Scheme Page 6

  I have nothing left to do except say goodbye to my talisman.

  Goodbye for now.

  At 0230, Hélène taps me on the shoulder—I dozed off sitting in the chair, holding Baby’s fevered hand, my head resting on his bed. “It is time to prepare, ma chère,” she says.

  I’m chilled with fear. But looking down one last time at Baby’s shuttered face . . . if destroying the books is the only thing that will break this curse and bring my real dad back to me, then that is what I will do.

  I kiss his forehead and then follow Hélène back to my room.

  At 0300 on the dot, there’s a knock at my door. I open it to Thierry standing in the hall, outfitted in head-to-toe black. He hands me a black stocking cap; I fit it over my short hair. Hélène then steps close and hugs me, wiping away the single leaked tear.

  “We believe in you. Everything will be as it should be. Be strong, be brave, and above all else, be safe.” She hugs me again, tighter this time, and I’m grateful for my new gloves so I can’t hurt her with my unrestrained current.

  “I wish we’d had more time,” I squeak. Hélène nods at me once and squeezes my fisted hands.

  “Everything you need is in here. The key to good is found in truth,” she whispers as she flattens her hand against my chest, over the top of Delia’s concealed vérité key. It takes me by surprise—I thought this was something only Delia said. Hélène’s eyes sparkle in the dimly lit room, but there is strength within.

  “Take care of Baby for me,” I say.

  She bows her head. “I promise you.”

  Thierry situates my pack onto my shoulders. The vibration coming from the bag, connected to the Tesla coil inside my chest, reminds me that the Life text is tucked inside.

  And then Henry is at the door with Montague, signaling that the time for goodbyes is over. In solemn procession, we follow Nutesh to the elevators. As soon as the doors close, I’m clammy and shaking; Henry’s eyes are wide and fearful. He grabs my hand and we interlace our gloved fingers.

  I’m so grateful I’m not doing this alone.

  I’m so scared that Baby isn’t coming with us.

  In the fortified underground garage that brought us into the Croix-Mare compound just a couple days ago, the soldiers stand at attention in two lines facing one another. Every single one nods as we walk past: Nutesh, Montague, me, Henry, and Thierry at the rear. Ahead sits a slick black sedan with darkly tinted windows. Lucas opens the back door and then steps aside, waiting for us to climb in.

  Nutesh stops before Henry and me. “Thierry will keep you safe. I trust him with my own life, and I trust him with yours,” he says. He then places a hand on Henry’s shoulder, and one on mine, closes his eyes, and speaks under his breath in a language I don’t recognize.

  Warmth shivers through me; a glance at Henry indicates that he is experiencing the same unnerving feeling.

  Eyes open and head up, Nutesh offers his hand to each of us. “Remember your mission objective. Remember why you are doing it. I will see you in Babylon,” he says, and after a solemn look to his grandson, Nutesh steps aside to allow us access to the car.

  With a final glance around, I pull my backpack off and climb in, wedging my precious goods between my legs on the floorboard. Henry follows suit, and the door closes solidly behind him. Nutesh and Thierry exchange a few unheard words, a quick manly hug, and then Thierry climbs behind the wheel.

  When the vehicle hums to life and eases forward, I close my eyes and send Baby one last missive he will never hear: I will come back for you.

  11

  THE OUTSIDE WORLD IS BLACK, THOUGH THE STARS TWINKLE LIKE HOLES punched in a circus tent. The weather’s been blustery over the past twenty-four hours, but the rain has cleared.

  “The trip to Paris will take approximately two and a half hours. There is a quicker route, but I want to avoid construction so we are not slowed down,” Thierry explains. “The windows are tinted so no one can see in, but I will ask that you keep your gear at the ready in case we have need to exit the vehicle quickly.”

  “Will there be a need for that?” I ask, my paranoia spiking.

  “Non,” Thierry says, smiling at me in the rearview mirror. “You should sleep now. When we get to Paris, we will leave the car and meet Xavier.”

