Immutable

by Cidney Swanson

  “Peppers,” said Will, returning with the final tray. “Serranos, habaneros, jalapeños, and whatever this one is.”

  “That’s a milder pepper for Sam,” said Mickie. “Since not everyone likes their salsa hot enough to burn the house down.” She took the tray from Will. Then her eyes flew wide and she covered her mouth. “Oh,” she said through her fingers. “Oh, Sam. Your house. That was so thoughtless of me.”

  Sam shook her head. “Really, it’s fine.” And then, to stop Mickie obsessing over it, Sam changed the subject. “What’s this … violin concerto?”

  “It’s Bach,” replied Mickie. She looked self-conscious. Another Pfeffer favorite?

  Sam had heard this piece recently, too. Odd.

  “It’s nice,” said Sam. It was nice, but it was also bothering her. Where had she heard these … concertos?

  “Time for lunch?” asked Will.

  “I should get back,” Sam said, standing. Her back and both knees popped loudly.

  Earlier, she’d overheard Will and his sister arguing over who stole the last burrito. (Mickie: That was my burrito! Will: I didn’t touch your stupid burrito.)The last thing Sam wanted was for Mick to feel pressured to issue invitations for lunch all summer.

  “Stay for lunch?” asked Mick.

  Sam shook her head and peeled off her borrowed gardening gloves. The hot breeze felt good on her sticky hands. “Sylvia says it’s important we eat meals together. To add some normalcy to our living arrangements in the trailer.”

  Will snickered.

  “Actually, I was going to ask if you could spare Will,” said Sam. She might not be able to force Mick to eat from the bounty of the Ruiz’s table, but she could sure as heck invite her boyfriend over for lunch and keep him through dinner and whatever dessert Sylvia whipped up in that ridiculous trailer oven. “I mean, unless you need his help here.”

  “Please. He’s more trouble than help,” grumbled Mick. “Kid was born with a black thumb, I swear.”

  Will grinned, hands on his hips. His thumbs were black. He never wore gloves when gardening. Then again, neither did Mickie.

  “Get out of here so I can enjoy my concertos in peace, already,” Mickie murmured to her brother.

  Will ruffled her hair with the less muddy of his two hands and followed Sam around the corner of the cabin. There, the two washed hands using the garden hose. The water gushed from nearby Bella Fria creek, icy cold on even the hottest of summer days. Sam splashed extra on the back of her neck and re-secured her loose ponytail.

  “You sure you’re okay?” asked Will, his voice pitched low.

  Sam answered by flicking water at him with both hands. Will grinned and the two began the one mile walk to Sam’s soon-to-be-house.

  2

  IT WAS NOT WEAKNESS

  San Francisco, California

  Fritz Gottlieb despised weakness. Like many before and after him, his definition of weakness could best be visualized using a Venn diagram wherein two non-intersecting circles existed side by side. Within one circle was written “Fritz Gottlieb” and within the other was inscribed “Weakness.” It was a highly personal definition, but after all, of what use to him was anyone else’s definition of weakness? And of how much less worth their opining upon the subject?

  He did not, of course, define as weakness his own failure to ignore his father’s summons to Château Feu-Froid that fateful day last February.

  “I’m too busy to leave headquarters,” Fritz had told his brother Franz. “Tell Father he cannot have it both ways. I serve him here in the lab or I waste my time in France.”

  If fear of his father’s wrath had motivated Fritz to remain behind in San Francisco while Hans and Franz answered their father’s summons, well, fear was not the same thing as weakness. Fear inspired caution, and caution promoted self-preservation. Look what had happened to his brothers, and Father himself; none of them had survived the encounter with Waldhart de Rochefort.

  Fritz was cautious. He was certainly not weak.

  De Rochefort and his minions were a constant irritant on the fringe of Fritz Gottlieb’s thoughts. Was it, indeed, weakness to allow them to go about their lives in that godforsaken backwater village across California’s great central valley? It was like having a mosquito in the room. Or, rather, it was like having several in a room nearby. You could close the door and forget about them, but what if someone opened the door one day?

