by Diana Tyler
But Ethan had been watching for years. And had he met with her at the café, he would have been one step closer to gaining her friendship; giving her two ears eager to hear anything and everything she needed to say, starting with how much she undoubtedly missed her parents.
Ethan felt a drop of rain splash onto his forehead. He looked up as a dark gray cloud passed over the sun and released a few sprinkles, with the promise of an imminent downpour. He saw the sign for his favorite ice-cream shop a few yards ahead and picked up his pace before anyone else around him got the same idea to wait out the rainstorm with two scoops of strawberry swirl.
Standing in line behind an indecisive gaggle of preteen girls, Ethan looked around the shop for a place to sit and do his homework. And then he saw them, sitting by a window in a far corner: a guy he’d never seen before, and Chloe.
Ethan felt his heart sink like a stone. Before he let himself feel anything else, he was out the door, walking in the rain, not bothering to pull out the umbrella stowed in his backpack.
Thunder boomed, shaking the glass storefronts as he walked past them. Twin bolts of lightning ripped through the sky just over the parking lot at the end of the block, followed by another deafening thunderclap. The wind picked up, sweeping the rain into Ethan’s face and body, pricking his skin like needles.
He didn’t care. The louder the storm and the stronger the wind, the less his mind could entertain feelings of heartbreak, or thoughts of shame for having tried to help Chloe despite the Fantásmata’s warning.
Take it as a sign, he told himself.
It wasn’t just a sign to keep Mr. Zacharias’s words to himself, but to let Chloe go—from his thoughts, from his cares, from his heart. She’d had her chance to speak with him. But Ethan knew that one thing would continue to eat at him, and that was the question of who the guy was. Chloe never went out with anyone, much less someone she hardly knew.
He shook his head, laughing at himself as rain whipped his cheeks. Chloe was a private person. If she had a boyfriend, she certainly wouldn’t tell Ethan about it.
He sat down on a bench beside a bus stop just as the wind and rain began to die down. He took out the leather bag from his coat pocket, the one he’d intended to give Chloe. Opening it, he pulled out the gold chain and held the smooth red rock attached to it in his palm. Ethan had seen several such stones before, while working in the museum with his mother, but this one was different. There was no patterning on it, no rinds from weathering, no orbital rings, no banding. Its simplicity is what made it beautiful. It was as if it had never been touched by water or wind, or mingled with sediments or ash; it was completely pure.
The stone was small, no bigger than the tip of his finger. He had to stop himself from imagining how good it would look around Chloe’s neck, granted the Fantásmata wouldn’t take an interest in it; he had a feeling that they would.
“Mind if join you?” asked a gruff-sounding voice.
Ethan looked up to see a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses, a white goatee, and windblown copper hair that showed no signs of thinning. He wore brown corduroy pants and suspenders over a wrinkly button-up shirt, all of which were quickly becoming drenched.
“Not at all,” replied Ethan. “Are you a fan of rain?” He zipped his coat to his chin and slipped the necklace into the breast pocket.
“Oh yes,” the man said, lifting his head up to the sky as droplets splashed onto his glasses. “A cold front is moving in too, I hear. Winter might be arriving early.”
Ethan nodded and rubbed his hands together as chilly air replaced the rain. “I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t get ice cream.”
“Indeed. A nice hot tea with Miss Zacharias would have been better.”
Ethan’s heart beat like a drum inside his chest. If this man worked for the Fantásmata, it wouldn’t do him any good to play dumb. But what would happen to Chloe if Ethan gave the man the stone?
He grabbed his backpack and had risen halfway from the bench when the man said, “I don’t mean to cause alarm, Ethan. I just thought I’d better prove who I am straightaway so you’d believe the rest of what I have to say.”
Ethan sat back down, though as he did so, he grabbed his keys from his jeans pocket. If things went south, he knew he could at least outrun the man, hop in his truck, and take off. It was a pathetic plan, but better than none at all.
