Scheme Page 7

  His lips part again, but then he nods once, looks down at his feet, a subtle but sad smile on his lips as he lets go of the handshake.

  He then shifts toward Thierry, and as if not registering that this is one of the biggest moments of my life, he gestures toward the back of the house.

  “You should eat. We have a lot of work to do.”

  12

  WE FOLLOW XAVIER DOWN A NARROW HALLWAY AND INTO A SPACIOUS kitchen—a braid of bread rests on the black iron stove. In the back corner in front of a door rendered useless by the boards nailed over it, a purple-hued grow lamp hovers over a vibrant collection of herbs and smaller plants. How many of those were Delia’s . . . ?

  The kitchen is practically devoid of decoration except for the flowers painted in swooping vines above thresholds and on the plaster wall above the sink. Pendulum lamps hang from the ceiling. All sources of natural light have been blocked out with the heavy shutters.

  It’s good, I guess—no one can see in. But that I have to be paranoid about being spied on . . . will I ever feel normal?

  Xavier gestures for us to sit at a long rectangular table tucked into an eating nook, bench seating on each side of the table. Henry slides in first; I follow.

  “Leave your packs near you. Use the strap to loop around your leg. This will become your new routine. When the packs aren’t on your body or locked up, they must be tethered to you,” Xavier says from the center tiled island, pouring coffee into small cups from a French press. “When you sleep, the pack is your pillow. You will take turns with toileting and personal hygiene so that one of you has his or her eyes on the packs at all times. When you are working, the packs must be in a secure location. We have no room for error in these rules.”

  Nope. I will not be feeling normal for a very long time. In the table’s center, Thierry places a cutting board covered in meats, cheeses, small round crackers, cherry tomatoes, and chunked melon, and then slides onto the bench across from us. Xavier brings the bread and cutlery.

  “Hold your questions until the end. This house is protected by sound masking, so no one outside can hear us. You may relax,” he says, his voice gruff but his accent less pronounced than Thierry’s. “You eat, I talk.”

  And talk he does. We will be leaving to join our first circus, Circ de l’Anell d’Or (“Circus of the Golden Ring” in Catalan) located in Barcelona, tonight. It is one of the shows that provides sanctuary and cover for La Vérité, who also owns this safe house. For now, it’s our staging area until the sun goes down. Today will be spent strategizing and double-checking pack supplies. We will be provided with appropriate work wear once we are arrive at the circus, and both Henry and I will be assigned jobs taking care of whatever is needed.

  “I don’t know what Nutesh has told you, so . . . La Vérité is a group dedicated to helping others. They travel globally throughout the network. They work the shows, some even perform, and while they’re there, the members conduct the business of La Vérité. Because of our stealth, no one outside the network knows what we do.”

  “What if someone figures it out? What if someone defects and tells the secret?”

  Xavier’s hard stare feels like I’ve asked a forbidden question; he then looks to Thierry, but the glance shared between them tells me everything I need to know.

  People don’t defect. And if they do . . .

  I swallow hard.

  “That is why involvement is sacred, and secure. Few are willing to risk their lives to keep these secrets, and those who are willing are fiercely protective of the network, of La Vérité, and of the teachings of the AVRAKEDAVRA.”

  “Because the beautiful thing about a circus is a person’s ability to hide in plain sight,” I mutter.

  “It’s the perfect cover. And for you two especially. No one will be the wiser of who you truly are. I often bring orphans into the fray.”

  “We are not orphans.”

  “You may be before this is over,” he says, smacking his lips.

  I am anything but, and neither is Henry. He still has a father, and I’ve not given up hope that before this is over, Lucian Dagan Dmitri will remember that he loves his son.

  Xavier shoves a bite of thinly sliced meat into his mouth and follows it with a chunk of cantaloupe. He loudly licks the juice off his fingers. He’s noisier than Othello. “We will leave Paris tonight for Circ de l’Anell d’Or. One of the Guardians who possesses the treasure you seek will meet us in an as-yet-undetermined location. Once we reach the secure rendezvous point, the two of you will present your texts as proof of identity; the Guardian will then relinquish the item, and off we go to the next location.”

