The Darkness Dwellers

by Kirsten Miller

  “That must be the only thing I inherited from my mother. You have no idea how many people think I’m adopted. So I’m guessing you want to talk in private,” Molly said, ducking under the barricades and heading for one of the white clapboard buildings. “Come on. I’ll take you to visit Ananka Jr.”

  “What about the snipers?” I asked.

  “There’s only one, and he’s stationed on the other side of the farm. You’ll be fine.”

  As we trudged down a muddy path toward the ever-stronger odor of pig poo, Molly brought me up to date. In the past few months, she’d taught herself how to whittle, designed her own line of outdoorsy apparel, and started writing her memoirs.

  “How do you find time to do it all?” I marveled. “Have you figured out how to go without sleep or something?”

  “Naw,” said Molly. “It’s this place. They don’t let us have cell phones or computers. You’d be amazed by how much you can accomplish if you don’t waste time on celebrity gossip. Here we go.” We had arrived at the source of the stench—a barn big enough to house a herd of dinosaurs. Molly opened a wooden door and stood back to let me pass. Inside was a series of stalls, each filled with one enormous pig. Molly’s was the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. The sow snorted with glee when she spotted Molly’s red ringlets.

  “Ananka, meet Ananka Jr.,” Molly said.

  “It’s a pleasure,” I told my namesake.

  “So, what’s the story?” Molly asked as she nuzzled the giant porker. “Why are you here?”

  “Do you know a woman named Amelia Beauregard?”

  “No,” said Molly. “Should I?”

  “She knows you.”

  “Really?” Molly grinned. “Do tell.”

  “She’s the head of a place called L’Institut Beauregard. Have you ever heard of it?”

  “The finishing school? The one that lobotomizes half of Atalanta every year?”

  “That’s the one. She wants to offer you a scholarship.”

  “Me!” Molly snorted. “Why me? I’m loaded. She should give her stupid scholarship to some girl who needs it.”

  “She’s not offering the scholarship because you need financial help. She’s offering it because she thinks you’re special.”

  “Here we go again.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Everybody thinks I’m special.”

  “It’s not that,” I assured her. Molly was very prickly when it came to her impressive math skills. She’d once told me that her parents treated her like a sideshow freak, dragging her out at parties to impress their friends. “Madame Beauregard doesn’t care that you’re a math genius. I don’t even think she knows. She just cares that you’re a delinquent. She wants to reform you.”

  “So she’s trying to get my friends to recruit me? Look, Ananka. I have no interest in going home to live with Mommy Dearest just so I can attend charm school every evening. Tell this Beauregard lady I said it’s not going to happen.”

  “I would. It’s just that …”

  “What?” Molly demanded.

  “Well, she’s kind of blackmailing me.”

  “Some prissy old lady?” Molly asked with a look of newfound respect.

  “Yeah, a friend of mine applied for a job with her. But she won’t give my friend the position unless I convince you to take summer classes at the institute.”

  “You’re kidding! I’m starting to like this crazy broad. So she thinks she can turn me around, does she?”

  That’s when I began to get nervous. Molly was far too confident. “Look, you don’t really have to go. Just say you will now, and back out later. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “No way,” Molly said. “I’m a woman of her word. If I say I’m going to go, I’m going to go. I’ll teach Amelia Beauregard a thing or two.”

  “This isn’t some sweet old grandma, Molly.”

  “I certainly hope not! Besides, I don’t have any weird ideas about old people. I never knew my grandparents. Nobody ever tried to buy my love with candy or presents. As far as I’m concerned, being old doesn’t make you any sweeter or weaker than the next person.”

  “But Amelia Beauregard …,” I started.

  “I get it, Ananka. She’s tough.” Molly shrugged. “I’m tougher. And I still owe you a favor for getting me kicked out of Atalanta. So tell Madame B. that I’ll see her this summer. Now what do you say, want to give Ananka Jr. a ride?”