“I’m not a part of your government,” the man said, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Ethan felt himself relax a little. “Who are you, then?”
“A helper,” said the man, as if his response needed no explanation.
“I don’t need help.” Ethan stood again and slung his backpack onto his shoulder. “Have a good evening.”
Ethan had run halfway to his truck when a blood-red sphere the size of a star appeared in the smoky sky and slowly began to trace a curve upward. It was as if a hand were painting it, a perfect ribbon, onto the slate canvas of clouds. He turned back to the man on the bench to see if he was watching it, too, but he had gone.
“May I see the stone?” The man was right beside him.
Ethan’s eyes darted from the man to the bench, then back to the man. “How did you do that?” The man couldn’t have run; he wasn’t even out of breath.
“I’m quicker than I look.” The man smiled. “Katsaros is my name.” He extended his hand and Ethan shook it firmly.
“And something tells me you already know mine.” Ethan took the bag out of his pocket and handed it over.
Katsaros untied the bag and gently tugged on the golden chain until the necklace hung from his fingers. He removed his glasses, his squinty eyes widening as he admired the red stone. “Jasper,” he whispered to it, as though it were a long-lost friend.
“Would you mind telling me just how much you know about me and that rock?” Ethan asked. Then he looked up at the red arc in the sky, just as pristine as the stone, and added, “And how much you know about that.”
“I know all there is to know.” Katsaros held up the stone, beaming at it like a father would his newborn child. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen it. Two thousand years, give or take.”
Ethan eyed the man suspiciously. He must be crazy, a vagabond, perhaps, whom the authorities hadn’t sheltered yet. That would explain his delusions, but not his knowledge of Chloe and the rock.
“Let’s see if I remember,” Katsaros said, and began to recite.
“Jasper, red as blood and the Moonbow’s highest band,
Carry Jasper with you in your heart and in your hand.
Remember the bow still shines after darkest days are done.
Remember hope will follow you into bright orange desert sun.”
He lowered the stone and gazed pensively into the crimson arch. “Iris loved to recite the little songs of Carya.”
Ethan watched the arch begin to bend and contort as charcoal streaks of cloud crashed into it. A bolt of lightning sliced down the center, leaving flashing red sparks where the bow had been.
Katsaros knitted his brow; his reverie was shattered.
“You knew Iris?” Ethan asked. Now he knew the man wasn’t a loon. Nobody knew about the scroll except his mother—and the Fantásmata. “You know what, that’s a stupid question.” Ethan kicked some gravel across the pavement and blew hot breaths onto his hands. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you. Of course you work for the government. How else could you know about that scroll?”
Katsaros gave a resigned sigh. Ethan couldn’t help but think he looked more like a bookish librarian than a devious, undercover agent representing the Fantásmata.
“You can’t take me at my word?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Ethan.
“It’s as good as gold. Or should I say ‘as good as amber’?” Katsaros’s eyes twinkled as his inflection rose.
“Someone got himself killed for fabricating an amber scroll,” said Ethan. “I suppose you know that.”
Katsaros’s eyes filled wit
h sadness as he clutched the jasper stone in his fist. “The Alphas have done everything in their power to erase every shred of the Eusebian oracles. Real or otherwise.”
“Is that stone a part of the Eusebian oracles?” The question felt funny coming out of Ethan’s mouth, like he should be reading it from a fictional book, not talking about it so seriously.
“It’s one of the only four parts left they haven’t destroyed yet. But they will.” Katsaros turned, scanning the dreary world around them as the rain fell once again. “They will if they have their way.”
“Four parts? What are the other ones?” But Ethan didn’t have to wait for Katsaros to answer. “Chloe’s one of them, isn’t she?”
Katsaros dropped the necklace back into its bag and handed it to Ethan. “Ethan, I’ve been sent here by Duna. I could prove it to you, but you may not be prepared to process what you see.”
