It took forever to figure out how to open the key fob. For weeks I rolled the seven-letter code into endless combinations, imagining what message Garrett could have left for me. I was pretty surprised when “told-u-so” didn’t work.
A month after my return, I was wandering through the Vault, thinking back to our last night together, hunting for clues. “Impossible is my specialty…” He was right about that… Then it hit me. “I’ll do anything to prove you can trust me.” Coming to a halt, I took the key fob out of my pocket and tried it right then and there. T-R-U-S-T-M-E.
The lid clicked, and I popped it open. Inside was a scrap of paper with a handwritten code:
The language looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I went straight to the Crypt, hoping some rare manuscript in the Beinecke could help trigger where I’d seen the language before. As soon as the door sucked closed behind me, I remembered. The Voynich.
Rushing into the glass cube, I located the manuscript and, putting on white gloves, set it on a table. I turned the delicate pages with tweezers, going as quickly as I dared, hunting for a clue. Twenty minutes later, I found it. Sandwiched between some bizarre illustrations of naked people—and I couldn’t help but giggle—was a piece of paper with six compass roses, each ringed with a code. The layout reminded me of a Templar cipher, but the writing was distinctly Voynich. Did he decipher the manuscript? I tried a few lines from the book, and it translated to gibberish. No…this must be his code.
Taking the scrap of paper out of the key fob, I got to work.
N-O-T-H…
When I finished, I sat back, admiring his handiwork, and smiled.
It read: “nothing is as it seems we’re just getting started always say die”
I’m still not sure if he means we’re just starting—as in me and him, together—but excitement ignites in my belly all the same.
Yes. This is only the beginning. Always say die.
“It’s kind of morbid, don’t you think?” Sophia asks as she and Rayelle join me, jarring me out of my reverie. She’s gone all out with her costume, wearing a silver lamé evening gown with a drop waist and tassels. Her hair is tucked into a hat decorated with a silver plume. Half of her face is smeared with silver glitter, and she wears a small collection of rhinestones under her left eye. “The Last Night on the Titanic?”
“I think it’s romantic,” Rayelle says, smoothing the skirt of her red velvet gown. “It’s to remind us to live every day like it’s our last.”
“We’re definitely standing on a sinking ship,” Stewart says, arriving by my side and linking arms with me. He leads me into the party. “The world as we know it might as well go to hell, since our best and brightest turned out to be a traitor.”
“We don’t know that,” I say. “I still think Garrett was called away to a top-secret job. We got the algorithm and prevented the Quinn update this time, but Simon’s still out there. Madden is still building the Simulation. They’ll find another way to convince society mind uploads are a good idea. Garrett’s probably on the front lines.”
“If it was a job, don’t you think Allard or Abignail would tell us?” Stewart asks. “They don’t have to tell us what the job is.”
I shrug. “Allard says she doesn’t know. But maybe she’s sworn to secrecy.”
“Speaking of,” Sophia says under her breath.
Allard taps my shoulder. “Elisha, can I talk to you for a moment?”
She’s decked out in a black beaded evening gown, but I know she misses her lab coat.
“Sure.” I follow her to an alcove half hidden by a string quartet.
“I’ll keep this short.” She presents me with an antique key. “Happy birthday.”
Stunned, I take the key, rolling it between my fingers.
“I need an answer by the end of the night. And I trust you’ll speak of this to no one.”
Before I can respond, with a swish of her skirt, she’s gone.
Dazed, I head outside. Finding a quiet corner of the porch, I lean against the railing, pretending to contemplate the moonlit trees as I twist the key’s filigree head. Inside is a tiny scroll. I study the handwriting, feeling my sinuses clear as I read.
Target: Audio tape labeled “Conversation with Jackie Kennedy, December 17, 1964.”
Location: Andy Warhol Museum, Pittsburgh, time capsule number 78.
Details: Andy Warhol kept an ongoing record of his daily life by consistently sweeping the contents of his desk into a cardboard box he kept at his feet. There are 610 boxes sealed in the time capsule exhibit at the Warhol museum in Pittsburgh. Use whatever means necessary to obtain the audio tape in box 78. Once the tape is in your possession, send a message from the loft on Railroad Street.
“What did Allard want?” Stewart asks, appearing next to me.
“Unfortunately, I can’t share.” I stuff the scroll back into the key and squeeze his arm.
“I figured as much,” he says, smiling. “But let me know if you need a code breaker.”
Rayelle and Sophia join us. “You’re not coming to Vegas with me this summer, are you?” Rayelle asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “There’s been a change of plans.”
“I’m not surprised,” Sophia says. “You’re definitely the best girl for any job, but let us know if you need us.”
“Thank you for being my friends,” I say, resting my head on Rayelle’s shoulder. “You have no idea how much it means to me.”
The four of us stand, united, staring up at the stars.
“And I promise you this,” I say. “I will always say die.”
Did you love this Entangled Teen book?
Don’t miss another book by Katie Delahanty.
Sign up for the Entangled Teen newsletter here!