  “And then what?”

  “It will be okay, Geneviève. Please, get some rest. I will wake you when we arrive.”

  Henry scoots as close as his seat belt will allow and drapes an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. I want to close my eyes—I want to rest—but I’m two and a half hours from meeting my father, a man I didn’t know existed until yesterday.

  What I would give for another five minutes in the mausoleum with Delia. But I have so many questions, I would need hours.

  However, if we fail, I will be meeting her again before too long anyway.

  There’s no way I can sleep right now. When I look up and find Henry scanning the passing landscape, it’s safe to guess he’s feeling the same way.

  So instead of sitting in the back of this car and letting my anxieties get the best of me, I want questions answered: Where are we going first? How long will this mission take? Have you met Xavier before? What’s he like? How will Nutesh know it’s time to go to Babylon? How in the world will we get into Iraq in the first place? Isn’t Iraq still unstable since the American invasion? All we ever see on the news are bombed-out buildings. I can’t believe they’re sending us there . . .

  Thierry does his best to stem my inquisition by giving me the very basics, though whether that’s because he doesn’t know the answers or whether Nutesh has told him that less is more, I can’t tell.

  “Paris first. Monsieur Darrow will coordinate your next stop. Oui, Xavier and I are friends. He’s a good man. Quiet, but very smart. Nutesh will know when it’s time because he will communicate with you and Xavier. Don’t you fret about Iraq now. Yes, it is dangerous, and especially for Americans. The northern part of the country, in the Kurdish autonomous zone—those people are more welcoming of US citizens. The invasion effectively curtailed the genocide of the Kurdish people by Saddam Hussein and his administration, so they are grateful. However, the rest of Iraq—it’s mixed. You are neither Catholic nor Jewish, so as long as you maintain the ruse that you aren’t American either, it should be fine.”

  “Are there followers of the AVRAKEDAVRA in Iraq?” I ask.

  “Of course. La Vérité. But they live in secret. Religion and spirituality are dangerous subjects in a country that has been torn apart by many centuries of conflict. Even the Muslims are torn in two—the Shiites versus the Sunnis—and add to that the instability of Daesh, plus whatever is going on with Iran, who very much wants Iraq under its thumb after their terribly bloody eight-year conflict . . . Mon dieu, it’s a mess.”

  “Wow. Sounds great. We should totally visit there,” I say.

  “You are not visiting as a tourist. We will find shelter at the University of Babylon. Students are still young enough to believe there is hope for Americans to do the right thing. Baghdad is a functioning city. Schools are open and roads are passable. People live their lives. I’m more concerned about Dagan’s people finding you there than I am about the locals discovering you’re American.”

  “Dagan’s people?” You’d think I’d be used to the nausea that swarms me every time Dagan’s name is mentioned. But, I’m not. So this is fun.

  “Just as Nutesh has followers and people who believe in his cause, so does Dagan.”

  “Except Dagan’s cause is very different from what Nutesh is doing. Nutesh believes the AVRAKEDAVRA does good, that it helps people. Dagan just wants to take everything for his own selfish purposes. He’s thrown his own son away in the pursuit of these stupid books,” I say.

  Henry moves his arm from my shoulders, his head turned toward the window again.

  Shit. “Sorry, Henry,” I whisper. He nods. Barely. Like he needed my big mouth to remind him what Lucian has done. “But what D
agan is doing is wrong. He wants to go back in time and undo everything. How can anyone believe in that? How can anyone be so misled to think this is a good thing?”

  “Tell me, Geneviève, that anger in your voice—where does it come from?” Thierry asks.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Well, let’s see—I had to move to a small town in the middle of nowhere because my mother was murdered by a man who wants possession of a book; I’m being tortured and taunted by an ancient demon because of a book; my whole life has been turned on its ear because of a book; the only person who is really my family is now lying comatose in a jacked-up farmhouse in the middle of France, under some invisible spell likely issued by a bloodthirsty sister I had no idea existed until very recently, a spell I have no power to reverse, and POOF! I have a daddy who is actually alive and well and hiding out—guess what! Because of a book. Does that about cover it?”