  I find it odd that he isn’t using the word key to describe what we’re after. Perhaps even with the sound masking activated, Xavier is still nervous?

  “Now, the Circ people will welcome you in, because you’re with me, but everyone who joins up is expected to work. No free rides.”

  “I’m not afraid of hard work,” I say.

  “It’s not you I’m worried about.” Xavier nods at Henry; his cheeks pink up.

  “I’m sure Henry can hold his own. I’m more worried about being attacked by Lucian and Aveline. You know her, right?” I instantly regret my big mouth.

  Xavier sits ramrod straight and sets his coffee cup down with the slightest tink against its saucer. Fire consumes the blue of his eyes.

  Yeah, maybe that was a step too far.

  Henry grabs my knee under the table. The room suddenly feels twenty degrees colder, as quiet as a tomb.

  “Genevieve, I’m going to say this once to you now. We have a singular mission to accomplish. I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake, or what’s already been lost in the pursuit of all this madness. So you will knock that chip off your shoulder, work with Circ to help the people who are putting their lives on the line for the betterment of humanity, and save your questions till the end—and by the end, I literally mean until we are en route back to civilization. Then maybe you and I can have the conversation I can see you gnashing in your gritted teeth. Bien?”

  I don’t answer. Not because I’m being a smart-ass but because I have no spit left in my mouth.

  Thierry offers an appeasing smile when Xavier resumes shoving food into his mouth, but I don’t think I can eat another bite.

  “I’m glad to see Hélène took measures to change what you look like,” he says, gruffly wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Dagan has your faces all over the news. Everyone will be looking for you. But not like this.” He looks at Henry, and then at me; he lingers on my face for a beat longer, and something flashes in his expression. Pain? Regret? Anger?

  Maybe it’s nothing. But I want him to feel all of it.

  “Thierry, are you coming with us? Tonight?”

  His coffee cup looks small in his hand, and when he shakes his head no, I can see the “I’m sorry” written on his face. “You will be in excellent hands with Xavier, I promise.”

  I nod, willing the emotion swirling in my head to stay put. “Promise me you’ll look after Baby.” What I would give for him to be here.

  “Oui. I promise.”

  There is much more to be said—questions piled like the crackers on the cutting board—and yet few words make their way into the air that deceptively smells like home and safety and warmth.

  This place is anything but home.

  The smoke coils off Xavier’s cigarette. He’s trying to hold it near the barely opened shutters that cover the cracked window as he and Thierry talk in hushed tones, but instead the bluish haze dances in the scant sunlight peeking through split curtains, like an aerialist on silks in her very own spotlight.

  “You doing all right?” Henry asks, his sketchbook resting on his lap. We’ve repacked our supplies—after we ate and cleaned up the kitchen, Xavier made us empty everything onto the living room floor so he could double-check. I had to be very careful to keep Baby’s phone concealed in my pack, trying to maintain my cool when Xavier moved the canvas
bags to the side so he could look through our stuff.

  “I’m fine.” I’m not, but this is hardly the place.

  “I wish we could take a walk. Get a little fresh air,” he says, throwing a look at Xavier and his cigarette. I laugh under my breath. My uncle Ted’s a smoker—I’m used to it. It’s terrible to breathe, but it makes me miss my family even more.

  I stuff the other pair of rolled-up black pants into my bag and stand up, about to ask where the bathroom is, when Xavier and Thierry startle and reach for their phones. Their expressions change; my stomach drops into my feet.

  Xavier douses his cigarette in his coffee cup and puts a finger to his lips. He and Thierry communicate with hand signals I don’t understand, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that talking with one’s hands, eyes wide, lips pursed—that usually means the bad guys are here.

  13

  CONFIRMATION ARRIVES IN THE FORM OF THAT UNMISTAKABLE SMELL.

  And then the floor is eclipsed by spiders.

