Vagabond Circus Series

by Sarah Noffke

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jack stood just out of reach of the light of the lamppost, the samurai sword strapped across his back. Finley’s directions, although lacking street names, were easy to follow, and now Jack stood staring at the graffiti-covered warehouse. His father owned a dozen or so warehouses like this in the industrial district. Jack had spent a lot of time running around them as a child. That experience gave him a thorough knowledge of the construction of these buildings. For instance, he knew the perfect way for an intruder to enter them. He’d done it a hundred times using his levitation skill.

  Jack waited for a car to finish its trek down the road dividing him from the warehouse. When it had turned the corner he sped across the road and to the alley cutting between two warehouses, both belonging to Knight according to Finley. Jack sprang off one wall and ricocheted the opposite direction, catching the fire ladder hanging ten feet off the ground. It was locked into a cage but he could still use it to climb to the top.

  Once he was at the top of the warehouse he allowed a proud smile to slide across his mouth. As he suspected this warehouse was like his father’s. They had retractable skylights. And according to Finley’s drawing the second to the left skylight would probably deposit Jack right next to Knight’s personal chamber. Jack started off in the direction of the window with a new confidence. He wouldn’t have been striding with such self-assurance if he knew what Ian knew: that Jack was never walking out of that warehouse.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Take the next exit,” Zuma said to Finley, who had the car speeding along in the far lane.

  He gave her an exasperated look. “Did you forget where you used to live? What’s with the no notice on the directions?” he said, sliding the Audi across five lanes, narrowly missing a speeding semi-truck.

  Zuma, who was still fuming over Finley not telling her about the curse, ignored the stress her lack of directions created. “At the light, head west,” she said.

  Finley did as he was told. After a few miles she gave him another set of last-second directions.

  “You know if I wreck your car it’s all on you, right?” he said.

  Again she ignored him. Actually his recent “asshole” behavior made it easier to ignore him, something she’d been trying and failing at since she first set her eyes on Finley. She wished he’d do more to make her despise him.

  “My house is the second on the right,” she said, indicating a double wrought iron gate. The night had brought its darkness, but the large gas streetlamps made it easier to see the intricate details on the gate. It was decorated with cherubs and birds and leaves all made from iron. The lamps looked like something one would have seen on the streets of nineteenth-century London.

  Finley pulled the car up to the closed gate and just spied the ivy-covered mansion behind it in the distance. “This is your house?” he asked, his voice suddenly half hoarse.

  “Yeah,” Zuma said, like it was no big deal. She pointed to his driver’s side window. “You’re going to need to put in the code. It’s—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, putting his hands over his ears.

  “What?” she asked. “What’s your deal?”

  “First, of all, do not give me the code to your parents’ house,” Finley said, lowering his hands.

  “Why?” she said, her eyes squinting at him.

  “Because, Zuma, if someone ever robs their place I don’t want to be a suspect,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” she said, almost laughing at him. “And they have a ton of security, anyway. No one’s robbing my house. Mom is paranoid and had a new system and upgrades put in last year after the neighbors…” She trailed away, wondering why Finley had pressed his head into the backs of his hands which were gripping the steering wheel.

  “Finley, what is it?” she said, hating the sound of worry that filled her voice.

  He pushed himself back upright. “Nothing,” he said, his voice not matching his reply.

  Zuma studied him and then shrugged off his stress. She said, “Anyway, Mom didn’t take any chances after that. The thieves who robbed our next door neighbors—”

  “They stole everything,” Finley said, his voice monotone, his eyes flat.

  “What? Yeah, actually. How did you know that?” Zuma said, her brain not working as fast due to fatigue.

  Finley turned and looked at her, his eyes cold and also dripping with remorse. “The thief,” he said putting emphasis on the word, “didn’t even leave a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, did he?”

  “Wait,” Zuma said, slapping her hand to her mouth. “That was you?”

  Finley nodded grimly.

  “But the Simmons’ house is ten thousand square feet,” Zuma said. “How did you do it by yourself?”

  “I’m fast, remember? And I had supervisors to help with the large objects,” he said. Supervisors were the trusted members of Knight’s crew who watched his kids while they did a job. They didn’t have any useable superpowers but they ensured the kid completed the job or suffered. And in the case of the Simmons robbery they helped Finley with the refrigerator, furniture, and grand piano. However, Finley cleared most of the possessions out of the house, teleporting back and forth between the estate and the moving trucks on the road.

  Zuma shook her head, her eyes not hiding their astonishment.

  “But your mom can rest easy that the same wouldn’t happen to her house,” Finley said. “That was a personal job. A vendetta Knight had against one of the people in the Simmons family.”