  “So, family. You’re angry because the AVRAKEDAVRA has taken your family from you.”

  “Yes!”

  Thierry again looks at me in the mirror. “Ma chère, you have answered your own questions.”

  The car gets very quiet. The storm in my head does not.

  I feel like a dick now. Henry’s body language tells me I’ve hurt him. If Baby were here, he’d scold me.

  I’m not the only person suffering in all this. I’m not the only person who has experienced loss, or who has to face this very scary journey.

  I take off my seat belt and scoot to Henry, wrapping my arm around his.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just freaking out a little.” His eyes still scan the passing terrain, which doesn’t look so different from Interstate 5 going through Washington. Narrow shoulders bordered by overgrown shrubbery and clumps of evergreen trees interspersed with wide open fields still dormant in the wintry air; power lines like giants straddling the fields; the small farms wrapped protectively around their sleeping farmhouses.

  It’s obvious we’re getting closer to a metropolis when fields give way to industrial parks and cargo trucks and six-story apartment buildings. The graffiti-covered retaining walls and nonstop greenery . . . if I’d woken up here, I’d think we were driving through Seattle. Except for some of the houses, maybe. And every once in a while, we get a view of the Seine outside the left side of the car before it disappears to snake away in a different direction.

  The freeway is busy here, even in the predawn hour, spiking my anxiety.

  “We are getting closer to the city limits,” Thierry says. “We’re skirting the city, taking le Boulevard Périphérique around the edge to the 20th arrondissement. Maybe you have heard of it? It is home to Cimetière Père Lachaise where many very famous people are buried.” Like a tour guide, he talks about Paris. And I listen because I’m so scared, I’m grateful for the momentary diversion.

  “We will be meeting Monsieur Darrow in the 20th,” Thierry says. “It is a very busy district with nearly 200,000 residents. It is easy to blend in.” That’s a little reassuring, I suppose. “But this is a rough part of the city. Pickpockets, beggars, people who will harass you for money. You would be wise to stick close.”

  My nerves burn a little hotter thinking that there are more threats than just the people after the AVRAKEDAVRA. There are those flashes when I consider that Lucian’s plan to undo the world and remake it might not be such a terrible thing. Then again, humans being what they are, it only takes five minutes to glance through a history textbook to know that the streets of Paris have seen a lot of blood in her two thousand years.

  The sky has pulled back the nighttime cloak over the city. I’m shocked to see how big it is! It’s like driving through Los Angeles. Boulevard Peripherique is as busy as any LA freeway—residential and business buildings flank both east- and westbound lanes, construction cranes tower over high-rises under construction, overpasses with trains, so many tunnels, skeletal trees still winter bare, streetlamps, and seriously, the most brazen motorcyclists I’ve ever seen.

  “Our exit is coming soon. Prepare for arrival,” Thierry says. As if that were possible.

  Shops are already open. Vendors organize their wares and holler back and forth in languages other than French or English. Buses swallow people, humans of every size and shape and color and age. When Thierry cracks his window, the dry air is bitingly cold. I’m taken aback at the amount of graffiti, and while we’re stopped at a light, I watch as a woman lets her bulldog crap right on the sidewalk—and doesn’t clean it up.

  Thierry sees it too. “Always watch your step in Paris,” he says.

  Usually a good judge of north and south, I’m completely turned around. The streets are hardly wide enough for two cars to fit down, especially with all the parked vehicles along the right edge. Six-story buildings, a mix of the architecture I’ve often seen in Google Earth images of Paris and then newer designs, are so close that you could play Frisbee with the people across the street.

  After another few rights and lefts, Thierry pulls off and parks as close as he can behind another car. “We’re here.” Before he unlocks the doors, though, he pulls a gun belt from under the passenger seat, straps it around his waist, and checks the black handgun, chambering a round. He looks in the rear- and side-view mirrors again. “Please, stay close. Follow me, do not fall behind, backpacks on your bodies at all times. Do not stop if you are approached.”

