Scintillate

by Tracy Clark

  “I think I’m looking for one myself.”

  His gaze shot back to me, blond eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

  I rubbed the smooth bed of my thumbnail over and over. “My mother.”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “More than twelve years.”

  He studied me with a haughty expression. I narrowed my eyes. I didn’t know this guy. I only knew we were the same. And he had more information than me. Information I might need. The muscles in his jaw tightened. “Well, good luck to you.” His tone was a bitter young apple, hard and sour. “She is likely gone forever.”

  The bus rolled to a stop. He rose, but I pulled him back down.

  “Where do you get off quashing my hope like that, you—?”

  “This is my hotel,” Giovanni said calmly, pointing to an old but classically lovely building on a busy street corner. “Where are you staying?”

  I looked around with no idea where I was or where I was supposed to be. I’d been so absorbed in talking to Giovanni that I hadn’t paid attention to our route. He smiled sympathetically and stood again. “You are not alone, Miss Cora. Come with me, and I will buy you something to eat. We can talk more. Then I’ll help you find your lodging, yes?”

  Somewhat reluctantly, I followed him through the elegant lobby of his hotel, which gleamed under tiered chandeliers. Polished marble floors reflected everything, like I could dip down into it, into an alternate reality. I took off my wet hoodie, squished my damp self into a leather chair, and watched Giovanni as he checked in and arranged for our bags to be taken to his room. I leaped up and rushed to him.

  “Don’t assume you can send my bag to your room,” I fumed, staring up into his eyes.

  “You misunderstand—” His hand swept to my shoulder. A charge ran down my arm. “I merely wanted to give you the opportunity to have a hot shower, maybe warm your chill.” His fingers traced the goose bumps on my skin. I shrugged his hand from me, unsure whether the shiver came from the rain or from his energy. “Perhaps you’d like to change into dry clothes before we eat. I’m going to stay down here and have a drink until you return.”

  “Really? I—well, I—” There was the uncomfortable chill of my wet clothes pressing against my skin. I glanced at the clerk behind the desk, who tried to look as though she wasn’t listening. “Thank you,” I said with as much grace as I could muster. Giovanni handed me his room key.

  Once in the room, I bolted the door shut. There was something too knowing and canny about him for his age. Giovanni Teso was worldly, as if he had walked this earth for hundreds of years.

  The hot water did warm me, though, and I was grateful for his thoughtfulness. I slipped into jeans, a soft emerald-green cardigan, and my favorite polka dot scarf. From the looks of this hotel, I’d need something better than a wet T-shirt for dinner.

  Downstairs, I could see through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lobby that the rain had washed the day away and night had fallen in its place. I found Giovanni in the bar as he’d said. He was on his cell phone but uttered a hasty good-bye and clicked it shut as I approached.

  “My God, that was no time at all,” he said, taking in my new appearance. “You get ready faster than any woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Yeah, I pitch my tent in the low-maintenance camp.”

  He appraised me with his silver-blue eyes. “Not all women are so blessed. Please, sit. I’ve ordered a cheese and fruit plate for us to start.”

  I’d never had the experience of being with someone other than my father who was so in command. I wasn’t sure I liked it. I’d spent the last six months, and certainly the last day, breaking free of my father’s imposing will.

  Then again, I’d never had much experience with guys, other than Finn. It stung to think of him, mostly because I’d never understand his abrupt departure. I sighed and sat, deciding it wasn’t such a bad thing that Giovanni ordered fruit and cheese for me after the long and dramatic day.

  “I want to say,” Giovanni began, “that I am sorry about earlier, about your mother. I only said it because both of my parents disappeared when I was a boy and were never seen again. They were both Scintilla, and now they’re gone. I had to face it long ago.”

  His parents disappeared? My mother’s parents had disappeared, as did she. “Oh.” Shocked breath rushed out of me. “Wow. Both of them? Who raised you?” I asked, fighting the urge to comfort him but knowing I couldn’t. Not really.

