Scheme Page 3

5

  “I’M SORRY—WHAT?”

  “Xavier Darrow is your biological father,” Nutesh repeats.

  I stare at him like he’s sprouted a second head. Because that would be more logical than the information he’s just dropped on the table. The burn renews itself behind bone, but I don’t know what emotion I’m supposed to feel first. I don’t know who I should grab onto and cook until their teeth chatter out of their duplicitous skulls.

  Shock, because I do have a father, and he’s still alive, somewhere on the planet?

  Fury, because these people have withheld so much of the truth from me?

  Resentment, because Baby has presumably known my biological father’s identity this whole time and he and Delia kept it a secret?

  Hurt, because if this mystery man is my father, why hasn’t he ever come for me?

  And then I cycle back to rage.

  “Aveline Darrow . . . that means she’s not just my half sister,” I say, throwing my head up. “How is that even possible? We’re hundreds of years apart! I’m only seventeen. I am only seventeen, right?” I yell at Nutesh. “Where is Baby? How could they do this? How could they know and not tell me?” I pop up, shoving my chair back so hard it topples. The slightest whiff of metallic smoke and burning hair wafts from my skin.

  “Genevieve,” Henry says, standing, a gentle hand on my upper arm.

  “Don’t touch me.” I yank away. “Let me out of here. I have to go find Baby.”

  “Miss Geneviève, I know this must come as a terrible shock. But time is of the essence. We will answer your questions, I promise—if you will allow us to proceed,” Nutesh says, gesturing at my chair. Henry has picked it back up, but I can’t just sit down and pretend like I give a shit about anything he’s going to say next.

  I have a real father, and he’s alive.

  I move toward the door and lean against the wall, hands flexing and contracting, my fingers and elbows and shoulders aching like I’ve just done an intense workout on the silks. What I would give to go back to the simplicity of days that revolved around aerial rehearsals and scooping elephant poop and violin practice. My eyes sting with angry tears.

  When he can see that I’m not going to sit and behave, Nutesh picks up where he left off, as though he didn’t just drop a bombshell that craters everything I thought I knew about my identity. “Xavier Darrow is our longest-surviving Guardian. He is responsible for the oversight and safekeeping of the Guardian network. It will be your mission to work with Xavier and fold yourself into his protection.”

  I interrupt. I can’t help it. “I’m supposed to find this man who is my biological father, who, in almost eighteen years hasn’t lifted a finger to get in touch with me, and then travel to some foreign desert with him to save humanity—are you even listening to what you’re saying?”

  “Once you secure the necessary pieces to the temple key, I will meet you at our final destination with the third text for the Undoing.”

  “That’s if we survive long enough to get there. If Xavier doesn’t hand us over to Dagan as soon as we have the pieces.”

  Nutesh shakes his head. “You have no cause for concern.”

  “I have every cause for concern.”

  “Geneviève, I’ve known Xavier for the better part of five hundred years, and he has never once given me cause to question his loyalty. He has never let me down,” Nutesh says.

  Well, I haven’t met him at all and already he’s let me down.

  While Nutesh speaks of logistics, I flatten my hands against the wall behind me. The power in the room dips briefly; the overhead lights and whiteboard screen flickers, warping the maps. Everyone looks at me. Nutesh again moves from the head of the table.

  “Child,” he says. Handprint-shaped burn marks smoke from the wall.

  “I . . . sorry,” I say.

  He inspects my flaming-red palms. “We’re going to have to work this out for you, aren’t we?”

  “I can’t help it.”

  He offers his hands, palms up, and then nods pointedly at my own hands, stretched before me. “If I touch you, I’ll hurt you,” I repeat. “Ask Henry.”

  Nutesh doesn’t move. Fine. If you don’t believe me . . .

  I lower my flattened hands over his, and then make solid contact. As expected, the energy rushes out of me and into him. “Control it, Geneviève,” he says, his voice vibrating with the electrical exchange. “Control it. Imagine it slowing down as it leaves you. You will burn yourself if you do not slow it down.”

