“He’s right,” said Tristan. “Here you have your friends, and people who care about you. This is where you belong.”
Zoey didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure if she was safer with the Agency. She’d already been betrayed by Agent Stokes. Her mother had warned her against traitors. Had her mother been the victim of some treacherous scheme in the Agency? And then she remembered something else.
“My mother said Mrs. Dupont and the Alphas were after me,” she said, “but then she switched and said them. Like them was something else, something even more terrifying.”
Tristan watched Zoey. “Who do you think them is?”
Zoey was silent for a moment, remembering the terror on her mother’s face. “I saw something,” she said. “My mother was scared of something when she was speaking to me. I saw it, not clearly, but whatever it was, it was big and mean, and it terrified my mother. Whatever that thing is, it’s after her. I think that’s who or what she meant by them. She’s in danger, and I have to find her.”
“Where’s the Minitian now?” asked Tristan, leaning forward. “Maybe she knows where your mother is?”
“I thought about that,” said Zoey, “But I don’t think she knows. It’s just a feeling, but I don’t think she knows. The message she showed me was old, like ten years old or something like that. Besides, even if I wanted to ask her, I can’t. She’s gone. ”
Zoey surveyed the inn and lowered her voice.
“You guys can’t tell anyone about this—not even Agent Barnes. Well, not yet anyway. I have to learn more about my powers.”
“Your secret’s safe with us.” Simon’s hand puppets fought each other. “No one else will ever know, promise.”
Zoey sighed and placed her empty cup on the side table. “Well, that’s not exactly true. Claudia was there.”
“What?” chorused Tristan and Simon.
“She saw me, and she saw my mother.”
Zoey’s anger returned.
“I didn’t know she was there until the message was over. She was hiding behind a tree like the little coward that she is.”
Tristan stood up and started to pace around the living room. “How much did she hear?”
“I’m not sure.” Zoey remembered the triumphant smile on Claudia’s face. “A lot, I think. I know she’s going to tell someone sooner or later. What will the Agency do to me?”
“I don’t know,” said Tristan, and he fell silent.
“Then I have to move quickly.”
Zoey pulled off her blanket and began to lace up her boots. When she was done she stood up. “I’m going to New York, before they try to stop me.”
Simon looked up from his puppet performance. “What?”
“I’m leaving,” said Zoey, realizing then that she had just made up her mind.
Simon jumped up. “Like, right now? But—aren’t you still, like, frozen? I think we should stay here where it’s warm. New York has snow too, you know. And it’s really windy.”
Zoey looked towards the kitchen. Aria was busying herself behind the counter and did not look up.
“You don’t have to come, but I need to do this. I need to figure out what happened to my mother and where she is. Something’s after her. She needs me. New York was where she was last stationed. If there are clues to her disappearance, I’m guessing I’ll find them there.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Tristan.
Simon pulled off the red mittens and handed them to Zoey.
“Tristan might be slightly better looking and a tad stronger than me,” he flashed his teeth at Tristan, “I know the girls love the strong silent type — but I’m smarter. And you’re going to need my spectacular people skills on this mission of yours. So I’m coming with you, too.”
Zoey smiled. “Good. Let’s go quietly and quickly before Aria sees us.”
Without another word, the three of them moved quietly out of the front door and towards the hall of mirrors in the Hive.
Zoey reached the doors first and pulled them open. They stomped the snow from their boots and walked into the vast marble hall. Round, square, rectangle, even some triangle-shaped mirrors hung low to the ground on both sides.
The hall hummed. They looked at each other. A sudden draught brushed her cheek. A golden oval-shaped mirror nearby shimmered like water and a green light bulb flickered on above it. Two snow-covered men stepped out.
“Director Hicks won’t be pleased we’ve lost another Big Foot,” the first man said to the other man. “I wish they’d stop eating all the cows - they’re not making this easy.”