Acknowledgments
When I started this book five years ago, I had no clue the journey it would take me on, how huge the world would become—how much it would make my brain hurt—or how much I’d learn along the way. At times the journey to publication felt never ending, but as I sit here at the finish line, it feels like yesterday I was staring at a blank page one. I’m grateful for every early morning, late night, and stolen moment I got to spend with these characters and that wouldn’t have been possible without a massive support system. So, first and foremost, thank you to my husband Jason for always being up for an adventure (Spy School!) and for being the other half of this balancing act. I’m so happy we continue to grow together and dream BIG together. Thank you to my parents and to Joan and Joel for all the afternoons and nights at Grandma and Pap’s and Nana and Papa’s so that I can take a (much needed!) escape to my imaginary world.
Thank you forever and always to Jennifer Pooley for believing from the beginning and sending all the lightning bolts. To Diane Samandi for cheering me all the way—and for always bringing the deep talks. To Jeff and everyone at MGT for allowing me to make my own schedule so I can lead a double (triple?) life. To my editor Candace Havens for her incredible insight and for making me and KEYSTONE better. To everyone at Entangled—Liz and Heather and Curtis and Stacy and Debbie and Riki and Hannah and Jessica and Meredith and everyone I’ve yet to meet—who have had a hand in this beautiful book. I’m so happy to be a part of this team. To everyone at the Bent Agency for looking out for me. To Donovan, Lilah, and Cece for being my greatest joys in life. And finally, to you, the readers (if you’re still reading this!). Thank you for coming on this ride with me. You are the most important piece of the puzzle—the keystone, if you will—because without you this story would have no reason to exist. Thank you for giving me purpose. I’m forever in your debt.
About the Author
Katie Delahanty lives in Los Angeles with her husband, twin daughters, and son. Growing up in Pittsburgh, she loved old movies and playing dress up but never considered telling stories of her own until she was asked to start a blog
for the sleepwear company she worked for. Unsure what to say about lingerie, she wrote a fictional serial about a girl chasing her costume design dreams who fell in love with a rock star along the way. And that’s when Katie fell in love with storytelling. That blog became the Brightside series, and she’s been waking before dawn to write ever since. Visit her online at KatieDelahanty.com
Turn the page to start reading
a sneak peek of
Malice
by Pintip Dunn
What I know: someone at my school will one day wipe out two-thirds of the population with a virus.
What I don’t know: who it is.
In a race against the clock, I not only have to figure out their identity, but I’ll have to outwit a voice from the future telling me to kill them. Because I’m starting to realize no one is telling the truth. But how can I play chess with someone who already knows the outcome of my every move? Someone so filled with malice she’s lost all hope in humanity? Well, I’ll just have to find a way—because now she’s drawn a target on the only boy I’ve ever loved...
Chapter 3
My breath comes in quick, shallow pants. I brace myself, preparing for the pain that’s about to follow.
But it doesn’t come. The zap doesn’t return, the electricity doesn’t intensify, and my brains don’t feel like they’re being boiled. What’s going on?
“Move away from the sink,” the Voice says evenly. It’s the same one as before, but she’s not impatient and angry this time. Instead, she sounds quite calm.
I perform a quick calculation. It’s been seven hours since she last visited. What happened? Did she take a nap—or whatever disembodied voices do to rejuvenate—since we last talked?
I take a step back. Our dishwasher is broken, so the counter is piled high with recently cleaned plates that have yet to be put away. “Who are you?”
Which is a nicer way of saying: damn you, you made me think I had lost my ever-loving mind! But Mom raised me to be polite to strangers, even if she’s not around to enforce it. Even if said strangers take the form of unexplained beings.
The Voice ignores me. “That’s not far enough. Walk at least fifteen feet. To the very edge of the kitchen, where the tile meets the carpet.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Why?”
“No time for questions,” she says, sounding more like her original self. “Do it. Now.”
There’s no corresponding zap of pain. Compared to my earlier torture, this request is downright courteous. I’m not prepared to accept whatever this is as my new reality. I sure don’t like being told what to do by a voice in my head. But I comply, more out of curiosity than any desire to obey.
“Okay,” I say from the doorway. “I’m here, but I have questions. Lots of them. And if you think I’m just going to—”
BOOM!
The entire pile of kitchenware crashes to the floor. Pots, pans, cutting boards, knives. Plates, dishes, cutlery, and a wineglass filled with a deep-red merlot from Dad’s dinner last night. It hits the floor at just the right angle and shatters, spraying drops of wine all over the kitchen.
The epicenter of the crash is exactly where I was standing.
I stare at the blue linoleum squares in front of the sink. My heart gallops, and the rain of wine all over the counter, stove, and cabinets echoes in my mind like the ringing of bullets. I sag against the doorframe, sliding down until my butt hits the floor, half on the shaggy carpet, half on the cold tile.
The Voice… She just saved me. From being drenched with wine, if not cut by the shards of glass. How did she…? The words refuse to form. Instead, images flash through my mind, like a movie sequence on fast-forward.