  “Oh,” Zuma said again, realizing how much about Finley’s work baffled her. And yet once again he’d drawn her to him. Just the idea he could clear a house mostly by himself in less than two hours made her dizzy. Two hours. That’s how long the Simmonses had been at dinner around the corner. Mrs. Simmons had thought she’d walked into the wrong house when she entered their family dwelling to find dust bunnies swirling across the marble floor and nothing else. And it had been Finley who had done the robbery. He was the crafty thief the police had said achieved an impressive feat and classified it a total mystery. And to her shock it didn’t disgust her in the least. In the least. He had been forced to do the job and the point that he could pull it off made her crazy for him. Not again, she thought. Zuma then reminded herself that he was still withholding information from her. That he was still a thief and couldn’t be trusted. Ever.

  “Fine, no code,” she finally agreed and opened the door. Zuma left her passenger side door open before stalking around the car, the headlights drenching her as she passed them.

  She pressed five numbers and heard the familiar sound of the gates receding back. Her attention had been on that, which was why she was surprised to look up and find Finley standing next to an open driver’s side door.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m not staying here,” he said, his voice full of conviction.

  “What? Why?” she asked, her heart sinking.

  He just shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together. From the ambient light of the lamppost she noticed the pain and frustration in his eyes.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said and reached for his arm. Using his super speed he went to move away from her but her combat sense told her this and she adjusted accordingly, grabbing his forearm. Only Zuma could catch him. Only she knew what he was going to do at the same moment he made the decision to do it. He looked down at her hand wrapped around his forearm. She had no idea what her touch did to him. She couldn’t or she wouldn’t have touched him, teased him. Their eyes connected but Zuma only allowed it for a second before yanking him in the other direction. “Come on,” she said. “We had a deal. I let you drive and you stay here tonight.”

  “What about the car?” he said, indicating the car idling with both doors open in the driveway.

  “Oh, Huxley will get it,” she said, waving at the car.

  “Who’s Huxley?” Finley asked.

  “He’s our butler,�
�� she said, like it was as commonplace as having a front door.

  “Of course you have a Jeeves,” he said. What in the hell have I gotten myself into? Finley thought as he neared the house which towered above him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In the only room in Knight’s compound that was heated or cooled, a man sat. His long fingers drummed on the arm of a chair that belonged to King Louis XIV. It wasn’t that comfortable as far as chairs went but it was expensive and it had belonged to a king, and so Charles Knight thought it was fitting for him. There wasn’t a single light on in his chamber, but that never mattered. Like his brother, he had night vision and hardly needed light, preferring it dark anyway.

  A knock rapped at his door.

  “What?” Knight said, his voice more akin to a bear’s growl than a human speaking.

  The door opened a crack. Sebastian’s pale face easily registered for Knight in the darkened room. The boy’s long black hair disappeared around him though. And although Sebastian couldn’t see Knight in the darkness, he still kept his chin down and his eyes low.

  “Master, as Clairvoyant foretold, he’s here on time,” Sebastian said.

  “Good,” Knight said, stretching to a standing position. He was lean and tall, where Dave had been short and round. And Charles Knight was completely bald whereas Dave had a head full of brown hair where his top hat nestled perfectly.

  “Do you want me to take care of him?” Sebastian asked, squinting through the dark not at his master but at what he was allowed to look at, the walls, the carpet, the furniture.

  “Did I ask you to take care of him?” Knight said, again his voice one long growl.

  “No, Master, I just thought—”

  “Get back to your cell. I’ve got a different plan for this one,” Knight said, his voice growing with vengeful delight.

  “Yes, Master,” Sebastian said, bowing before skirting away back to the metal and concrete room where he resided. It was uncomfortable compared to his place with Fanny, but he was no one special to the caregiver. To Knight he was his most trusted and valuable kid. He was so much so that his cell was hardly ever locked.

  Knight bolted through the door to his chamber, seeing the person he’d ordered to wait outside his quarters until this moment. It was a girl of about fourteen. Like all of Knight’s Kids she was frail, and like all of his kids, she had a determined look plastered across her pale face.

  “Power-Stopper,” he called to the girl.

  “Yes, Master?” She didn’t look up at Knight but instead at the shadow on the ground the towering man’s figure cast from a stream of ambient light behind him. However, he looked at her directly, seeing her straight red hair and eager to please green eyes.

  “Are you ready to work?” Knight asked her.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, her voice strong.

  All Power-Stopper had to do was complete one more job and then she could pick a name for herself. This excited the girl in ways she’d never experienced before. For most of her life she’d been a number. Number twenty-six. Then she came into her skill and was named after it. But once she finished her one-hundredth job then she’d get to have a name. Gwendolyn. That’s what she wanted to be called. It made her feel rich.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The front door to the Zanders’ mansion was unlocked. Finley considered turning and racing away. Zuma couldn’t catch him, but then what would he do? One day he’d have to face her. As a coward. Instead, he reluctantly followed her through the double doors. Under his feet was an intricate arrangement of inlaid marble. Above his head were three chandeliers stretching across the width of the expansive foyer.

