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  “If we don’t do this, Henry, we will never be truly free. We will be on the run forever.”

  His head bounces in agreement. “I know the consequences. But think for just a moment—when this is over, you will still have Baby—”

  “He won’t survive if we don’t do this.”

  “He’s strong. And when the books are destroyed, the curse will be broken, so he’ll recover. You’ll have Baby, and the Cinzios, and Violet and your circus family. And Xavier—even if you don’t like him—he’s still your father.” Henry’s face is drawn with the weight of his thoughts. “I will lose my mother. Forever. And how do I ever go home? My father is lost to me. And yes, he’s a despicable person, but he is still my father. I still love him.”

  A hard knot forms in my throat. “We have no choice,” I say, my words hard.

  He looks up at me, his eyes almost glowing. “We do have a choice—we just have to make sure it’s the right one.”

  With that, he stands and reverently cradles the AVRAKEDAVRA under his arm. When he offers me a hand up, I don’t take it. I walk ahead, up the three sagging steps, and directly to my bunk, watching to make sure Henry secures the door as Xavier had it earlier.

  When he climbs onto his bunk, he whispers good night.

  I don’t respond.

  20

  THE AROMA OF FRESH COFFEE REPLACES THE DUSTY ITCH IN MY NOSE. I TAKE my time pulling on my boots, watching Henry and Xavier at the table—I slept like shit after the show Henry put on around the firepit. He’s digging in to another MRE; Xavier is hunched over carving a small piece of wood, the shavings gathering in a heap at his feet.

  “Good morning,” Henry offers. I nod and then step out to use the very primitive facilities, careful to check for snakes as instructed, about jumping out of my skin when a lizard skitters out from behind the privy. Xavier has set up a bucket for us to wash, and just as I’m drying my hands off on my pants, I hear low voices behind me.

  I rush back into the cabin. “Someone’s coming.”

  Xavier pockets his carving and his knife. He checks his sidearm and moves to the window, his body ready for whatever is coming through the trees.

  And then his shoulders and face relax, his relief obvious.

  “The Guardian. She’s here.”

  Xavier goes out to meet her; I rush to rinse my mouth with toothpaste, throw on a clean shirt, and wet down my wiry hair very much in need of some shampoo.

  “Get any sleep?” Henry asks.

  “Not much. You?”

  “Some. I’m nervous about meeting this Guardian,” he admits.

  “Me too.” But I also know that it’s been almost forty-eight hours since the last Etemmu haunting, and if these people were with Lucian, there’s a good chance the Etemmu would’ve made itself known, if the pattern is anything to trust.

  Henry stands behind the chair he’d just been sitting in; I move over to join him, careful not to make contact. I don’t want him in my head—I don’t want him to see the seeds of doubt now growing there in light of our firepit conversation.

  The door opens, and Xavier walks in, followed by a small woman with the blackest skin I’ve ever seen, her head wrapped in a dark-green scarf, her outfit in the same dark green that would help her disappear in a forest as dense as this. She isn’t alone; a young man, thin but very tall, is with her, attired in the same camouflage-colored gear.

  Xavier scoots the door closed, replacing the two-by-four in its brackets. He then steps around, a polite smile on his face, and gestures toward the table.

  “May I introduce Genevieve Flannery,” he holds a hand out toward me, “and Henry Dmitri.” Henry and I nod and offer quiet hellos. “This is Shamira and her son Joseph.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Shamira says, her words heavily accented. “Xavier, tell me you brought some of that excellent Scotch I requested.”

  Xavier smiles genuinely, a rare sight. “Single malt, but only a hundred years old.”

  “Only,” she says.

  “Anything for my best girl.”

  He offers chairs to Shamira and Joseph, and then quickly retreats to his pack from which he pulls a stout glass bottle. He grabs three short glasses from the “kitchen,” wiping them clean with a questionable towel, and then pulls a fifth chair from the wall for himself.

  “Sit, please,” Shamira says, nodding at Henry and me.