  At two o’clock, I caught the train out of Boreland. The other passengers stared at my coat, which was filthy after a day spent with Molly and Ananka Jr. I must have reeked of sow, because no one on the crowded train chose to sit by my side. So I stretched out across two seats and enjoyed my first decent sleep in days. Three hours later, I was woken by the sensation of my cell phone vibrating inside my jeans pocket. Only then did I realize that I’d managed to go nearly an entire day without access to technology. I dug under my layers of clothes like a desperate addict and pulled the phone out.

  “We’ve heard from Kiki,” read the first text message.

  Chapter 10

  Kiki Strike and the Darkness Dwellers

  LOCATION ON THE VERGE OF DISCOVERY:

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 16

  As the light that squeezed between the boards began to fade, Kiki heard footsteps outside her cell. A key scratched at the lock and the door opened. A pudgy man dressed in black, his face hidden beneath a plastic mime’s mask, stepped into the room. In one hand he had a gun. The other hand held a bucket and a bag. With the gun aimed at his captive, he slowly placed the bucket on the floor. Water slopped over its side, soaking the bottom of the brown paper bag.

  “I want to speak with my aunt,” Kiki demanded. “Tell her I have a proposition for her.”

  The man stared at the pale elfin girl. Behind his mask, his eyes were wide.

  She tried the same sentences in twelve different languages. When she didn’t receive a response, Kiki took a step toward the man, and he flinched. The hand that held the gun was shaking wildly, and his trigger finger twitched. Obviously word of Kiki’s martial arts skills had preceded her.

  “Relax,” Kiki tried, but the man backed out the door and slammed it shut. Kiki heard the key rattling in the lock, then the sound of someone scurrying down the stairs.

  She squatted to examine the items he’d left behind. The bucket was filled with nothing but icy water and a rag. Inside the bag was a pink polyester dress with a white lace collar and a note. Kiki took the letter and examined it under one of the weak beams of light.

  Dear Princess,

  Your aunt will be paying you a visit soon. Please bathe so you do not offend her royal nose with your beastly odor. In the meantime, enjoy your visit to the tower. It won’t last long. And should you try to escape, please remember that we have your old servant. Her health depends on your good behavior.

  Love and kisses,

  Sergei

  Kiki crumpled up the note from her aunt’s favorite henchman and pulled the pink dress over her black sweater and pants. However hideous the ensemble might be, any extra warmth would be welcome during the night. Then she sat on the floor and wondered what Livia had planned. Now that the world knew Princess Katarina was alive, how would Livia explain Kiki’s disappearance to the Pokrovian ambassador? What would the New York Times report? Huddled against the wall, Kiki played a game of mental chess with her aunt, while all around her the cold February wind wailed. Later, when the rats came out, she stayed as still as a statue, letting them crawl across her, sniff at her mouth, and even nibble on her fingers. She hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, and if it hadn’t been for her life-threatening allergies, she might have been tempted to make a quick meal of her furry guests.

  Unable to sleep, Kiki had almost lost track of time when she heard the sound of people scaling the stairs outside her cell. She could make out the footsteps of two individuals—both significantly lighter than the man who’d visited earlier in the day. She stood up, removed the pink dress, and prepared to meet her aunt face-to-face. While she w
aited, she listened more closely. The movements outside sounded slow and furtive. It wasn’t Livia Galatzina who had come to see her. The ousted Queen of Pokrovia never deigned to creep.

  Kiki slid to the left of the entrance, her back against the wall. On the other side of the door, she heard male voices whispering in French and the sound of a lock pick in the keyhole. She was certain that her gentlemen callers had no idea that they weren’t alone in the tower. The element of surprise was on Kiki’s side, and she waited to ambush the intruders.

  The door opened and two flashlight beams danced across the walls. Kiki hesitated.

  “There it is. Isn’t it beautiful?” One of the beams came to rest on the bell above their heads.

  “You’re joking, no?” a second male voice scoffed. “This is our project? It’s a hunk of rusting metal!”

