The Secret Fire

by Whitaker Ringwald

  Epigraph

  The most powerful weapon on earth is the

  human soul on fire.

  —Ferdinand Foch

  Contents

  Epigraph

  1. Jax

  2. Ethan

  3. Jax

  4. Ethan

  5. Tyler

  6. Ethan

  7. Jax

  8. Ethan

  9. Jax

  10. Ethan

  11. Jax

  12. Ethan

  13. Jax

  14. Ethan

  15. Jax

  16. Ethan

  17. Jax

  18. Ethan

  19. Tyler

  20. Ethan

  21. Jax

  22. Tyler

  23. Jax

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Jax

  I’ve always wanted to ride in a limousine. Movie stars get to ride in them all the time. And high school kids rent them for prom. This was a pretty nice one. It had a row of black leather seats that stretched along the windows and wrapped around the back end like the letter J. There was a minibar with crystal glasses and a refrigerator. Last year, our neighbors rented a limo for their daughter and she and her friends drove down our road with their heads sticking out the sunroof. They looked like they were having fun. I wanted to do that. I wanted to stick out my head.

  But then I’d crawl right out onto the roof and make my escape, because this limo ride was the opposite of fun.

  I’d been hurrying down the steps of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, running as fast as I could because I was supposed to meet my cousins and this new friend of ours named Pyrrha. I’d just finished deactivating the museum’s security system so that my cousins could steal an urn. We were supposed to meet at Tyler’s car. It’s not like I do that sort of thing every day so I was pretty nervous. I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure no guards were following me. And I didn’t hear any police sirens so that was a good sign. As soon as I got to the car, I was going to check the phone to see if anyone had sent any texts. Ethan gave me his phone to borrow, so I’d have a way to communicate during our heist. But when I neared the end of the steps, there was this crazy man standing there. “Hello, Jacqueline,” he said.

  I skidded to a stop. If he’d been a total stranger, I would have wondered why, on such a hot day, he was wearing a long black coat. But he wasn’t a stranger. His name was Ricardo. And I knew why his hand was in his pocket. He was hiding a weapon. Not a gun. Something way worse.

  We stared at each other. His eyes were dark and empty. I don’t know how to explain it but it was like looking into a robot’s eyes. There was no twinkle, no rage—nothing. And he barely blinked. I was trying to decide if I should start running again, when a limousine pulled up to the curb behind him. “Come with me or you know what will happen,” he told me, his expression dead calm.

  I looked around for Ethan, Tyler, and Pyrrha. They weren’t standing by our car. They weren’t hurrying down the steps. That meant they were still inside the museum, still trying to steal the urn. And if this guy found out about the urn, we’d be in huge trouble.

  He turned away for a moment, to open the limo’s back door. That gave me just enough time to silence Ethan’s phone and tuck it beneath my T-shirt, into the waistband of my shorts. I’d borrowed Ethan’s phone because I didn’t have one of my own, which is a sore spot with me. What twelve-year-old doesn’t have a phone? Seriously!

  Ricardo motioned for me to get into the limo.

  “What if I don’t go?” I threatened. “What if I start screaming for help?”

  “Why would you do such a useless thing?” He patted his pocket. “You know what will happen.”

  I shot darts at him with my glare. I knew, without a doubt, that another urn was tucked inside his pocket. Even though I’d never seen this particular urn in person, I’d heard all about it. It was called the urn of Faith, and if Ricardo opened it, a magical windstorm would burst out. The wind would be so strong it would break tree branches and knock people over. Cyclists would fly off their bikes, cars would crash, windows would break. Then the magic would reach out like a million cold fingers and yank faith from the souls of anyone who happened to be standing in its path.

  Losing faith might not sound like a big deal. There are times when we all give up, because we’re disappointed, or because something terrible happened. We might stop believing in ourselves or in a higher power. But that’s only a percentage of the faith we carry around with us every single day. Even if we feel that we have nothing left, our faith can be reignited. It can grow. It’s like the seasons, or like the tide, coming and going, moving in and out. But the urn takes every single drop. It sucks the soul totally dry. There’s nothing to ignite. Nothing to water or fertilize. And once the urn has done its damage, its victims search desperately for something to believe in. Anything. Anyone.