Duna. The “one true God” the Eusebians worshiped. A myth, just like every other outrageous tale Ethan had learned in school and been told were parables concocted merely for philosophical purposes. He had concluded that mythological creatures such as the gryphon, two fossils of which were now housed in the museum, inarguably had existed and served to inspire the grandiose—and fictitious—stories weaved about them.
As a child, he had secretly wished the myths were true, that warriors like Achilles and commanders like Odysseus really had fought endless wars and sailed treacherous seas, things no modern Petrodian could ever imagine witnessing, much less doing themselves.
But Ethan had long since done away with senseless wishing, and with writing his own made-up stories. The artifacts in the museum, including the scroll, were nothing more than old rocks, with no relevance to the world.
“I’ve processed more than one might guess,” said Ethan, as images of the monstrous wolf, his bleeding arm, and Mr. Zacharias’ miraculous healing flashed through his mind. Feeling his body tense, and his palms perspire in the cold air, he focused on Katsaros, waiting for him to get on with proving who he was.
“I said I could prove it, boy. I didn’t say I would.” Katsaros removed his glasses and looked Ethan dead in the eye. “There’s a little something called faith that Petros has been without for far too long. I intend to help restore it. Starting with you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THYRA
Sunset was well over an hour away, but the storm had brought an early end to the day. Every business and street in downtown Eirene had closed normally due to the five-p.m. curfew, but the still-open playgrounds and picnic areas were totally empty, save for the white-suited custodians raking the leaves and picking up trash.
Damian had thought that finding Chloe under these circumstances would be easy. She often went to Olympus Park to read or study, but when she he found no sign of her there he searched the hiking trails behind the school, the cemetery where their parents—and few others—were buried, and even the hospital in case her condition had worsened.
Now he was sitting in a faded yellow swing, twisting its metal chains around and around, tighter and tighter like he used to do as a boy, winding himself up before spinning in reverse, out of control. He was on his tiptoes, ready to release the swing and twirl into oblivion, when what he’d been subconsciously waiting for all afternoon began to creep across his mind.
At first, all he saw was wet grass and Chloe’s ratty white sneakers covered in mud. He let the swing go and closed his eyes as the images sped up: a big gray backpack on a man he didn’t recognize; a narrow avenue lined with cypress trees; stray cats scampering out of sight; the ancient olive tree standing on the bank of Lake Thyra.
When the swing came to a stop, Damian leaned over and pressed his hands into his head. The sixth and final picture appeared: a cloud of mist rising out of the lake, and the silvery form of a woman hovering within it.
Damian stood and sent his hundredth text to Chloe’s phone, though he was positive it was either dead or still in her room. Then he sent another to Maggie, briefly explaining that Chloe had checked herself into the hospital and not to worry. It was risky to lie, but he was willing to wager that neither she nor his uncle Travis would trouble themselves to visit Chloe if she ever was actually hospitalized. They probably thought he and Chloe were up in their rooms, even now.
But regardless of his guardians’ indifference, he had to find Chloe soon. Otherwise, the police would send a search party for them both the second Maggie and Travis finally noticed their absence.
Despite what Chloe probably thought, Damian did care what happened to her, but he had to admit that that was largely because she was his twin sister and their parents were dead. He felt pity and responsibility. He felt obligation. Lately, however, he’d been feeling something different, something shapeless, vague, and brooding, like a sinister presence in the dark that can’t be proven exists. Although it was frightening and unfamiliar, it didn’t scare him; he’d had premonitions before.
After the car accident, he would regularly hear his sister sobbing when she was in a restroom stall on the other side of the school. Other times, he would be playing with his friends at the playground and, in his mind’s eye, he would see her sitting on her bed, hugging the stuffed lion their dad had given her and repeating, “Daddy, Daddy…” over and over.
He would start to cry, sprint straight home, and sure enough, there’d she be, just as he had seen her in his head.