  Eyes closed and teeth gritted, I try to pull back the electricity as it gallops out of my skin. The smell of ozone fills my nose.

  “Slowly . . . ,” Nutesh sings.

  And then all at once, the charge dissipates. My hands are beet red but not scalded or sooty, and the bodily pain and urgency there just moments ago is gone.

  Nutesh is still standing before me, seemingly unscathed.

  “Thank you,” I say. He pats my cheek before turning back to resume his prior position, picking up where he left off.

  “Now, the most crucial aspect of the operation—I cannot emphasize this enough—no one can know who you are. No one can know what you’re doing.” Nutesh explains that we’ll be outfitted with appropriate clothing and provided with an out plan so we can make our way back to Croix-Mare should the mission go sideways, and on and on.

  I zone out, rubbing my throbbing fingertips as I watch Nutesh’s pointer bounce around the map. Aveline Darrow is my sister, and my mother and Baby kept this truth from me.

  How in the hell is it even possible that we have the same father, hundreds of years apart?

  There’s never been any question that Baby isn’t my biological father—one look at his African-French physique compared to my red frizzy hair and see-through skin is enough to answer that question. Regardless, he’s been my father from day one. He’s the father who has fixed my boo-boos and kicked my butt when I tried to get away with stuff and held my hand as we walked into one of many hospital psych wards to visit my mother, mistakenly locked in and doped up because the world didn’t understand her.

  Baby is my dad. Baby will always be my dad.

  And no new guy with keys to the magic kingdom is going to change that.

  Thierry and Montague pull two sizable backpacks from a cupboard along the wall and commence unloading the supplies onto the conference table. “These are designed to hold everything you need to keep yourselves alive. When you get closer to entering Iraq, you will be provided with the necessary tactical gear. However, for now . . .” Thierry talks as he pulls item after item from the backpacks—both of which have been made to look like they’d belong to teenagers trekking across the continent on vacation. Henry’s has soccer patches sewn on it, much like the pack he was carrying the first time I saw him in the mess tent back in rainy Eaglefern. Mine has an elephant keychain dangling from the zipper and a Canadian flag patch stitched onto the front zippered pocket.

  “I’m Canadian now?” I ask, running my finger over the embroidered red maple leaf at the flag’s center.

  “Canada is lovely,” Nutesh says. “Safer than being American where you’re going.”

  “Won’t they know the minute I open my mouth?” I ask. Henry should be fine with his posh British accent.

  Thierry smiles. “Maybe mention your pet moose.”

  The slice-proof backpacks hold everything from fake passports to hemostatic gauze and injectables to plastic envelopes with cash to scary-looking automatic knives. If it’s necessary for a secret mission, it’s probably in here.

  “What about clothes?” I ask.

  “You will take two complete sets of travel clothes each. Xavier will provide you with whatever else you’ll need once you’re in position,” Nutesh says.

  “Is it safe for us to carry the texts with us?” I ask. “What if people find out?”

  “The packs have been designed to conceal as much of the bulk as possible,” Thierry says. Though neither pack yet holds a true AVRAKEDAV
RA, he again demonstrates where the books will fit.

  “You will need proof of who you are,” Nutesh says, “which is why the books—the Life text for Geneviève and Memory for Henry—will travel with you. The Guardians will have to see the texts to know you are the true heirs. Xavier’s word is not enough.”

  Xavier Darrow. My stomach lurches every time I hear his name. My father’s name.

  How is this even going to work? How is Baby going to travel alongside the man who was somehow responsible for my conception? And what am I supposed to say to him? Oh hey, Xavier, nice to meet you, I hear you’re my dad, where the hell have you been?

  “When we reunite on the shores of Babylon, I will deliver the final text,” Nutesh’s words snap me back to the moment. At least we won’t have all three books in one place for Dagan to swoop in and steal.

  “Do either of you have any questions about the gear?” Thierry asks as he and Montague repack the bags. Henry and I exchange a glance and shake our heads. It’s one thing to hand two teenagers backpacks full of gear; it’s wholly another to expect they’ll know how to use any of it when the time comes.