  It was not weakness. Of course it was not weakness. It was prudence. Because de Rochefort was no mere mosquito. No, he was more a grizzly bear. Or a rattlesnake. Only a fool would enter the den of either. And Fritz Gottlieb was no fool.

  No, Fritz Gottlieb was cautious and prudent and shrewd and, perhaps most important of all, he was patient. Alone of his siblings, he shared this trait with his father. Fritz was a deadly spider, constructing a web in the shadows. So thin, so fine, so hidden that none would note his workings.

  Until it was too late.

  3

  WHO EVEN HAS A BREAKFAST ROOM?

  Las Abuelitas, California

  “Hey, I’m sorry about my sister,” said Will as the two strolled away from Mickie’s garden.

  “She’s fine,” said Sam. She stretched her arms overhead, popping her elbows. Gardening couldn’t possibly be good for you.

  “She’s a bit grumpier than usual. Although it’s hard to tell.” Will’s grin swallowed up his face—white teeth and crinkled eyes. “But, yeah, if Pfeffer’s here in California, but he’s not here-here in California, then ‘le moody’ makes more sense.”

  “Has Sir Walter said anything about expecting Pfeffer soon?”

  Will shrugged. “I haven’t seen Sir Walter lately.”

  Sam nodded. Sir Walter was back to spending most of his time invisible, as has been his habit for centuries. He did so now as a safeguard; invisibly, he could better “hear” the approach of Fritz Gottlieb, should Helmann’s heir apparent choose to venture to Las Abuelitas.

  “It’s weird, having Sir Walter here and … not here,” said Will. “Although, I guess he and Chrétien can communicate just fine either way.”

  Sam kicked at the gravel underfoot. It wasn’t fair. Chrétien, Sir Walter’s son, could send and receive “thought” messages whether he was solid or invisible. Sam, as well, could send and hear thoughts, with the significant exception of Will’s thoughts. Sir Walter thought it might come with time, like kissing without rippling, but Sam wasn’t so sure. About either issue.

  Early on, Sam and Will had stumbled upon the realization that they could share visual thoughts when they were invisible. Will called it “silent movie” communication. Recently, they’d been able to send “silent movies” even when they weren’t touching, which was an improvement. But still. It wasn’t fair.

  “Have you seen their place since that last shipment of furniture arrived?” asked Will.

  “Sir Walter’s and Chrétien’s? No. Is it … awful?”

  Will grinned. “Sir Walter found these red velvet drapes and carpets that look like he stole them from Versailles.”

  “Maybe he wants Chrétien to feel at home.” Chrétien had lived at Versailles prior to resting invisibly for hundreds of years, mourning the loss of his wife and child.

  “Or he wants to impress Bridget Li with what a fine prospect his son would make for her daughter,” countered Will.

  “I think it’s working,” said Sam, emitting a tiny laugh. “Although, I shouldn’t judge. Sylvia just asked Sir Walter where he got the chandelier in his breakfast room.”

  “Breakfast room.” Will snorted with disdain. “Who even has a breakfast room?”

  Sam didn’t answer. Sylvia had expressed interest in turning her office into a breakfast room not two days ago. I’m always in the kitchen, anyway, she’d said.

  As the heat shimmered off the highway, Sam heard a melody playing across her mind, something heard distantly. “Do you hear that music?”

  “Music?” asked Will.

  He didn’t. Sam s
hook her head. “It’s nothing. I’ve just got one of those … what’s it called when you can’t get a song out of your head?”

  “An earworm.”

  “Right.”

  “I had a fast food ad stuck in my head last week. I kept singing it. Drove Mick crazy.” Will grinned. “Which was not, in and of itself, without its rewards.”

  They were approaching the point at which the framework of Sam’s new house would come into view. Sounds wafted along the highway: the punch-punch-punch of nail guns, the whine of a power saw, and some talk radio show.

  “So the new place is really going to be just the same as your old place?” asked Will as the first roof peak came into view.

  “Yup. Sylvia said it was perfect before, so why change it?”

  “Other than bringing more Versailles into the lighting fixtures,” said Will.

  Sam laughed.

  “Race you to the trailer,” said Will. “Winner makes sandwiches for the loser.”