  He smiled sadly, shaking his head. His stormy eyes said I couldn’t possibly understand. “I did,” he answered with a proud lift of his chin.

  It was the first hint of the boy in him.

  Raised himself? What kind of lonely life had he led? No wonder he seemed so worldly. Sympathy surged in me for Giovanni Teso, and admiration as well.

  Domineering as my dad could be, at least I’d had him. We’d had each other. “I’m sorry, too.” I touched his hand softly, and we both jolted at the current of energy spilling into our skin.

  “Very intriguing. I haven’t touched another Scintilla since my parents. I don’t remember it feeling quite that way. I like it very much.”

  I blushed. It was impossible to speak on just a surface level with him. Everything seemed deeper. “You definitely speak your mind.”

  We gazed hard at each other before he spoke again. “I see no point in trying to hide from someone so like myself. I assume you can see the truth.” Then he looked at me with scrutiny. “But this is new to you. Perhaps you’ve not yet learned all you can do.”

  “I bought some books—”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “The best teacher is experience. I will help you.”

  My toes tapped excitedly on the marble floor even as my stomach crackled with jittery energy. With it came a smattering of guilt. I felt strange about this sudden alliance. But that was probably because I liked the exhilaration of putting my hand on the wire.

  “Any idea where you’ll begin your search for your mother?”

  “I have some ideas, yes. I need to go to a library. A big one.”

  “There is, of course, the library at Trinity College.”

  My mouth hung open. “Of course. Trinity!” I’d seen pictures of it. That’s why it looked familiar. And my God, the name…

  “Pardon my asking, but why would you think any information about your mother would be hidden at Trinity College?”

  I nibbled a square of sharp Irish cheddar and a tangy green grape. “Because she put it there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw it.” I expected Giovanni to question me further, and I didn’t know how, or even if, I could answer, but he simply nodded his head in acceptance. “I’m going to go there tomorrow.”

  He took the last bite of the cheese and fruit. “Would you like more to eat?”

  I rocked my head from side to side, stretching my tight neck. “Honestly, no. I think I’m ready for massive sleep.”

  Having settled the bill, we stood to go. I thanked him, but Giovanni’s eyes latched onto something over my shoulder. Behind me, a television hung in the corner of the bar. Many of the patrons stopped talking to watch the big news headline of the day about the mysterious deaths at Dublin Airport. The newscaster spoke of the couple who had collapsed outside the airport, and then footage from an airport security camera showed the scene: their bodies buckled on the ground, and a side view of me, kneeling among them with my hood over my head. All that could be seen of Giovanni was his hand grabbing my arm. Our silver auras were invisible, of course. We looked normal. Well, except for the fact that dead bodies lay at our feet. It was surreal to watch the scene from an outside perspective, like it wasn’t us. I could almost pretend it wasn’t. Until now.

  Above the reel read a caption: “Authorities seeking witness for questioning about mysterious deaths”.

  And then the newscaster’s voice: “Authorities are searching for the person seen on this airport security footage, who inexplicably ran from the scene where an
unfortunate elderly couple mysteriously collapsed and died outside Dublin international airport today.”

  I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. My legs went numb. “They’re looking for—”

  Giovanni wrapped his arm around my waist and led me from the lobby bar out into the cold night. It wasn’t until we were a good block away that one of us finally spoke. “It’s not just me, Giovanni. You were on there, too. They showed you grabbing my hand and running.”

  His jaw was rigid. “I realize.”

  “What do we do? I can’t let them find me. Oh God. If my father sees the footage, he might recognize me.”

  Giovanni stopped and turned me to face him. “You mean he doesn’t know you’re in Ireland?” When I shook my head, he nodded decisively. “Well then, luck would have it you had your hood partially covering your face.”

  I gave Giovanni the address to my hostel, and I followed him toward it. “Do you not wonder how those two people died at the same time like that?” he asked me. “And why you didn’t?”