  Xavier pours two fingers’ width of whiskey and doles out the glasses to our company. Waiting for them to sip and exchange pleasantries about its oaky taste has my heart in my throat.

  Finally, Shamira sets her glass aside and flattens her hands on the rough tabletop. “Xavier tells me you are the rightful heirs.”

  “Yes,” we say together.

  “You are also Xavier’s daughter?” she asks me.

  Xavier leans back in his chair, his face hard, eyes downcast. The chair whines under his weight.

  “Allegedly, yes,” I say, eyes on Shamira. “But the man who is my father lays dying in France. I’ll do anything to save him.”

  “Bamidele. I know and love him.” Sitting here with Shamira, a hundred new questions pop into my head.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Old enough to know it’s impolite to ask a woman how old she is,” she says, followed by a hearty laugh. My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “No, no, my child, it is okay. It is a good question. The Guardians are very old. Nutesh gave us a great gift, though it is not without sacrifice.” And like the Circ people yesterday, Shamira pulls a key from under her the scarf wrapped over her head and neck and kisses it. I stare at it, willing it to not turn black like Mathieu’s did back in Croix-Mare.

  It doesn’t. She tucks it away again.

  “This day has been a long time coming. Centuries in the making. If Nutesh deems it time for the AVRAKEDAVRA to return to the fertile lands of its birth, then I as Guardian will fulfill my sacred duty.”

  “Thank you for your commitment, Shamira, Joseph,” Xavier says, stretching his hand across the table to rest on top of hers. When Shamira smiles, her eyes twinkle as if made of starlight.

  “My dear children, if we only had more time, I would love nothing more than to tell you stories of our people, of our past, of the beautiful work we have done to heal this planet. However”—Shamira slides her hand from Xavier’s and reaches to the floor to pull up her pack—“time is not on our side.”

  Shamira nods at Xavier, who then turns to Henry and me. “You must present the texts to the Guardian as proof of your identity.”

  I’m sweaty with nerves, grateful that the electric burn behind my sternum rests on simmer. I don’t want to hurt this beautiful woman.

  Henry and I move to our packs. I unzip the secret compartment that holds my Life text; even through the leather wrap, it hums when I make contact. Carefully, I pull it free, whispering a silent plea to Alicia and any other nearby benevolent spirits to keep us safe. Henry’s eyes are wide as he looks to me, his back to our guests but his text resting in his hands.

  We turn together and set the books on the table before Shamira and her son. She looks first at me, and then at Henry, and then nods. I unfold the leather wrap, and as soon as the Life text is free of her sheath, my heart flutters and I’m breathless.

  “Please lay your hands atop your texts, children,” Shamira says.

  Tentatively, we follow her instructions. As soon as my hands are on the book, it’s like a million strands of light blow through me. I swear I look like I’m on fire. The contact is so intense and stunning, I can’t turn my head to see if Henry is experiencing the same thing.

  Shamira speaks, reciting what sounds like a prayer. She then reaches toward me, places her hands flat on mine, repeats her chant, and then breaks my connection to the book. I’m winded and mildly nauseated, but I also feel like I could lift this entire cabin over my head.

  I watch as she repeats the ritual with Henry, though he seems to be in better control of whatever energy courses through him
—probably because he’s been spending time with the book and his mother when he was meant to be asleep.

  When Shamira is done, she bobs her head at Xavier. He pours her more whiskey. She swallows it in a single pull and daintily sets the glass back on the table.

  “I am satisfied that these heirs have met the requirements set out by the Original Creators, our forefathers of the healing arts. I shall now relinquish the treasure I have been charged with all these long years so that we may bring this journey to a close and move toward the next adventure that awaits all the good people of the AVRAKEDAVRA, and of La Vérité. The key to good is found in truth,” she says.

  Joseph and Xavier repeat her, in unison. “The key to good is found in truth.”

  Shamira then looks to her son, who hoists his own pack onto his legs. From it, he pulls a polished onyx box. He sets it before him, and then slides it toward us.