  The doors unlock.

  We’re out, quickly. Thierry moves like a meerkat, tall and stretched above the crowd. He nods, and we’re off down the block, past quiet doors and around corners occupied by shops and produce stands. One door opens to release the aroma of baked goods; the next door, strong coffee. My stomach growls.

  But the romance wears a little thin when we pass overflowing garbage bins and sad-looking homeless people sitting next to ATMs and near café doors, faces etched with their pasts.

  “Keep near to me,” Thierry says under his breath. Just before the end of the next block, he takes an abrupt right into a cobblestone laneway with separate houses on each side, their outer walls mere inches from each other. And each house is fronted by a garden wall covered in ivy, the only parts bare being the numbers that provide the house its identity.

  Thierry stops in front of #17, looks around us, and then presses a silent doorbell. He turns to look up at an ivy-hidden camera I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed, and the gate buzzes open.

  My heart thuds in my ears, my body overcome with the jitters I get before a performance. Despite the gloves, my fingers ache from stress-induced cold. Where is that electricity when I need it?

  The walkway inside the gate is old red brick; the inner yard has no grass, just mortared-in flower beds with dirt and dead leaves. Thick shrubbery hides what I now see are two huge windows along the front of the house, the glass obscured by shutters on the inside. The white stucco exterior walls have been repaired with gray compound, and a round brick chimney protrudes from the tile roof, white smoke puffing lazily from its mouth.

  Not at all a house one would take notice of if passing by.

  Which is perfect.

  Thierry climbs the three brick porch steps and places a hand flat against a biometric scanner just above waist level, at first concealed by a white panel matching the house. It reads his handprint in blue, and then glows a muted green. The front door clicks open.

  Henry wraps his arm around my shoulders and whispers close to my head. “Grandfather wouldn’t have sent us here if it weren’t safe.” He sounds like he’s reassuring himself at the same time.

  And of course, I know this. But it’s about more than the AVRAKEDAVRA for the next little while. I’m about to meet my biological father. I’m allowed to look like a deer in the headlights.

  We step inside, at once greeted by competing smells of burning wood, fresh coffee, and something equal parts sweet and yeasty. Henry pushes the front door closed behind us, but my focus is on the man coming down the creaky wooden staircase ahead.


  His face cracks into a pleasant smile as he nears the last stair, his hand extended toward Thierry. I watch as the two men exchange a hug that tells me they’ve been friends for a while. As soon as he looks at me, I know exactly who he is.

  No mistaking he is Aveline’s father.

  His eyes, a blue like the heart of an iceberg, are made that much more striking against his olive complexion and onyx-colored curls, his face shadowed by whiskers.

  Thierry and Xavier speak to each other in quick French before letting go of the other’s elbow. When Thierry turns to Henry and me, I almost faint.

  “Xavier Darrow, this is Henry Dmitri.” Xavier shakes Henry’s hand, though the warm smile is replaced by a stoic set to his lips. Xavier knows Henry is Lucian’s son—will he suspect him of betrayal even before we take our first step out the door?

  After a tense beat where he examines Henry’s face, Xavier’s expression softens. “You are the mirror of your mother,” he says. He then releases Henry’s hand and turns to me.

  “And this, of course, is Geneviève,” Thierry says.

  My fingers, still freezing, prickle with energy. When Xavier clasps my hand in greeting, I’m grateful for the gloves. Otherwise he’d be on the old hardwood floor gasping for breath.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” I say, my voice not as strong as I want it to be.

  “I was very sad to hear about Delia,” Xavier says. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I detect a flash of pain in his eyes as he looks me over, and I wait to hear him repeat his sentiments offered to Henry, how I too am a mirror of my mother.

  But then he doesn’t.

  “Thank you, Monsieur Darrow,” I say quietly, my earlier bravado dampened. I will have to find it again if I’m going to get answers to the million questions pinging around my head.