  “Mom,” Zuma called up the double staircase, richly covered with a plush runner. “Dad,” she said.

  From the entryway, Finley could see through multiple open rooms to a sparkling pool in the back yard. The foliage-rich yard was lit by the same antique gas lampposts as those flanking the driveway. Finley had seen some incredible places. Stolen priceless items from them. But to be invited into a home of this type was a foreign experience for him.

  Zuma’s eyes shot to a side hallway, and Finley knew by the look on her face that someone must be approaching. He couldn’t hear or see any movement but Zuma always knew first when someone was nearing. Maybe she heard the thoughts of the approaching person, but it was also likely that her combat sense told her.

  From the oak-paneled hallway, a woman hurried. She was Zuma in so many ways. The same light blonde hair, the same lean build, the same large eyes, but hers were gray where Zuma’s were brown.

  “Oh, Z! There you are!” her mother said, folding her arms around Zuma. From over her daughter’s shoulder, the woman’s eyes, barely marked by wrinkles, touched Finley and she smiled at him. Her mother was taller than Zuma, but just barely. Finley liked Zuma’s height, not too tall, not too short. Her mother was model height though and probably towered over most men.

  “Mom,” Zuma said, pulling out of her mother’s arms, looking almost fragile for a moment.

  “I know, darling,” she said, her voice sensitive. “Poor, sweet Dave.” She cupped Zuma’s chin. “How are you, Z?”

  “How do you think?” she said, her voice tight.

  Finley stood awkwardly watching the reunion, considering if he should still run away.

  “I know, Z. Pain is to be expected right now. Welcome it. Allow it,” she said, sounding wiser than her years made her look.

  “How’d you know?” Zuma asked.

  “Titus called. He told us we might expect you,” her mother said.

  “Good ol’ Titus,” Zuma said. “He remembers to make calls that I forget.”

  “And I tried to call you, but I suspect you left your phone at the circus. It wouldn’t have killed you to take your cell phone with you,” her mother said, her voice not punishing but rather matter-of-fact.

  “It probably would have, Mom,” Zuma said begrudgingly.

  “Well, I have another phone that I want you to take.” Then the woman turned her sharp gray eyes up to Finley’s. “And you must be Finley,” she said, extending a long hand to him. Her fingers reminded him of Zuma’s.

  “Oh, right,” Zuma said, pretending she just remembered he was there behind her. In actuality, she could never allow herself to forget his presence. “Finley, this is my mom, Samara. Mom, this is the untrustworthy jerk who hid the knowledge of Dave’s would-be murderer and is accompanying me to rescue Jack from peril,” she said in one long bored breath.

  “Pleased to meet you, Finley,” Samara said, not seeming to hear all that her daughter said. In truth, she was choosy with what she gave audience to, having learned this trick raising four Dream Traveler children. “Lovely name. Finley,” she said again, testing his name in her mouth.

  He wrung her hand a little sheepishly. “Your daughter, with good reason, is upset at me and I only wan—”

  Samara waved him off, interrupting his words. “Oh, we aren’t going back to that little jab Z just made at you. It’s her problem and not coloring my perception of you at all.”

  Zuma let out a howl of frustration. “God, Mom! I knew you’d say something hippie-like like that.”

  Samara again ignored her daughter. “Titus filled me in completely, even sharing your history with me. I hope you don’t mind that. And I must say, what an incredible thing you’ve done escaping from Knight’s compound. I have so many curious questions for you. And I wouldn’t presume that I could judge the decisions you’ve made along the way since I didn’t face the same obstacles in life as you.” She said the entire last remark aimed at her daughter.

  “He won’t answer your questions, Mom,” Zuma said, tying her arms across her chest.

  “He won’t answer your questions, Z, but you aren’t me,” her mother said, sounding pleased.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Zuma said.

  “Oh, I know you know, but do you want me to say it out loud?” Samara said, tapping her head.

  “Damn it, Mo
m, get out of my head right now, would you?”

  “You know that’s against family rules,” the older woman said, a picture of composure. “I’m entitled to a place in your head, as you are in mine. Complete trust in everything.”

  “Wait,” Finley said. “You’re a telepath too?”

  Samara nodded proudly.

  Zuma looked off, sulking. “It runs in the family,” she said and then turned to her mom. “I told Finley he could stay in one of the guest rooms.”

  “Well, you, Finley, are completely welcome to stay with us. Our house is your house.” Then Samara swiveled her gaze on her daughter. “But I’m afraid, Z, he’ll have to stay in your quarters.”

  “What?” Zuma and Finley said together.

  “The guest wing is being remodeled,” Samara said. “It’s a mess, with tarps and peeling wallpaper. Not fit for a guest at all.”

  “Well, what about the other rooms?” Zuma asked.