  “Inside you will find the first piece of the temple key. I am relieved it is now your responsibility, and no longer mine. It is finally time for me to go home, and die in peace,” Shamira says, suddenly standing and pulling her pack onto her shoulders. Joseph follows suit. “We wish you the safest travels, and the greatest luck. I will look forward to the lifting of my heart that tells me the deed is done. Be well, my children.”

  Xavier stands and embraces Shamira, offering her the Scotch. “I’ll look forward to drinking this when I get to Juba.”

  “My country waits for you with open arms, Xavier Darrow,” Shamira says, pulling him down to kiss his forehead. “Take care of yourself.” She cups his cheek, and then turns to follow Joseph.

  We stand on the narrow porch and watch as Shamira and Joseph disappear into the trees. “Get your things,” Xavier barks, the kinder demeanor of just moments ago vanished like his Guardian friends.

  21

  WE HIKE OUT OF THE WOODS TO ANOTHER DIRT ROAD—I HAVE NO CLUE IF this is the same one we came in on, but a different vehicle has been stashed in the brush and covered with a green canvas tarp. Whatever network Xavier has working here, I hope to hell he trusts the people manning the controls.

  Because I don’t. How do we know there aren’t more Mathieus waiting in the wings?

  Not like I have much of a choice at this point.

  Just before we left the cabin, Xavier opened the black box and showed us the piece Shamira delivered. I braced for another physical reaction at being so close to this piece of AVRAKEDAVRA magic, but the piece lay dormant on its velvet bed inside. Oddly shaped, I wasn’t sure how this could possibly be a key. It’s flat and occupied a third of my palm when held, made of cut, polished gray stone. Upon closer examination, my imagination filled in the missing parts.

  I think back to sitting in Baby’s truck at the post office in Cannon Beach, seeing the symbol for the first time on the wax seal of my mother’s cryptic letter. And then on Lucian’s tiepin when I initially believed him when he said it was “an old magician’s symbol, from back when magician meant ‘healer.’ A protection against evils.”

  Oh, the irony.

  It was carved into Udish’s festering flesh; it’s emblazoned on the front of the AVRAKEDAVRA texts; and it’s Nutesh’s tattoo.

  This “key”—a circle overlying an inverted triangle—will undo our gifts and send those closest to us, finally, to their last days.

  Xavier tucked the box with the piece into his own pack. “If we get separated, neither of you can have a text and the components of the pieces we’re collecting. It’s suicide.”

  I’m glad to not be carrying it. And after my conversation with Henry last night, I’m glad he doesn’t have it either.

  Xavier backs the car out from where it’s been squeezed between the trees. This time, it’s an unremarkable blue SUV with faded paint and bald tires. As soon as the locks click open, Henry and I climb in.

  “The windows are tinted, but not enough to keep you invisible. Sit with your backs toward the glass so when we’re in the city, in traffic, no one can see you.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Another marina. Not Port Vell—we can’t be anywhere near Circ de l’Anell.”

  “We’re getting on a boat?” Henry asks.

  “God willing it hasn’t sunk yet,” Xavier mumbles.

  The road back to civilization is long, curvy, and bumpier than I remember. I catch Henry smiling every once in a while, his head bobbing as if in agreement with a conversation only he can hear. Probably because it is a conversation only he can hear.

  When the city appears through the windshield, her many blocks of humanity stretching east toward her coastline, I’m tempted to roll the window down and hang my head out like a dog. Barcelona is gorgeous. If only we were here like regular people—I want to visit all those famous landmarks you see in the tour books. La Sagrada Familia and Casa Milà and Gaudí’s other famous works; if we could walk through Parc Güell or La Boqueria, which is supposed to be one of the most amazing markets anywhere. Or maybe we could hang out on one of the area’s famous beaches and I could work on giving my translucent skin some color. Violet did a school project once on Spain, and we used to tease Ted that he should move us overseas so we could hang out with beautiful Spanish men. Well, that was Violet’s idea. I mostly just wanted to see someplace that wasn’t America.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Xavier has a different cell phone from the one at the apartment. It dings with a notification; he picks it up and reads the screen, the car behind us wailing when we don’t move on a green light.