Trying to look casual, Zoey walked over to a tall silver mirror with the inscription, United States of America written beside it. Tristan and Simon moved next to her. She glanced at her friends, trying not to look nervous.
“Ready when you are,” said Simon, sounding braver than he looked. Tristan set his jaw and gave Zoey a short smile that said we’re with you.
Zoey stepped up to the side panel and raised her finger.
“Stop right there!”
A short, round, elderly woman with short straw-colored hair marched towards them with a look of superiority across her wrinkled face.
“Great,” whispered Simon, “here comes Mrs. Jenson, the new receptionist. She’s ten times nosier than Mrs. Andrews ever was.”
Zoey felt a sting in the pit of her stomach. She remembered the horrible way Mrs. Andrews had been shot, right here in the main hall.
“Just stay cool,” said Tristan. “She doesn’t have to know the truth.”
Mrs. Jenson stood with her hands on her hips, eyeing them suspiciously. She looked like an overfed vulture.
“What are you three doing here on a Saturday? Shouldn’t you be with your families?” She turned to Zoey and added, “Except for you, of course.”
Zoey glared at the woman. She didn’t like the way she said you, like Zoey was inferior somehow, like she was second best. Obviously, she was one of those who believed that Drifters shouldn’t have been allowed in the program.
“We’re on a special field assignment,” said Tristan, his voice calm and steady. “All the Operatives are. There’s no rest this weekend for us if we want to keep up with the program.”
Mrs. Jenson surveyed them for a moment. “I don’t believe you. Wait here till I contact Agent Ward.” She pointed a grubby finger at them and then marched back towards her desk.
“I don’t like that woman,” said Simon, “She scares me. I get this uncontrollable urge to scratch when I see her.”
Zoey stepped up to the mirror again. She had memorized the name of the Hive on her mother’s file. She typed: Hive # 212, New York, USA.
The green light flicked on. The mirror hummed, and its insides churned like water.
Zoey peered over her shoulder and saw Mrs. Jenson on the phone. She turned to her friends.
“Come on, let’s go!” With a rush of adrenaline, she closed her eyes and stepped into the mirror. A loud “STOP RIGHT THERE!” from Mrs. Jenson was the last thing she heard.
Immediately, her feet left the ground, and she was floating. She twisted horizontally and vertically. Wind rushed against her face. She smelled exhaust fumes and concrete. Tires screeched loudly in her ears, and she heard honking. A few seconds later, her feet touched solid ground again, and Zoey opened her eyes.
She stood in the middle of a vast chamber with tall windows and polished floors. Tall buildings sprouted on every side, and Zoey could see the Hudson River below. She was in a high-rise building. The air moved behind her as Simon and Tristan stepped out.
When she glanced around again, the river had disappeared and in its place was another high-rise. They were moving. She looked around. They were standing on a circular platform with mirrors around the edges. It turned slowly, like a giant merry-go-round.
“If we don’t get off this thing I’m going to puke,” said Simon, looking a little green.
Zoey jumped off the platform. Tristan and Simon followed on shaky legs.
/> Unlike the Hive in Toronto, this Hive was busy with agents and mystics. Dozens of them stepped out of the merry-go-round mirrors. There were tall, yellow-skinned mystics with purple spiked hair dressed in bright orange suits. A mystic with the body of goat and the head of a woman galloped down from the platform. Zoey heard a grunt, and an albino hamster with dragon legs came out of a mirror beside her. It spoke to an agent with curly blonde hair in that same mystic language that Agent Ward had tried to teach her. Doors and halls branched out from the main chamber in every direction.
“Zoey, this way.” Tristan made his way towards a long polished desk.
A man in a black suit and red bowtie sat behind the desk. He was nearly bald except for two patches of dark hair above his great flappy ears. He had a large turned-up nose and looked like an old hog in a suit. He didn’t look up from his computer. The words ‘Administrative assistant, Maurice at your service!’ were written on a small card.
Simon snorted.