  I’m backing up, trying to climb onto the furniture, the scream building in my throat—

  As soon as Henry’s eyes meet mine, he knows. He knows because he’s seen this happen before, during movie night at the circus when he had to drive Baby and me to the ER because I split my head open running from the Etemmu.

  And just like I told Nutesh it would, it has found me.

  Baby isn’t here.

  I have no talisman, no one to stop the Etemmu’s onslaught.

  The electricity burning behind my sternum, firing into my hands, it can do little to help me against a wraithlike demon. I can’t electrocute air.

  And if the Etemmu is here, then Aveline and Lucian can’t be far behind.

  Henry jumps behind me, clamps a hand over my mouth so I can’t scream, even though I do anyway, his wide hand muffling the sound as Xavier turns abruptly and hisses for me to keep quiet.

  But he can’t see it. No one else can see it.

  Henry murmurs into my ear: “It’s not real it’s not real it’s okay everything is all right I’m right here fight it don’t let the demon take you please, Gen, you’re safe it’s not real.”

  But it is real, and the swarming arms are reaching for me, the sickeningly long, black, skeletal fingers brushing against my cheek, burning my skin with every stroke, and then there’s a voice in my head:

  “Once upon a time, there lived a young girl with hair like the sun’s fire, feet like the wind, and hands that enchanted even the lowliest sufferer . . .”

  I scream so loud that not even Henry can muffle it. Xavier is on me quick as fire, and with a swift move to the back of my neck and a rip of pain into my head, everything goes black.

  I’m jostled awake, the pack heavy on my back, someone’s shoulder ramming into my gut with every step. An intense flashlight illuminates our surroundings: close walls on each side—concrete, but free of graffiti and only wide enough that a man could touch both sides and need to have his elbows bent—concrete underfoot, footfalls splashing in murky puddles. The damp smell of earth and stagnant water and stale cigarettes. Are we underground? God, my head hurts; my chest aches like I’ve coughed too hard.

  “Put me down,” I say, pushing against the back of the person carrying me.

  We stop, and Xavier deposits me onto my feet. “If I let you walk, can you not scream again?”

  I glare at him. He doesn’t know anything about why I was screaming.

  “Are they here? Are they following us?”

  Xavier starts walking again. Henry steps in beside me and hands me gloves pulled from a pocket in his cargo pants. Once they’re on, he laces his fingers through mine.

  I’m so relieved not to be surrounded by supernatural spiders or the stinging arms of the Etemmu, but the relief is temporary. And the back of my head hurts. “Where are we? Where are we going?”

  “We have a long walk. Conserve your energy with silence,” Xavier snaps.

  When the light swings toward us, I notice Henry is limping badly. His right pant leg is soaked with red, a strip of cloth wrapped around and tied in a haphazard bow just above his knee. Is that more blood on his jacket? Splattered, like it doesn’t belong to him.

  I stop. “Wait—where’s Thierry?”

  It’s here I notice in the dim light that Henry’s eyes are wide and red-rimmed; he looks shell-shocked. Henry’s hurt, he’s covered in blood, and Thierry is gone.

  “I am not taking another step until someone tells me what has happened—”

  Xavier turns and closes the gap between us in three long strides, his face so close, I can see the pores on his nose. “You will walk, and you will remain as quiet as a mouse. Your lack of self-control has already cost us dearly.”

  And then he turns and stomps off, taking the brilliant LED light with him.

  Henry wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me forward, our steps mismatched because of whatever is going on with his right leg. I look down at it and then meet his eyes.

  “It’s okay. You can fix it when we stop,” he whispers.

  We walk for what seems like forever. On and on through this bizarre underground network. I’d never be able to find our way out.

  And then Xavier stops at an iron gate blocking our way. He unlocks it with his thumbprint, inviting us through and clicking it closed behind us. He then drops his own pack and unzips it, pulling out three small metal canteens. “Drink,” he says, taking a long pull himself. “This tunnel joins with les Catacombes. Stay very close. Cataphiles—people who trek the tunnels illegally—lurk about, and we are strangers. Talk to no one. Just follow me. We will emerge and proceed to our next safe house. Hats on.”