  “It’s a national treasure!” the first whispered angrily. “Now shut the door, Marcel. The guard will be back soon.”

  The door swung closed, and one of Kiki’s guests lit a lantern. He carefully placed it beneath the bell and shrugged off a black backpack filled with heavy equipment. When he was finished, he took in his surroundings. That’s when his eyes landed on the ghostly creature still pressed against the wall.

  Those of you who’ve seen Kiki Strike know that her brand of beauty is something of an acquired taste. And until you acquire that particular taste, the sight of a girl with translucent skin and hair the color of spiderwebs is liable to scare your pants off. The boy stumbled backward, one hand over his mouth as if to stifle a scream.

  “What’s wrong with you?” his friend asked. Then his eyes followed the finger that pointed directly at Kiki. “Mon Dieu!” the second boy exclaimed with his eyes squeezed shut. “Make it go away!”

  “I think I’ll stay if you don’t mind,” Kiki said pleasantly in perfect French. “After all, I was here first.”

  “It speaks!” cried the first boy.

  “Mon Dieu!” repeated the second.

  “Would you both stop?” Kiki was growing annoyed. “I’m not a ghost.”

  “V-vampire?” one of them stuttered.

  “No, I’m not a vampire, either. I’m one hundred percent human. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re both acting like a couple of ninnies.”

  Sometimes one well-chosen word is all you need. The dark-haired boy rose to his feet and swept the dust from his pants. “If you’re just a girl, how did you get up here?” He was a bit too thin and a little too pale. A most attractive combination, Kiki noted.

  “Where’s here?” she asked.

  “The bell tower of St. Maurice,”1 the boy replied.

  “In Paris?” Kiki asked.

  “Of course it’s in Paris! What’s going on? Who are you?”

  “You first,” Kiki insisted.

  “We came to fix the hunk of junk hanging over your head,” said the second boy. He was taller and burlier than his companion, with shaggy blond hair and a cocky expression. And he didn’t seem to take the task at hand very seriously at all.

  “Marcel!” the first boy scolded. “It’s a secret!”

  “Don’t worry,” Kiki assured him. “I’m not in any position to gossip. So, do you two make a habit of repairing rusty old bells in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s not just old,” the first boy grumbled. “It’s one of the most famous bells in France. It hasn’t been heard in a hundred years. We want everyone in Paris to enjoy it again.”

  “Sounds like a project for the Darkness Dwellers,” Kiki said.

  “What would you know about the Darkness Dwellers?” blurted the dark-haired boy, unaware that he was addressing someone with a photographic memory and a penchant for reading several online newspapers each morning.

  Kiki tapped her temple with an index finger. “Hmmm. Let’s see. According to the Paris police, the Darkness Dwellers are a mythical organization. There’s no solid evidence that any group by that name has ever existed. However, many Parisians believe that the organization was formed to protect the catacombs—a network of bone-filled tunnels deep beneath this city. The Darkness Dwellers’ fans claim the group secretly repairs national treasures aboveground as well.” Kiki paused to point at the bell before continuing her lecture.

  “But not everyone thinks they’re so wonderful. Some people believe that the Darkness Dwellers exploit the catacombs for their own amusement. A while back, a police officer reported that the group had used stolen electricity to build themselves an underground movie theater. And earlier this year, a shipment of old skeletons on its way to New York was intercepted by French customs officials. Some think that the bones had been pilfered from the catacombs, and that the Darkness Dwellers were selling them to finance their adventures.

  “But the police still insist that the Darkness Dwellers are just figments of the public imagination. I suspect that the truth in this case is much more interesting. In my experience, it usually is.”

  The two boys looked like they’d been walloped with a saucisson sec.

  “How … ?” one started to ask.

  “I read Le Monde, and I pay attention.”

  At last, the dark-haired boy stepped forward and offered Kiki a hand to shake. “Truly impressive. My name is Etienne,” he said. “My friend is Marcel.”

  “You can call me Kiki. So, are you members of the Darkness Dwellers?”