  But time is not on our side. Henry and I will have to make do and hope that the special tricks we both have hiding up our sleeves will be enough.

  Nutesh resumes his position at the whiteboard. “Xavier Darrow will usher you undercover. You will join our ultrasecret network of followers of the AVRAKEDAVRA and its teachings, called La Vérité. One branch of La Vérité works in traveling shows globally. It’s a perfect way to hide under a wider umbrella and still do our very important work.”

  I nearly choke on my cooling coffee. “Wait—you’re saying we’re joining a circus?”

  “Yes. Several. Though some are performing troupes without the flair of a tent and arena. La Vérité members travel with circuses and shows around the globe and offer philanthropic services as necessary. As I said, this will be your cover—they will offer you haven while you seek out the Guardians. Be aware that all bona fide La Vérité members will possess a key.”

  Nutesh pulls at a necklace concealed by his shirt. Hanging from it is a burnished, ancient gold key; along its shaft is a faded engraving that reads La Vérité. Montague and Thierry follow suit—they all have old keys.

  And then I hear Baby’s words in my head from that day in the field when he told me about all this madness: This is the perfect life—the greatest thing about a circus is a person’s ability to hide in plain sight.

  How many people in circuses around the world wear La Vérité keys? How many of us are there protecting the AVRAKEDAVRA and one another from the bad guys?

  “You will rendezvous with Xavier in Paris, and then you will travel to the first performance venue nearest the first Guardian. The Guardians have been alerted that the time has come, and when Xavier deems it safe, your meetings will be coordinated.”

  Nutesh continues, explaining that knowledge of La Vérité and an understanding of its operations are two very separate things. As far as Lucian is concerned, its activities were retired centuries ago when such organizations were considered heresy and therefore outlawed. Until very recently, Lucian believed Xavier Darrow to be dead.

  Huh. So Lucian and I do have something in common after all.

  “Word was put out via our extended network to test where leaks are—and while it wasn’t my first preference to reveal that Xavier is very much alive, we had to sacrifice one piece of actionable intelligence to maintain credibility. If everything we’d fed the network was false, Dagan would sniff us out.”

  I can’t wait to hear Henry’s take on all this. Asking him to join a circus would be like asking me to enroll in his private school and join the cheerleading squad.

  “The most important thing is to place your trust in Xavier. He will do what is best for you. The people of La Vérité trust him implicitly—he has been there for them for centuries. Udish started the network, and then Delia nurtured it. La Vérité was their brainchild. Xavier and I took over when Delia left Europe for good.”

  I sit back in my chair.

  Another revelation. Another secret. Another lie by omission.

  Nutesh moves to the head of the table and rests on splayed fingertips. “Now, as far as the performers are concerned, you are friends of Xavier’s in need of shelter. He’s a formidable ally to these folks. Think of La Vérité as an umbrella impenetrable to radar. Under its protection, the outside world cannot see you.”

  Apparently, Baby, Thierry, Henry, and I will drive to our first location to keep public exposure to a minimum. “Dagan’s current efforts with international law enforcement will make air travel precarious. When flight is absolutely the only way for you to get where you need to be, we will arrange private transport.”

  “I’m sorry—you may have grand faith in Henry and me to kick ass across the European continent and save us all from the end of the world, but this is totally ridiculous,” I say. “And where is Baby? Isn’t he supposed to be bringing us food? He needs to hear all this. I can’t take a step outside this compound without him—he’s my talisman. Baby is the only thing that keeps the Etemmu from tearing my beating heart out of my chest.”

  “The topic of your parentage is a sensitive one, Geneviève,” Nutesh says, his tone soft. “I was trying to deliver the news without Baby present, out of respect for his relationship with you, and your mother.”

  “Baby has only ever wanted what’s best for you, and now for Henry,” Montague adds.

  “Even though he lied. Everyone lied,” I bite back.

  “To protect you, Geneviève. And no one is lying to you now,” Nutesh says.

  “Baby and I will get you all to Paris, to Xavier,” Thierry says. “I will serve as your personal guard. Please rest easy that I won’t let anything happen to you. On my own life.” He places his hand over his heart, as if swearing an oath.