  “Of course I wonder. There was a man there with a white aura. You saw him, too. We’re obviously rare, being nothing but silver, but the pure white ones are also different from everyone else. They scare me. I think he had something to do with the deaths. I don’t know. This is,” I said with a sigh, “it’s all new to me. I wish I knew more.”

  “I saw him, yes, and I have reason to share your fear about the people with all-white auras. I have a contact, a doctor, who is very keen to help us know more about ourselves. Perhaps you would consider coming with me to see him? He’s one of the reasons I’ve come to Ireland.”

  I nodded. I wanted to meet anyone who knew about the Scintilla.

  “But first, I will help you find information about your mother.”

  I stared hard at the silver halo of light around him, suddenly frustrated that I couldn’t see more of his true temperament like I could with other people. If he thought my mother’s case was hopeless, what was his motivation to help?

  “Why do you want to help me?”

  “I have an interest in doing so.”

  I’m sure my eyebrows shot up about a mile.

  “Survival,” he added.

  I began to ask him what he meant, but he stopped walking and pointed to a modest brick building on a side street. “This is your place here,” Giovanni said. “I will come by in the morning, yes?” He looked at me intently and added, “Meeting you, Miss Cora, has been a delightful surprise. To have met another like myself is… Well, I was beginning to feel quite solitary in the world.”

  I would have said the same, though maybe in a less aristocratic way.

  Giovanni went into himself for a moment, thinking. “I believe it’s important we help each other. It’s our best chance against them.”

  “Them?”

  He smiled, ruefully. “There’s always a them, isn’t there?”

  Twenty-Five

  T

  he afternoon sun played peekaboo behind threatening clouds. Trinity College library hadn’t opened until after lunchtime, and so I’d had to impatiently postpone my investigation with a lunch of bangers and mash at a small local pub.

  The Book of Kells: Turning Darkness Into Light

  The sign outside of the library actually said those words. The same words I’d seen in the vision when I’d unearthed the key in the redwoods. My body hummed with excited energy, and I wished for a fleeting, sad moment that Finn were here with me to share my excitement.

  I fingered the key, rotated the small red crystal, and slipped it back inside my shirt. Would I need this key today? Did it unlock something that housed my mother’s research? Would it lead me to her?

  Giovanni waited in the long line with me, the strap of his messenger bag slung diagonally over his broad chest. He towered over the heads of everyone like a general surveying his troops. I had to smile. His attention was focused on something up ahead. With us, people-watching was a different sport entirely.

  His gaze, which could be called cold but wasn’t if you looked deep enough, flickered to me. He’d caught me staring. I blushed, and a knowing half smile turned up his lips. It was maddening because blushing was totally redundant. Apparently, he could read into the silver in my aura. I wanted to learn to read the subtleties of silver, too. I wanted to know what he was thinking, feeling.

  “Any idea where we might find this journal of your mother’s in a security-tight library with over 200,000 volumes that we are not permitted to touch?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t answer questions that aren’t questions.” I knew the odds were against me, but I’d gambled on this trip for a reason. My mother had hidden something here. I knew it. The sign outside proved it.

  The line of tourists shuffled into the Long Room of the library. I gasped as soon as I entered. My hand flew to my heart, pressing the key against my skin. The long, narrow room stretched out before us with two stories of books housed in dark wooden shelves soaring up to the barrel-vaulted ceiling like a huge, elegant ship turned upside down. Dozens of alcoves, sections upon sections of books, lined the length of the room. Ornate spiral staircases wound upward in some of the alcoves, while others employed tall, narrow ladders. The alphabet was etched in gold letters up the sides of each row of thick shelves. The brochure said there were over 200,000 volumes in this room alone. It made my book-loving heart race.

  In between each recess stood a marble bust upon a wooden pedestal, over forty of them, giving the impression of a fleet of ghostly sentries guarding the ancient volumes—guarding my mother’s treasure. But how on earth was I supposed to find anything here? I didn’t voice this thought, not wanting to see any trace of smugness on Giovanni’s face.