  A smile crept across Sam’s face. Classical music playing in her head, she took off after Will.

  ~ ~ ~

  For the remainder of the day, Sam couldn’t get the song out of her head. Or rather, she couldn’t get the concerto out of her head. As earworms went, it wasn’t a horrible one, but it was irritating, like the constant whine of machinery as her house was being built.

  She and Will were cleaning up after dinner (homemade nachos and Sylvia’s fabulous mango salsa) when a text came through on both their phones.

  Will grunted. Then spoke. “I didn’t know Sir Walter knew how to send a text message.”

  Sam examined the message. “Chrétien must have taught him.”

  “Ah,” said Will. “And we all know who would be teaching Chrétien.” He grinned, kissing Sam just below her left ear.

  “The message sounds pretty urgent, don’t you think?” asked Sam.

  Will shrugged and dried his hands on one of Sylvia’s kitchen towels. This one had a panoramic picture of the Grand Canyon on it, a souvenir from the recent honeymoon.

  “I don’t know,” Will said. “‘Come presently’ doesn’t exactly sound dire.”

  “I think it is, in Sir Walter-speak,” said Sam. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “But Sylvia’s made cheesecake—”

  “It has to cool,” said Sam. “It will be waiting for us when we get back.”

  A prickling sensation was making its way along her arms; why was Sir Walter calling them all together?

  She pulled the sink drain, told herself to stop worrying, and left with Will for Sir Walter’s.

  4

  OFFENSIVES, SALLIES, AND TESTS OF FORTITUDE

  San Francisco, California

  Fritz Gottlieb stared irritably at the headphones he’s just removed. They were a disappointment. His squash partner had exaggerated. Bach’s “Air on the G String” sounded no better over these thousand dollar headphones than it did over a half dozen pairs of headphones Fritz already owned. Fritz was glad he’d stolen the pair from his partner’s locker rather than having wasted good money on them.

  Not that Fritz had to worry about money. But still, it was the principle that mattered. He threw the headset into a trash receptacle, disgusted. Not only was the sound quality disappointing, Fritz’s intense concentration upon the quality meant he hadn’t actually enjoyed the piece. Listening to the “Air” certainly hadn’t produced the level of calm and relaxation he was hoping for when he donned the headphones.

  It was just a bad day all around.

  The problem for Fritz Gottlieb was this: he couldn’t decide how to strike at de Rochefort. Father had failed even when he’d held the upper hand. Fat, juicy bait (in the form of the Asian girl from Las Abuelitas), superior weapons (de Rochefort went poorly armed if he went armed at all), and a righteous cause had all been insufficient to defeat de Rochefort.

  It gnawed at Fritz. It kept him awake at night.

  Fritz was often awake long after the work-a-day world had put itself to sleep. He resented the many demands Geneses Corporation made upon him day after day after day. How had Father managed it all? Hmm. Father had used others to do his busy work. And his research. And his Angel Corps work. Yes, Father had been good at delegating.

  But look how that turned out for him: his most trusted servants—his first generation children—had all turned aside from the path of purest obedience. Fritz saw in this a constant admonishment, so he labored and took meetings and answered calls and made plans and, in short, had his fingers in as many pies as was possible for a solitary individual.

  Of course, he was no ordinary individual. He spent as much time as he could in his chameleon form, thereby conserving his energy, reducing his requirements for sleep and nourishment, and adding years to his life in the process. No amount of time was too short. If he had five minutes with nothing to do: vanish. If he had a two-hour drive to Sacramento for a meeting with the governor: vanish.

  Thus, when night fell, Fritz was not always in need of sleep. Which meant he didn’t mind lying awake (invisibly) and pondering the problem of Waldhart de Rochefort.

  A direct attack would not do. Father’s failure at Château Feu Froid and Father’s tales of earlier failures—although he called them by other names: offensives, sallies, tests of fortitude—well, Father’s failure to put an end to de Rochefort served as a cautionary tale. Approach de Rochefort with a weapon drawn and you would lose. Rinse and repeat often enough and you would die. And Fritz knew de Rochefort didn’t even like killing his enemies. Now that was a weakness. Sadly, it was not a weakness that afforded enough of an advantage in direct confrontations.