The man looked up with wet, sad eyes. “Yes?” he said, in a rather sleepy, nasal kind of voice, as though he had just woken up. “May I help you?”
Zoey flattened her hands on the desk. “Excuse me, sir, but we’re looking for information about an agent who was stationed here in New York a few years ago. Can you tell us who to talk to?” She stopped and waited for him to reply.
“Hmmmm,” Maurice stared at Zoey through his misty eyes, as though she wasn’t really there.
“Um - Mr. Maurice,” said Zoey, “we’ve come a long way, and we really would like to speak to someone.”
“Yes,” answered Maurice, his lids slowly closing over. “Of course…I’ll be right with you…two creams, two sugars…”
Zoey waited. “Mr. Maurice?” she said, a little irritated.
Maurice’s head dropped, and he began snoring noisily.
“MR. MAURICE!” called Zoey loudly.
Maurice’s head flew back and his eyes opened wide. “Hello. May I help you?” he said with the same sleepy voice. He looked at them blankly as though he had only just met them.
“And I thought Mrs. Jenson was a little off the wagon,” whispered Simon. “What’s the deal with him?”
Zoey elbowed Simon in the ribs and glared at him.
She raised her voice a little. “Mr. Maurice, sir, can you direct us to the persons in charge of records? Past agent records?” she asked again, in her most pleasant voice. “Pretty please?”
But the old man’s head drooped, and he started to snore again.
“Can you believe this guy?” said Simon. He and Tristan started to laugh.
Zoey was running out of patience. She leaned over the desk and said very loudly in his ear, “MR. MAURICE!”
The old man screamed and fell off his chair. “What? What’s the matter? Is there a fire? Are we in danger?” He crawled around on the floor and then scrambled back up on his chair with a wild look in his eyes.
“There’s no fire, old man,” said Tristan kindly as he leaned over the counter and made sure not to lose eye contact.
“What we need is information. Where do you keep records on past agents?”
Maurice blinked his red, wet eyes, and pointed. “In the archives, down the hall to your left. Door number 5A.”
Zoey smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Maurice.”
They turned and left. Within seconds they could hear his snores again.
They walked in silence, and Zoey’s heart hammered in her chest. The closer she got to the door, the more panicked she felt. Door 5A stood ajar. The word ARCHIVES was written above it in large black letters.
Zoey peeked through. The room was littered with boxes, file cabinets, and old computers. Through the mountains of papers and boxes she could see a counter at the other end of the room. Zoey made for the counter.
A humanoid mystic with three eyes, a tiny mouth, an elongated neck, and a large oval-shaped head typed on a computer. He looked like a human lollipop.
“At least this guy looks awake,” breathed Simon.
Zoey ignored him and address the mystic.
“Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me find records on my mother. She was an agent here at the New York Hive a few years ago, and now she’s missing. I’m desperate to find her.”
“Name?” said the mystic, his voice like a bird’s chirp.
“Elizabeth Steele. She would have worked here around fifteen or sixteen years ago. I’m not sure.”
The mystic began typing in his computer. His three bulbous eyes never left the screen. With an expressionless face he said, “Sorry, there are no records showing under that name. Do you have another name?”
Zoey felt her blood drain away. “What? No, that’s the only name I have. But…that’s impossible. She was stationed here in New York. I know she was. I saw it in the file.”
“Do you have this file?” asked the mystic.
The file was hidden under her mattress back at the Wander Inn. Her face fell. “No, it’s not with me right now—”
“I’m sorry, miss,” The mystic shook his head, “but I do not have anything with the name Elizabeth Steele. The records of all active and past agents are in the system. If it’s not on file, then I’m afraid she wasn’t an agent here. Best of luck.”
And with that, the mystic returned to his computer.
“But…” Zoey felt the room closing in on her. “This can’t be! There has to be something here!” She raised her voice angrily, “This is wrong! There has to be a record of her. Look again!”