  I walked slowly, looking for a box or something in which the key might fit, despairing more with each step. It wasn’t likely that anything was going to jump out at me. I was surrounded by a vast sea of leather tomes with no idea how to find the one precious volume I needed.

  Waist-high shelves stood in the middle of each alcove. I stopped abruptly. The warm air of Giovanni’s breath and the flare of his energy rippled over my neck and shoulder. “What is it?” he asked.

  “That carving there, the spiral.” It was the one I’d seen in the memory bound to the key. I walked to the next alcove and then the next, past the busts of Jonathan Swift, Sir Isaac Newton, Socrates, Shakespeare. Beneath the stern faces of the world’s great writers and thinkers, every single pew of books had this same scrollwork carved into the end pieces of the shelves: a winding spiral with a flower in the middle. I rubbed my temples as I racked my brain for ideas. Where would my mother hide her journal in a place like this? If she and my father and I had anything in common, she’d have hidden it in plain sight.

  I walked down the length of the enormous room a second time, hoping against hope that if her journal was here, she hadn’t tucked it away on the second floor with no public access. As it was, double ropes cordoned off parts of the floor, keeping the public from handling the valuable books. Even if I found something, I wasn’t sure how I’d get my hands on it. My eyes scanned for anything with a lock in which the key might fit. The faces of each marble bust mocked me with blank, staring eyes. One bust in particular ridiculed me more than any other: Cicero. My father kept a handwritten quote of Cicero’s under the glass on top of his desk at home. It said:

  Are you not ashamed as a scientist, as an observer, and investigator of nature, to seek your criterion of truth from minds steeped in conventional beliefs? -Cicero

  I’d had to stare at that quote a million times as I sat at his desk during the years I was homeschooled. I retrieved my mom’s letter from my pocket and examined her neat, slanted script. Yes. It was the same as the script in my memory. I looked again into the colorless eyes of my messenger. When you have nothing to go on, you’ll go on anything. I tilted my head to look at the books on the shelves in the alcove next to Cicero.

  “What would it be titled?” Giovanni asked.

  I gave hi
m a tired look. “I’m guessing it will be titled X Marks the Spot: The Musings of a Missing Scintilla.” Giovanni’s eyebrows shot up and he walked past me. I scanned the rows and rows of books all in shades of mud brown, faded blue, and maroon. I was about to move on when a red book caught my eye. One word was written in silver script where all the other books had gold: Grace.

  “Giovanni,” I hissed. With long strides, he stood back at my side. I pointed at the book. “That one. That’s it, I know it.” I was so desperate to touch it that my fingers tingled. I hopped up and down on my toes. I leaned against the teal ropes keeping me from the book I was sure was my mother’s. Her name, Cicero’s bust, even the color of the shiny foil lettering. “I have to have that book.” My voice was a desperate plea, and my stomach knotted like cable.

  Giovanni pointed at the security personnel in the room. “Go ask him what is required to gain access to the upstairs section.”

  His command stymied me, but I trusted he had a reason, and I believed he wanted to help. I walked along the glossy planked floor toward the man he’d pointed at, willing myself not to look back at the book.

  Before I’d even gotten my whole question out, Giovanni was next to me. “We’re running late,” he said with a curt nod to the security guard. “Maybe next time?” He took my elbow and led me out of the library.

  “Listen, I—you can’t just—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Cora.”

  “How can you tell me not to worry? We need to go back in there!” I tugged on his arm, but he held it firm against his waist. Giovanni stopped outside the gate to the college and opened his jacket a fraction. The silver lettering inside gleamed at me. I stared openmouthed. He winked.

  I held out my hand. “Let me see.”

  He began walking again. “Not here. Let’s find a coffee shop where we can sit in the privacy of a crowd.”

  We walked without speaking for a couple of blocks. I didn’t ask how he got the book. Honestly, I didn’t care. I’d have snatched the book if I could have, and I supposed he probably didn’t survive his entire childhood on his own without using some sleight of hand once in a while.