  No, Fritz needed an indirect way to attack de Rochefort if he wanted to defeat him once and for all. It was a troublesome problem, but Fritz had always managed to solve troublesome problems. Because, he told himself, I know how to fight using the mind rather than the fist.

  Let others take to fisticuffs; Fritz would triumph by more subtle means.

  5

  WORM OF THE EAR

  Las Abuelitas, California

  Waldhart Jean-Baptiste de Rochefort, known to friends as Sir Walter, rented the second oldest building in Las Abuelitas from Bridget Li. Once a monastic cloister, the building consisted of a long row of individual cells joined by an equally long hallway. To the south, a kitchen had been added much later, but otherwise, the shape of the building was much what it had been. Constructed entirely of river rock, it was cooler in both summer and winter than houses of more recent manufacture. This suited Sir Walter and his son Chrétien just fine, as Sir Walter was invisible more often than not and Chrétien was away with Gwyn Li more often than not.

  Sam took a seat in Sir Walter’s breakfast room, in spite of the fact that it was night—hardly the time of day for breakfast. The chair in which she sat, carved and gilded, was uncomfortable. As was Sam. Sir Walter didn’t call them together unless he had something important to discuss. Three months had passed since Fritz had threatened Las Abuelitas. Sam had begun to feel safe again. But so long as Fritz lived, none of them could relax—not really.

  Mickie was already seated, flipping nervously through a book on eighteenth century art—a topic Sam was absolutely sure held no interest for Mickie. Sam reached over and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

  “I’m fine,” muttered Mickie, flipping through the pages even faster.

  Gwyn coiled herself into a chair opposite Mickie, Sam, and Will, and aimed a half-hearted waggle of fingers their direction. Her feline posture suggested there was nothing remotely uncomfortable about the eighteenth century antique upon which she reposed.

  Sam shifted uncomfortably, wishing Sir Walter had chosen to entertain them in the salon de thé, where the chairs were squashy.

  “I would like to thank you all for coming on such short notice,” said Sir Walter as he took his place at the head of the table. “And at such a late hour,” he added, checking a pocket watch. Sam wasn’t sure if this was a new acquisition or a very old one. Sir Walter had told
her stories about the inventor of the first pocket watch—an acquaintance—so it might have been very old indeed.

  “Chrétien,” added Sir Walter, “will be here momentarily—ah, here he is.”

  Chrétien entered the room and set a large silver coffee service beside Sir Walter. A platter of delicacies from Las Abuelitas Bakery Café followed: slices of syllaberry pie, crème brulées, and Bridget Li’s signature chocolate chip cookies.

  Sam swallowed. She wasn’t sure she was in a dessert kind of mood. She wasn’t sure what kind of mood she was in, until Sir Walter told them why they were all here. To be polite, she took a slice of pie when Chrétien circled the table like a waiter, platter in hand.

  Gwyn seemed to have forgotten there might be anything amiss. She eyed Chrétien as he circumnavigated the table, smiling unabashedly at his backside when he walked past her.

  Sir Walter, beside Gwyn, wasn’t noticing Gwyn’s noticing. Was he being polite or was he too distracted by whatever had brought them all together this evening? He was busying himself pouring out cups of hot coffee, thick as creek mud. Only once Chrétien had taken a seat did Sir Walter clear his throat.

  “It has come to the attention of Chrétien and myself that we have a guest amongst us,” said Sir Walter.

  “A guest?” Will glanced at his sister. “Is Pfeffer back?”

  Mickie’s cheeks blushed softly as everyone else in the room pretended not to look at her.

  Gwyn, observing the blush, smiled, Cheshire-Cat-like.

  “Monsieur le docteur does, indeed, plan to join us shortly,” said Sir Walter.

  “We are not, however, speaking of Dr. Pfeffer’s return,” replied Chrétien.

  Sam felt her pulse picking up speed. If it wasn’t Pfeffer, then who was it?

  “The guest of whom I speak,” declared Sir Walter, “is, at present, unknown to myself—or, indeed, to any of us.”