  “No,” Etienne admitted. “They never invite anyone under eighteen to join. Marcel and I don’t want to wait another two years, so we’ve been trying to prove ourselves worthy of the honor.”

  “And give them a little good press,” Marcel added.

  “Yes,” said Etienne. “The Darkness Dwellers’ reputation has suffered since those skeletons were seized by customs. Marcel and I want to fix something beautiful so Paris will love them again. But our last project was a terrible disaster. There was an accident, and we almost destroyed a tenth-century crypt. My father had to pay a fortune to repair the damage, but the body inside the crypt … Well, let’s just say that this project could be our last chance to prove that we’re not completely incompetent.”

  “So, you’re intending to break into this tower every night to work on the bell?” The beginnings of a plan were forming inside Kiki’s head.

  “That was the idea,” said Etienne. “I go to an engineering school, and we studied this church in class. The city has never raised enough money to fix the bell, and the whole building has been abandoned for years. I thought Marcel and I would be able to come and go as we pleased. Then on Saturday, we discovered a night watchman stationed downstairs. I’ve spent the last two evenings studying the man’s movements. He heads to the café across the street for his dinner at ten and for breakfast at five. We can slip in and out of the church while he eats. If you don’t mind my asking, is the man guarding you? Did someone lock you up in here?”

  “Yes.” Kiki sighed. “But the less you know about it, the longer you’re likely to live.”

  “So, you’re a damsel in distress, eh?” Marcel said, doing a rather poor impersonation of a swashbuckler. “Good thing we showed up to save you.”

  “Did I say I need saving?” Kiki snipped.

  “You must excuse my friend,” Etienne apologized. “He’s not known for his tact. Look, the door is open now if you’d like to go. We won’t tell anyone that we saw you.”

  “I’d love to leave, but I can’t,” Kiki replied. Livia claimed to have kidnapped Verushka. If Kiki tried to escape, her beloved guardian might die. “And you two can’t stay here. I’m expecting visitors soon. They won’t be amused if they discover I have company. You’ll have to come back some other time.”

  “What will happen to you if we go?” Etienne asked.

  “I’m sure I’ll live,” Kiki said. “I have something my captors might want. I just need a chance to propose a trade.”

  “But you could freeze to death in the night!”

  Etienne’s concern was so charming that Kiki almost laughed. “I come from a very col
d country. I know how to survive in weather like this.”

  “Do you have any food? I brought a sandwich. …”

  “You’re very kind, but I can’t accept it.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Etienne urged. “Is there any way we can be of assistance?”

  Kiki considered the offer. “Yes. I suppose there is one thing you can do. You can send a message to my friends in New York.”

  “You’re an American?” Marcel scoffed. “How is that possible? Your accent is perfect!”

  “Who said I was American?” Kiki examined the tall blond boy. There was something off about Marcel. Kiki considered herself to be an excellent judge of character, and as far as she could tell, Marcel didn’t have much. Etienne was dedicated to fixing the bell, but Marcel didn’t appear quite so committed. He had other reasons for visiting the tower, Kiki guessed—reasons he may not have shared with his friend.

  “Will you please excuse us for a moment, Marcel?” Kiki asked as politely as she could. “I would prefer to speak to Etienne alone.”

  THE FISHBEIN GUIDE TO … FRIENDS & ENEMIES

  A twenty-first-century lady or gentleman knows how difficult it is to choose the right allies. Loyal friends can be massive pains in the butt. Smooth-talking comrades can be snakes in disguise. And everyone makes mistakes. So how do you know whom to keep close—and whom to keep tabs on? Simply take the quiz below. If the person in question scores more than 200 points, she or he’s a true friend. Anything less and you might want to consider recruiting a new BFF.

  (When you’re done, find out from your friends what your score would be. Then do your best to improve it.)

  1. Would your friend defend you if you couldn’t defend yourself? (For instance, if you were injured, out of the room, or on the toilet.)

  +100