  They turn to Ricardo. And they put their faith in him. They become his followers. His servants.

  I wasn’t going to let that happen to me, or to Ethan or Tyler. Or our new friend, Pyrrha. Or to anyone who had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  So I got into the limo. Never, never, never get into a car with a stranger, Mom always said. But these circumstances were different. I knew this guy, sorta. And besides, what else could I do? We hadn’t come up with a backup plan.

  Ricardo got in and sat in the seat across from me. He closed the door, then the limo started to move. I took a sharp breath. Had I made the wrong decision?

  I couldn’t see the driver because of a tinted plate of glass that separated the front seat from the back of the limo. To my surprise, we didn’t drive very far. In fact, we drove into the art museum’s parking lot and sat, idling. I narrowed my eyes. What was he waiting for? Was he going to try to capture my cousins, too? I had to warn them. I pressed my fingers against the window. Ethan and Tyler still hadn’t come out of the museum. Nor had Pyrrha. I glanced at Ricardo’s pocket.

  As far as I knew, there were three magical urns—the urn of Faith, the urn of Love, and the urn of Hope. I’d only seen the urn of Hope. I’d carried it around. I’d even slept with it in my hotel bed. For a while, I’d been its protector. I remember how warm it had felt in my hands, like a living creature. I’d been able to sense when it was nearby. I could hear it calling me. But as I sat in the limo, I didn’t sense the urn of Faith. That didn’t surprise me. I’d never acted as its protector so I guess we had no bond. But as Ricardo settled into his seat, his coat pocket suddenly looked flat. Too flat to be holding anything. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Let me see the urn.”

  Ricardo took off his fedora and set it on his lap. He tucked his long black hair behind his ears, then looked at me with a blank expression. “How can I show it to you? It is not here.”

  “What?” I cried.

  “Did you think I carried it with me at all times?” He shook his head with disgust. “A weapon of such magnificence should always be kept in a safe place. And brought out only when needed.”

  He’d tricked me. I felt so stupid. I should have demanded to see it when we were on the museum steps. I punched the door button. The window buttons. Nothing opened. Did this limo have child-protection locks? I always hated those things! I pounded my feet on the floor, yelling at the driver. “Hey! There’s a kidnapped girl back here!” I pounded my fists on the windows. “Help! Help!” People walked down the sidewalk but no one turned and looked at the limo. Had it been soundproofed? I thought about the phone, still hidden in my waistband. It was too risky. If Ricardo saw it, he’d take it away. That phone might
be my best chance for escape.

  Why had I let him trick me? I was furious!

  “Calm down,” he told me, his voice as cold as steel. His fingers twitched, as if there was electricity running through them. He pulled a phone from the inner pocket of his coat and made a call. I stopped thrashing and watched, gripping the edge of my seat. “Hello, Tyler Hoche. Are you ready to turn over the urn of Hope?” He’d called my cousin.

  “Don’t give it to him!” I shouted.

  Even though the phone was pressed to Ricardo’s ear, I could hear Tyler’s muffled voice call my name.

  “That is correct,” Ricardo replied. “Jacqueline is with me. I will keep her unless you are willing to make a trade.”

  Then a girl’s voice shot out of the speaker so loud, Ricardo winced. “Do not hurt her! Do you hear me, Father? Do not injure Jacqueline Malone.”

  Father?

  For a moment, Ricardo’s expression softened. It was as if his icy mask had melted away, revealing a real, living person. “Pyrrha? Is that you? What are you doing in this world? You are forbidden to be here. You are breaking Zeus’s law. You are in danger.” He actually sounded concerned. This monster who had unleashed the urn of Faith in two different banks and had hurt dozens of people actually cared about someone?

