait around for Waldhart’s return, just to see the expression on the smug old man’s face.

  41

  LAS ABUELITAS VERSION

  Will scowled at the piece of paper in his hands. Georg was an idiot. A complete idiot. His Advice for the Managing of Your New Life as a Caméleon flyer left out essential details Will would’ve known to put in when he was seven.

  Well, maybe not when he’d been seven. Come to think of it, Will had no first-hand experience with solidifying in anything but thin air until Samantha Ruiz came into his life. A shudder ran through him as he recalled rescuing her when she’d been caught in Illilouette Creek, on course to hurtle over the falls. That had been the first time he’d held her in his arms. He remembered watching her lips return from blue to pink. He’d wanted to kiss her, even then. Heck, he’d wanted to kiss her the first day he saw her at cross country try-outs.

  He grunted at his own idiocy—remembering the past was fatal—and applied himself to changing Georg’s set of instructions to something more practical and less full of highfalutin sentiments about the brave new future before them, et cetera. It took him forty-five minutes to feel he’d done the job properly. He wished his sister had been here, to look it over, but she hadn’t come to the island, in spite of her initial interest.

  In an astonishing turn of tables, Mick had been on the receiving end of someone begging her to stay home, to stay safe. Will had rippled through the cabin walls one night to see Pfeffer on one knee, pleading with her. Mick hadn’t liked it, but she’d agreed to stay at home while Pfeffer traveled to the island.

  Will felt a moment’s yearning to save a cup of the tainted island water for his sister. He alone knew how desperately she’d wanted to experience the gift of invisibility. She hadn’t spoken of it in years, but he was sure things hadn’t changed for her no matter how much time had passed.

  Of course, by now, Chrétien and Matteo would have emptied the last of the island’s water tanks. The chameleon water was gone. Will would only be able to bring Mickie “chameleon-mud” at this point. And besides, Pfeffer would never have agreed to let Mick drink the substance Georg had concocted.

  Will looked around the tiny print shop where Martina had brought him. He knew how to run the copiers, thanks to the help of the owner, who had since vanished, but he didn’t know where to find more paper. The copier only had a few sheets left.

  After a few minutes spent searching, Will found a single ream of paper: enough for five hundred copies. Martina, who was now at a makeshift hospital with Katrin, Skandor, and Pfeffer, had recommended a thousand copies be printed: Not everyone on the island reads English, but a thousand copies will help spread the word swiftly.

  Will wished he could have gone to the hospital. Pfeffer would be running simple tests on the water, trying to see what on earth Georg had done, and Will was feeling mighty curious. Anyway, it would’ve been more interesting than fixing Georg’s stupid flyers. Even heading down to the Port Authority with Sir Walter to quarantine the island would’ve been more interesting than Georg’s flyers.

  Georg’s flyers.

  Will had a sudden inspiration. The old leftover flyers were printed on only one side, and the stack had been thick. Will ran to the table where he’d left them and compared the stack of unused Georg-flyers to the ream of paper. There were several hundred flyers, at least. Maybe even three hundred. Well, a total of eight hundred was a lot closer to the thousand Martina had asked for.

  Will took the stack of Georg’s flyers and lay them face-down on top of the fresh ream of paper.

  “Now we’re cookin’ with gas,” he murmured, squaring the edges of the four inch high stack. The bottom sheet had a fold on one corner, so Will removed it from the stack to keep it from jamming in the paper tray.

  That was funny. The sheet with the folded corner looked slightly different from the sheet Will had been staring at earlier as he tried to correct Georg’s errors and omissions. Things had been crossed out and added in tight, precise handwriting.

  And then Will gasped. On the top right hand corner of the sheet was hand-written the phrase: Las Abuelitas Version.

  His heart began to race. Had he misread it? He looked again. There was no mistaking the writing. Las Abuelitas was in danger.

  Sam was in danger.

  Will pa
ced around the room, holding the paper with the damning words upon it.

  And then, he turned invisible and wrote a message to Chrétien, trusting his French friend would be able to relay the message: BIG PROBLEM. GEORG’S NEXT TARGET IS LAS ABS.

  P. S. YES, I’M SURE.

  42

  LEMONADE

  Gwyn had called her mom to an impromptu meeting to hear everything Chrétien had told them. Sam was glad Bridget would be bringing a pizza over. It was too hot to cook at the de Rochefort’s non-air conditioned home.

  Even though Mickie had heard the news from Pfeffer already, she came over when Gwyn hinted there might be pizza.

  After Gwyn finished catching her mom up to date, Bridget sighed, stood, and stretched. “Well, problems on the other side of the world aside, the bakery still needs me.” She hugged Gwyn, squeezed Sam’s and Mickie’s hands, and departed.

  Mickie was pacing, which Sam knew was sometimes a sign of frustration and sometimes a sign of an imminent problem-solving breakthrough. She didn’t ask Mick which it was, in case an interruption might prevent problem-solving from occurring.

  “It’s too hot for March,” said Gwyn, sighing and fanning herself.

  “I’ll make some lemonade,” said Sam. “Syl swears by lemonade for cooling off.”

  “Be my guest,” said Gwyn, gesturing to the lemon tree outside the patio door.

  After Sam had picked and squeezed four enormous lemons and stirred a cup of sugar into the lemon juice, Sam carried the pitcher over to the sink and turned on the faucet. The water trickled out, stuttered, and then settled at a steady rate that still seemed very slow to Sam.

  “You guys having trouble with your well or something?” Sam asked Gwyn.

  “We’re on city water like the rest of you,” replied Gwyn. “Or should I say ‘village water’ like the rest of you.” Gwyn never tired of pointing out Las Abs was not a city.

  Rising, Gwyn came over to the faucet. “You don’t have it turned on all the way.” She jiggled the handle. “Oh, that’s weird. It is on all the way.” She frowned, turned the faucet off and back on again.