The visions had become so overwhelming that Damian had felt compelled to see his counselor, who assured him telepathic bonds between twins were not unheard of and would likely subside in a few years, after they’d spent enough time apart. This had proved true, as the only time they were together now was during their ten-minute drives to and from school. So why was it happening again?
He didn’t have time to psychoanalyze anything right now. Maybe after he found Chloe he’d make an appointment with his counselor and take her with him. He knew that if she also had this psychic ability she’d never let on, but he needed to know; he needed to end it.
All he’d ever wanted was to be a normal kid with a normal life, and not to let the fact that he was an orphan with a weird, reclusive sister get in the way of that. If it took moving to another colony to make the premonitions stop, he would do everything in his power to do that. It would be best for both of them.
Damian parked his car a half-mile away from the lake and put on an old pair of cross-country cleats he kept in his trunk for rainy days. He rolled up his jeans a few inches from the ground, zipped up his windbreaker then took off across one of Eirene’s condemned vineyards, parallel to the road. If anyone happened to ask what he was doing out there he would say he was just getting in some extra exercise.
A few minutes later, he slowed his pace near the top of a hill overlooking the valley and lake below. Using the camera on his cellphone, he zoomed in and scanned the white-sand beaches, which were much broader than usual due to the low rainfall that summer, and spotted the massive, gnarled trunk of the olive tree on the opposite side.
On his side of the lake, he saw two figures walking across a stretch of land that jutted into the lake. One was a tall man with dark hair, wearing a black jacket and the gray backpack Damian had seen in his vision. Though their backs were to him, he knew it was his sister beside him.
Damian pocketed his phone and dropped to his belly. What was his next move? Was the guy dangerous? What if he was just her boyfriend? How stupid would he look if he interrupted their romantic, albeit illegal, jaunt around the lake? But every premonition he’d ever had had portended something dark, depressing, or disturbing, never something as innocuous as a date.
He didn’t hesitate a second longer. He jumped up and ran down the hill, skipping onto and over boulders, brushing past the brambles, not caring whether they heard him coming. He was halfway down the hill when a long stick shot out from behind a rock. Before he had time to stop, he stumbled over it and fell onto his hands and knees.
He quickly rocked back onto the balls of his fee
t, grabbed the stick, and crawled around the back of the rock ready to beat whomever had tripped him.
Two hands rose into the air, followed by an orange tuft of hair and the face of a forty-something man with thick black glasses and a bulbous nose. As he waved for Damian to come closer, none other than Ethan Ross poked his head out from behind another boulder further uphill and pressed a finger to his lips.
Stick still in hand, Damian crawled over to the orange-haired man. “What in Zeus’ name is going on?” he whispered, trying his best not to yell. He pulled out his phone and pointed to the round, red button on the bottom. “Hurry up and talk or I’ll press it, and the police will haul you off to Enochos.”
“Calm down, Damian,” said the man. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, and with the other he pulled the stick from Damian’s hand and threw it behind him.
“How do you know who I am?” Damian glanced down at the man’s ample belly protruding between his suspenders and saw that his whole body looked soft and lumpy, like it was made of dough that needed kneading. He could take him out easily, with or without the stick.
Ethan, on the other hand, would be a different story. He would have to use his cleats on him.
“There’s no time to explain now.” The man turned and looked down at Chloe, who now stood just a few feet from the edge of the lake. “You’re here now. You’ll learn soon enough. Just stay put.”
“Why is Ethan here?” Damian asked.
A shadow cast itself across the hill and darkened the valley below. Damian looked up to see a dense, low-hanging wall of clouds spinning straight over their heads like gears inside a machine. Directly across, just above the mountains, the pale full moon was rising.
“This is ridiculous.” Before the man could stop him again, Damian jumped onto the rock they were crouched behind, sailed over his head, and let momentum carry him down the hill, accompanied by a rumble of thunder.