  He then tosses the phone over the seat to me. “Have a look.”

  I click through, and Lucian’s face fills the screen as my stomach drops. “Henry . . .” He scoots closer to me.

  According to the BREAKING NEWS banner along the bottom of the video, Lucian is in France, talking to reporters, in perfect French.

  “Can you—”

  Henry holds up a hand and cranks the volume. And then Xavier’s face fills the screen.

  “Oh my god,” I say. “They know you’re alive. They know we’re with you.”

  I look up at Xavier. His jaw clenches, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

  “Enough,” Xavier barks. Henry swipes the screen closed.

  “Someone please translate?”

  Henry’s face is flushed, eyes wide.

  “There’s a reward,” Xavier bites out. “He’s moved on from being the concerned father to angry art collector and preserver of history wronged by outsiders. He’s doubling down on Bamidele being the mastermind, and they’ve thrown me into the mix as the ringleader.”

  “Ringleader of what?”

  “A dangerous religious cult. And Bamidele Duncan has abducted you into it. Your family in Oregon is joining forces with Lucian to find you, and Henry, and bring you both home safely.”

  “This is bad—surveillance cameras are going to pick us up somewhere. If Lucian is spreading your photo like he has ours, it’s only a matter of time before someone recognizes us.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have renewed that passport,” Xavier says, rolling down the window to light up.

  “You’re making jokes?” I say. “You’re going to have to shave your head or something. You have to change what you look like so it’s not so obvious.”

  “I’m not shaving my head,” Xavier says.

  I sink into the seat. It’s bad enough that Henry and I could be spotted—even with our appearances changed—but the three of us together and Xavier with his mop of black curls and those eyes . . . He could wear a clown wig and his eyes would give him away.

  Henry stares out the front window, but I can see the wheels spinning in his head.

  I don’t know if this will work, but it’s worth a try.

  I pull my glove off, and then gently, Henry’s. He watches me—I lock eyes with him and slide my hand into his, careful of his blisters.

  The exchange of his calming energy is immediate, a pleasant contrast to the constant low-level hum coming from me.
>
  Unsure if he’ll be able to hear words, I conjure an image of Henry with his hands on Xavier, crawling through his head to get the information we need to find the next two guardians. And then once we have that, I paint the two of us on our own, leaving Xavier behind.

  We have to go, without him. It’s too dangerous for the three of us. We can do this, I think to Henry.

  I’m shocked when he nods yes.

  Xavier eventually pulls into an underground garage, and as with every time we abandon a vehicle, he repeats the same instructions: packs on, heads down, follow me. He allows us to leave the wool caps off—given the warmish day, we’ll stand out more if we’re wearing hats—but thankfully, he pulls a ball cap out of his bag. At least it shadows his piercing eyes a little.

  The briny smell of salt water and the sun on my face are welcome, though I’m careful not to make eye contact as we pass street vendors hawking their fresh catch or the buyers bartering over price. It’s impossible to know how many people have been watching international news this morning, or how many people care.

  But it only takes one person with good recall of faces. One is one too many.

  We follow Xavier down the wharf, moving farther away from the more crowded parts of the marina, onto narrower wooden walkways that extend over the water where boats are moored. Whereas the boats we saw first were fishing vessels, this part seems to cater to higher-end toys.

  “I thought you said we were taking a fishing boat,” I say.

  “Plan has changed. Something faster in light of recent developments.”

  “By recent developments, you mean what Lucian’s doing?” I ask.

  “Nutesh is monitoring the situation. We adjust accordingly,” Xavier says.

  We follow him through the maze of the marina; he constantly scans, eyes on everything.

  Finally, he turns down one of the walkways between boat slips, slows in front of a long, very sleek, expensive-looking, white-and-black boat with sparkling gold racing stripes. Xavier knocks on the heavily tinted angled window along the side.