  But wait a minute. Ricardo was Pyrrha’s father? I was so shocked, I went kinda numb. That meant that he was also from the Realm of the Gods. He was immortal. My brain flooded with questions, but I forced myself to sit quietly and listen.

  On the other end of the call, Pyrrha pleaded with her father to come home. To help her destroy the urns once and for all. “Please, Father, stop this madness. Zeus has Hope and—”

  His eyes turned cold once again. “You returned Hope?” He held the phone closer.

  I could no longer hear Pyrrha. But at that moment, Ricardo’s eyes flashed as red as a flame. “The gods never forgive,” he hissed. “They cannot be trusted. Why would I go back to a world where I have no power, when this world offers me wealth and glory beyond measure? Come to me, my darling daughter, and together, we will rebuild the world of the gods in our own image. Together, we shall rule this world.”

  Rebuild the world of the gods? I felt like I was watching a movie. The guy was nuts!

  There was another long pause as he listened to his daughter. Then his gaze rested on my sneakers. “Give up your quest, Pyrrha, and she will not be hurt.” He ended the call.

  She will not be hurt. He was talking about me. I tried not to flinch. I tried to look brave.

  We sat there for what seemed like forever. A few minutes ago I’d believed Ricardo was a maniac, but now I knew he was some kind of immortal maniac who wanted to rule this world. How could we possibly stop him? “You’re wasting your time,” I told him. I folded my arms so tightly, they started to ache. “Pyrrha will never help you. She knows the urns have to be destroyed. She’ll never be on your side.”

  He said nothing. Then he rapped on the driver’s window. The limo pulled out of the parking lot, then slowed again. Ricardo reached for the door. My heart skipped a beat. Was he going to let me out? I got ready to bolt.

  But when the door opened, Pyrrha slipped into the backseat next to me.

  “I will give up my quest, Father,” she told him. “I will help you.”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “Traitor,” I said right to her face.

  2

  Ethan

  FACT: A quest is a search or pursuit made in order to find or obtain something.

  In movies and books, the main character almost always goes on some sort of quest. I suppose that in those first stories, told by cavemen around the fire, the quest was to hunt and kill a great woolly mammoth. Later, the quest was to rescue a damsel in distress. In one of my favorite stories as a kid, the quest was to protect a giant peach from being destroyed by sharks and Cloud-Men.

  But in this story, the one being told right now, the quest is for two brothers from Chatham, New Jersey, to save their cousin and the entire world from a madman.

  Only this isn’t a piece of fiction. This quest is real.

  “Follow that car!” I hollered.

  I couldn’t believe those words had come from my mouth. That’s one of those phrases you always hear in action films. If I were to star in a film, it would most likely be a documentary about how to check books out at the library, or a comedy about a shy kid who gets nosebleeds. I’m definitely not action-hero material. I can’t even run a mile without starting to wheeze, thanks to my pollen allergy.

  The car we needed to follow was a black limousine, and it was heading down the street with my cousin, Jax, held hostage in the backseat.

  “Tyler!” I called. “Hurry up. Ricardo’s getting away!”

  Tyler looked a bit dazed. His hair was an uncombed mess, as usual, and his chin was covered in stubble. He didn’t want to be here. But Jax and I had begged him to bring us to Boston. We’d needed him for practical reasons—he had a driver’s license and a car. But we’d needed him for other reasons too. He was smart. He was strong. And he was just as involved in this mess as we were.

  We’d kept the truth about this situation from our parents, and now that Jax was in danger, Tyler and I only had each other. I cringed. We didn’t have a reputation for working well together.

  This whole thing was supposed to be over. I’d wanted to spend the rest of the muggy summer with my feet in our backyard pool, sipping lemonade. Or riding my bike. Or reading. Or doing anything that would be considered sane, rational, and normal. Not worrying about dangerous Greek artifacts or a crazy guy who wanted to take over the world.

  “Ricardo is Pyrrha’s father?” Tyler mumbled.