Drops of wine fly through the air, splattering my skin. Up and down my bare arms, my cheeks, my forehead. My white tank top. Splashing against the fabric, staining it in a random starburst pattern, right next to Lin-Manuel Miranda’s autograph. The liquid flows down my body, drip-drip-dripping like the steady trickle of a faucet.
Me, gaping at my tank top. The surprise gets stuck in my throat at first, but then it shakes free in a shriek so loud that Archie vaults up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Archie’s disgust when he realizes I’m crying over spilled wine. The hurried swipes of my finger on my phone screen as I try to figure out how to neutralize the red liquid. For an hour, I dab at the stain. Sprinkle it with salt. Add boiling water. And then I run an entire load of laundry, just to save the shirt. But it’s no use.
My favorite tank top, made special by the black Sharpie scrawl of my idol, ruined. Forever.
The events fly through my head like a reel of memories. Just as vivid as if they actually happened. But they’re not memories. They can’t be.
I stare at the white fabric of my shirt, unmarred by a single stain. And I’m jolted by clarity so deep that it must be true.
This is what my future would’ve looked like if I hadn’t moved.
All of a sudden, fine tremors roll along my skin like choppy ocean waves. For my birthday last year, Archie bought me the autographed tank from eBay…and a pair of earplugs for himself. Can’t really blame him. I might have been singing about not throwing away my shot from dawn to dusk. But more than the prospect of my nearly ruined shirt, I’m freaked out because of what this vision implies. About the Voice, about its presence in my head.
“Who are you?” I ask again.
The Voice takes a breath, a fluttering of air inside my brain. Or maybe that’s me. Or the both of us together. I have this eerie sensation of breathing with this being, of our lungs (if she has them) rising and falling as one. Me, on this floor. And her…wherever she happens to be.
“I always loved that top,” she says musingly. “Maybe it was silly to pick this moment to prove a point, but I might as well save our favorite shirt, if I could.”
I shake my head. “What…what are you saying?”
“It’s nice to meet you, Alice,” she says gently. “I’m you from the future. Ten years older.”
Chapter 4
My mouth drops. Air wheezes in and out, but it’s like I’ve grown gills in place of lungs. The room dips and spins so violently, it’s all I can do to hang on to the doorjamb and not slide across the linoleum.
She… Me… Well, flaming monkeys. We. Us.
Is it possible? The Voice is me? An older Alice Sherman?
“Ticktock,” the Voice says. Or maybe I should refer to her as “me.” But I can’t. Not yet. I can’t wrap my head around this new reality so soon. If ever. “We only have a short amount of time. Our consciousness can travel for a few minutes during each visit. Go ahead. Ask your questions.”
“What questions?” I croak. It’s a wonder I can still talk.
“All the things you’ve never told a single soul. The answers to which only you—or your older self—would know. My knowledge of the wine spill should tell you I’m from the future. The questions will prove that the rest of it is true. I am you, and you will one day become me.”
A puff of oxygen slides into my chest, and the room begins to right itself. She knows me so well. She knows exactly what I need to get over this shock. Exactly what will push me into the realm of believing.
Proof. In the only form available to me.
“Who did I crush on in the first grade?” The question spills out of me like a geyser.
“Easy. Steven Chu. You pretended you thought he was disgusting, but you were giddy every time he pulled one of your braids.”
I make a face. So sue me. I was six years old and clearly had a lot to learn.
“Did I ever cheat on a test?” I ask.
“Seventh grade. Mrs. Miller’s class. You went to turn in a history quiz and saw that the test on top had a different answer. Panicked, you changed yours, but karma isn’t kind. Turned out, your original answer was the right one after all.”
My
cheeks flush. Four years ago and the shame still rises in my chest. I was all emotion that day. All fear and self-doubt. The monster was so big, there wasn’t room for anything else.
I take a deep breath. One more question. I almost don’t want to ask. But I have to know, once and for all, if she’s me.
“What’s the worst thing I’ve ever done?” I whisper. “The thing I’ll never confess to, as long as I live?”
She laughs so hard that my brain seems to vibrate. But unlike her earlier amusement, soaked with nostalgia, this laughter has no real mirth. “Oh, Alice. You’re so…idealistic.” She says the word like it’s a sour candy. “I’ll answer the question, but I gotta warn you.” Her voice lowers. Thickens. “You’ll do much worse before you become me.”
I wrap my arms around myself, yearning to dive into the comforting sand dunes of the Arabian desert.
“Let’s see. The worst thing you’ve ever done…Alice, at seventeen…” she says slowly. “Okay. At seventeen you were the Goodiest Two-shoes who ever lived.”
Derision lives in the space between her words. Gone is her light teasing. Gone is the warm remembrance. She’s angry with me. At herself, at this young age. But why? What did I do? More importantly: What will I do?
“Last year, Archie was being recruited to attend college a year ahead of schedule,” she says. “By Harvard, MIT, Cal Tech. They all wanted him, and they wanted to lock him down early. You were the messenger between Dad and Archie. Most days, Dad couldn’t even bother to talk to you, but that didn’t stop you from inserting yourself. You took it upon yourself to act as mediator.”
Keystone Page 32