  “Don’t make that deal. You’ve never seen an Etemmu,” I say. I turn toward Nutesh. “So, we go do all your dirty work, collect the pieces, you meet us on the shore of the great magical river in the middle of the desert, then you say a few magic words, and boom, we’re done?”

  “Gen . . .” Henry turns in his chair. I give him a hard look. I don’t want to hear anything rational right now. I just want to be pissed off.

  “No. I didn’t ask for this. I can’t believe you adults managed to screw this up so badly, and now you’re leaving it to us to clean up.”

  “Ma chère, you and Henry are the heirs. You must take these books yourselves, collect the components, and finish the Undoing. No one else can undertake this task except for the two of you. You know what the alternative is—you can preserve the books. Spend your lives making sure they are safe. This choice is yours, but it is yours alone.”

  I want to scream at him to give my book to Aveline, but even before the thought finishes forming in my head, I know how absurd it is. Aveline seeks only to serve herself. Wonder how long before Dagan figures that out.

  I yank my coat off the back of my chair and move toward the door. I don’t know where the concealed handle is, though, so I stand there for a beat, waiting for someone to let me out.

  The lock clicks free and the thick, vault-like door springs open a few inches, allowing the humid greenhouse light to wash over me. I don’t want anyone to catch up—I need a moment of outdoors, alone with nothing but the oppressive cloud cover over head and the storm of thoughts in my brain.

  The exterior door is heavy—too heavy. It’s supposed to open out, right? I tug inward but it doesn’t budge. I throw all my weight against it; it’s not locked as it does move a tiny bit.

  Something is in the way.

  I step back and squint through the opaque glass, pulse thudding in my ears, my paranoid mind conjuring pictures of Lucian and Aveline waiting on the other side, the door blocked with their own soldiers—

  But there’s a shape, slumped against the outside of the thick, frosted-glass. The shape is human, big, and dark.

  “Oh m
y god, Baby!” I scream.

  6

  THIERRY AND MONTAGUE PUSH HARD AGAINST THE DOOR, GIVING ME enough room to squeeze through and find my surrogate father, my guardian, my talisman, unconscious on the ground, our lunch tray scattered and broken around him. My healing hands are on his face, begging him to wake up as Thierry issues urgent commands through the walkie on his wrist. Within seconds, more men sprint toward us from the main house.

  “What’s happened? What’s wrong with him?” I yell. Thierry and Montague and two of the other soldiers lift Baby’s limp body from the ground; Nutesh has his fingers at the pulse point on Baby’s neck. “He’s still alive, right? Is he alive? Nutesh!” Blood has soaked into the walkway pebbles, but I have no idea where it’s from. I can’t see. Too many people in the way.

  “Inside. Now!” Two extra guards, guns drawn, skirt our awkward run toward the house, helping to open the door as we push through. I have hold of Baby’s left hand, refusing to let go even as we get inside and Baby is flopped onto a gurney in the medical suite and Montague sets to cutting off his heavy weatherproof jacket.

  “What can I do?” Henry says above the din.

  “Keep Geneviève back,” Nutesh says.

  “Like hell! Don’t touch me! I can help him! Please, Nutesh, I can heal him—”

  Hélène materializes behind me, the shock registering on her face. “Geneviève, let Nutesh find what is wrong. Stand with Henry and me. You can help Baby in one moment.”

  “What happened? I don’t understand what’s happening—”

  Hélène wraps her slim arm around my shoulders, though she’s smart to keep her hands from mine. I can’t guarantee I won’t hurt her if she touches me. I push back my sleeves. My chest is a lit incinerator.

  “I sent him with a tray, knowing he planned on joining you for the briefing,” Hélène says. “That was near on forty-five minutes ago now.”

  “Everyone except Geneviève and Montague needs to leave the room immediately,” Nutesh exclaims. Baby is sprawled on the table, legs and arms lax, mouth slightly ajar.

  “I knew his color was off,” I say to myself as the main door whooshes closed. “I knew something was wrong.”