  Henry and I unharness our backpacks and retrieve our knitted hats from earlier. Packs back on, and Xavier again picks up the pace. At once, the quality of the tunnel degrades; these stones are old, many covered in tags and graffiti; the ceiling is lower, the smell ancient and musty but mixed with the harsh tang of smoked substances other than cigarettes.

  Fear flutters in my chest, sparking through me. I tuck my canteen in my jacket pocket and release Henry’s hand, flexing my fingers into fists, afraid I’ll burn through these gloves.

  We reach what looks like a dead end, until Xavier braces himself against the wall and, using his legs, pushes a huge round stone out of the way. “Crawl through,” he says, gesturing with the flashlight. All I can think about is what might be on the other side, and what creepy crawlies are waiting to get lost under the collar of my jacket.

  “Genevieve, you first,” Xavier says, flooding the hole with light. The look on his face leaves little room to say no.

  “Henry’s hurt—I don’t know if he can crawl through.”

  “Right behind you, Gen.”

  I drop to my knees, the ground littered with broken stone and dust and cigarette butts, trying not to panic about the tightness of the space or the cobwebs that brush my face as I crawl through. The hole barely fits me and the backpack, but ahead is the hint of daylight. I shimmy faster.

  There’s no way Baby would’ve fit through here.

  I climb out the opposite end, and down the way, daylight slices between the seams of two closed doors. I want to run ahead and burst through into the fresh air.

  Henry drags his injured leg behind him through the pipe. I offer him a hand as he reaches the end; he grimaces and pushes to standing, his face red and sweaty. Xavier comes quick behind, the light from his torch bouncing off the walls with every move forward.

  Then the hole births him, and he’s off toward the doors, which I’m alarmed to see are bolted closed with chain and a padlock. However, the padlock has another biometric reader, and with the press of Xavier’s thumb, it unlatches, releasing its hold on the impossibly thick chain.

  “A black cargo van waits for us down the block. Eyes forward and follow me. Do not stop for any reason.”

  With a heavy-shouldered shove, the door opens. Xavier is out first, pausing long enough to re-bolt the door. He takes off again, us close
behind. We’ve exited in another area busy with life. We blend right in—or at least we would if Henry’s right leg and his army-issue coat weren’t soaked in blood.

  Just as promised, a boxy black cargo van sits idling at the curb. As we approach, the side door opens and Xavier practically launches me into the dark interior, though he’s gentler with Henry. Xavier hops in behind and before the door is even latched, the van takes off.

  No rear windows, and the only cabin illumination is from dim, yellowish light strips attached to the ceiling. It smells like dust, mixed with body odor and tobacco smoke. Under us, the floor is textured black rubber, but the only proper seats are the front two, and a wall of thick plexiglass separates the driver and passenger compartments; a two-by-two-square panel slides open to allow conversation between forward and rear. Xavier speaks quickly to the driver in a language other than French.

  “Xavier, what is happening? Who is chasing us? I thought you said it was a safe house! Was that Lucian? Please!” Panic prickles my nerve endings and squeezes my throat.

  But Xavier ignores me, carrying on his hurried conversation with the driver, his ice-blue eyes wide and olive skin flushed, as we maneuver through Paris traffic. He even pulls out his weapon and double-checks the magazine.

  Henry.

  I yank my pack free and dig inside for the hemostatic gauze I never thought I’d have to use. I hook my ankle through a looped nylon cargo strap anchored to the floor to keep from falling over every time we turn a corner.

  “Genevieve . . . ,” Henry whispers. I slide closer to him propped against the van’s side, the sickly look on his face something I’ve seen too often lately. This boy may not survive our journey if terrible things keep happening to him.

  “Let me see your leg. I need to fix you.” I swallow hard. “Whose blood is on your coat, Henry?”

  Without a word, he takes off his glove and nods toward my hand.

  He’s going to show me what happened.

  “Please . . . don’t electrocute me,” he asks.