  We were standing in a parking lot, outside the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. And if I looked as dazed as Tyler, I had good reason. We’d just stolen an urn from the museum’s maintenance room. I don’t know if this argument would stand up in court, but technically we hadn’t stolen it. It was called the urn of Love and it had been hidden inside a small statue, which meant that while the statue was listed in the museum’s directory, the urn wasn’t. The curators knew nothing about it.

  The urn belonged to my great-aunt Juniper. She’s the one who’d stuck it inside the statue for safekeeping. But Juniper was lying in a hospital bed, recovering from a stroke, so it had been up to us to get the urn back. Jax disabled the museum’s security system. While Tyler and Pyrrha created a distraction, I went into the maintenance room, opened the statue, and took the urn. Then I managed to sneak it out of the museum. We were a success. No alarms rang, no security guards chased after us, and no police were waiting to arrest us.

  Except our cousin, Jax, was supposed to meet us by the car and then we’d all go back home, and everything would be over.

  “Tyler, you need to drive!” I cried. I yanked on his sleeve. “We need to follow them!”

  “I can’t believe he’s her father.”

  “TYLER!”

  He snapped out of it. He jumped into the driver’s seat. I jumped into the passenger seat. We slammed the doors. I fastened my seat belt, then cradled the urn of Love between my palms. It radiated, like one of those hand warmers you put into your gloves when you go skiing. Sweat broke out on the back of my neck.

  “Go!” I cried as the limousine turned a corner. Jax was disappearing before my eyes. Kidnapped by a lunatic. I felt totally helpless. “Drive!”

  Tyler fumbled in his jeans. “Where’s the key?”

  “Are you serious?” My voice cracked.

  “Oh, found it.” He jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life. As Tyler backed out of the parking space, he nearly hit a pair of tourists who’d been visiting the museum. Then he put the car into drive and started out of the parking lot. Something made a sputtering noise. The car jolted once, twice. We stopped moving.

  “Drive!” I yelled again. “Go!” I was sounding like a broken record. With each second that passed, Jax was being taken farther and farther away. “
Why aren’t we moving?”

  Tyler turned the key. Nothing happened. Then we both stared at the gas gauge.

  Empty.

  “No way!” Tyler pounded on the steering wheel.

  “Empty? How can it be empty? Why didn’t you fill the tank?” This was his fault. During this whole trip I’d been sitting in the backseat, navigating. I couldn’t even see the gas gauge from the backseat. But he’d been looking right at it. He was to blame. Someone was to blame. Tears stung my eyes. How would we find Jax now?

  “When, exactly, was I supposed to fill the tank?” he began his defense, his eyes narrowing with rage. “We were racing to get here, remember? We were trying to get the urn before Ricardo found us. I was driving as fast as I could. I wasn’t thinking about gas!” He pounded the steering wheel again.

  Tyler had a wicked temper. He mostly controlled it, but when it flared, it was fierce. He’d gotten in trouble a couple of times at school. He’d kicked over a desk. He’d thrown a wastebasket down the hall. Mom said it was immaturity and he’d grow out of it. But he never hurt anyone. He wouldn’t do that.

  He wrenched open the door and flung himself outside. He stomped around the car, then kicked it twice.

  I took a long, deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. Panic would do us no good. We had to think clearly. Logically. And no matter how difficult it was, because we drove each other crazy, we had to work together.

  Someone started honking. “Hey, move your car.”

  Tyler put the car into neutral and we pushed it into a parking space.

  I was about to sink back onto the seat when I remembered something. “She has my phone,” I said with a gasp. “Yes, that’s it. She has my phone!” I’d given Jax my phone before we’d entered the museum. She’d used it to text us, to tell us when the security system had been disabled. I held out my hand. “Give me your phone. I’ll call her.”

  “Are you nuts? You can’t call her,” Tyler said, his face flushed. “That phone is her best chance. If it rings, Ricardo will take it away. Hopefully she’s turned it off and hidden it so she can use it later.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “But maybe we can trace her.”