“If there are no records with that name,” said the mystic irritably, “that’s because there are no records, and never were. Perhaps you have the wrong name.”
“No, that’s her name,” grumbled Zoey.
Simon leaned over the counter. “Is it possible that someone lost or erased those records?” He shared a look with Zoey and raised his brows.
The mystic looked up at him. “It’s possible, but very unlikely. We here at the Archives treat every single record with the utmost respect. We don’t lose or erase files - we store them.”
“But it is still possible?” pressed Simon.
The mystic didn’t respond.
“Well? Is it?” asked Zoey, aggravated.
“I’ve answered your questions, now please go away,” said the mystic. “I’m very busy. Good day.”
Tristan took Zoey’s hand and squeezed it. “Zoey, let’s go.”
Tristan steered her away from the counter.
All this time she had thought New York was going to be the answer to all her questions. The clues to her mother’s whereabouts should have been here. She felt puzzled and numb. Where were her mother’s records? Was Simon right? Could someone have erased them?
They stood outside the Archives room in silence. Tristan and Simon shared a look. They felt the pain on Zoey’s face.
“This really sucks,” said Simon after a long and very uncomfortable silence. “I seriously thought New York would be golden. I thought for sure you’d find your answers here. I’m really sorry, Zoey. I know how much you must be disappointed.”
“We’ll figure something out,” said Tristan, “There’s gotta be an explanation.”
“Yes, and it starts with someone erasing those records.” Zoey fought the tears that threatened to pour down her cheeks.
She watched agents rushing across the chamber. Her throat ached when she spoke next. “Someone didn’t want us or anyone else to find them, I’m sure of it. They erased them, so we couldn’t find out what happened to her. Someone from this Hive did it. There are traitors everywhere. My mother said so in her message. Maybe it was someone she knew.”
“They did a good job leaving no traces,” said Tristan. “Well, at least you still have real proof that she was an agent back at our Hive.” He squeezed her hand gently.
When Zoey realized she was still holding his hand, she let it go quickly.
“Yes, that’s right.” Her voice shook. She felt like someone had carved out her heart and left a big d
ark hole in its place instead.
“What do you want to do now?” asked Simon as he jammed his hands in his pockets.
Zoey shrugged. “I guess we go back for now. I’ll look at the file again. Maybe I missed something on it that’s important. Maybe I missed a clue—”
Screams erupted throughout the chamber. The floor trembled like an earthquake had hit the Hive. The hair on the back of Zoey’s neck rose. They rushed back to the center of the chamber. Agents and mystics were screaming frantically as they pointed at the mirror-ports.
“Why are they all freaking out?” shouted Simon over the hysterical frenzy. “It’s making me freak out!”
And then Zoey saw what the fuss was about.
Every single mirror-port mirror was turning black. What looked like ink blots were spreading over all the mirrored surfaces. Zoey watched in horror as every single mirror was covered by the black substance. And then a black liquid like oil spilled out of the mirrors and onto the floor, as though they were vomiting their innards.
Zoey approached a middle-aged man who was standing nearby.
“What just happened? Why did the mirrors turn black like that? What is that black stuff?”
The man spoke without looking at her. He watched the mirrors with a look of utter distress and shock.
“I—I don’t know. This has never happened before…”
“So…what does this mean?” urged Zoey.
The man turned to her and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “This is an attack! The mirrors have been destroyed!”
Chapter 6
The Black Oil
Zoey felt warmth inside her pocket. She pulled out her DSM and could see right away that the same black oil oozed from its corners. She flipped it open—the mirrors had been eaten away by the black oil. She felt wetness on her fingers and saw that they were tainted with the stuff, so she brought her fingers to her nose and sniffed.
“Gross, it smells like a mixture of alcohol and pig manure,” she grimaced, and wiped the oil from her hands on her jeans.
“What I’d like to know,” said Simon as he held his DSM with two fingers and eyed it suspiciously, “is how you know what pig manure smells like.”
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