Outside the sky is dim but clear. Thunder or something made to sound like thunder rolls in the distance, and I hug myself tighter as I hurry next door to Stop ’N’ Save.
“You’re okay,” I mutter. My fingers feel for the dagger tucked in my waistband. Just in case. I skirt bikes laid out in front of the store on my way in. Inside, the shop owner is behind a newspaper. He looks up and disappears back behind it.
There’s no way to know how long it’ll take Mom to find a new place. I grab the entire row of tuna cans, a loaf of bread, two tubs of peanut butter, canned beans, a bag of Skittles, and six bags of sour cream and onion chips, which Mom would tell me is a waste.
“Doesn’t stick to you,” she’d say.
But greasy chips make me happy. And with everything going on, I deserve some happy.
The bell attached to the door dings as more people enter, and I check my watch. I loop a roll of duct tape on my wrist and grab a tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol and one of vinegar. A line has formed at the register. The clock on the wall ticks and I feel it in my chest. I need to get out of here. Fast. I spot a familiar head of moussed blond hair, summer-tanned skin, and bright eyes in line behind me. A kid from the school where I’ve spent the second half of senior year. He catches me staring and waves. I groan.
“Hey, Quell, isn’t it? It’s me, Nigel, Nigel Hammond, from English Lit class.” The Nigel who tries to bum all my answers because he’s never done any of the reading. He’s so close I can smell his brand-name cologne. “You need a hand?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?” He grabs the bread, which I’m balancing perfectly fine on top of the stacks of canned fish.
“Really.” I step away from him, and the line moves forward, thank goodness.
“Suit yourself.” He hops into the back of the line even though his hands are empty. Maybe he wants something from behind the counter. I move forward a few spots before glancing in the mirror irked by the distinct feeling that someone’s staring. But when I look up, Nigel is flipping a coin and cursing under his breath.
The line moves forward and finally I’m at the register. My foot taps. It’s been seven minutes. This is taking too long. The cashier swipes everything and piles it into bags.
“Thank you.” I reach for my money and my elbow bumps Nigel’s chest.
“Really, let me help.” He grabs one of my bags.
I pull it back. “No, really.”
“I insist.”
Dread finger-walks down my spine. I’ve watched Nigel at school. He surrounds himself with admirers. Once, a freshman dropped her books in front of him and he just rolled his eyes and kicked them out of his way. This is . . . odd. I pay the cashier and grab my bags.
“Thank you.” I hurry to the door. But I can feel Nigel following me. He holds the door. I walk more quickly.
“I just want to talk to you.” His footsteps echo mine, and I pick up to a run. I glance back to see if he’s still there, and in the tinted floodlights of the parking lot, Nigel’s face shifts. His slick blond hair morphs into a short dark cut, his face twisting from the comely countenance of Nigel Hammond to someone else I’ve never seen before.
He grows a few inches, soft craters dent his sunken cheeks, and long hair shields the glossed mask on his face. Something broken burns in his dark eyes and it unsteadies my steps. He approaches, fists clenched, his clothes shifting, too, their illusion wearing off. He flips his coin once more, and it snaps to the cinch of his collar like a magnet. On it is a familiar image. A column cracked in half. My heart squeezes. The man who I had a run-in with at the Market wore the same symbol.
Fear pins me in place. Magic. I reach for my weapon.
“Quell, is it? I’ve had orders to find you for months. You’re quite hard to find, you know that?” He smirks and my insides quiver. His lips smile though his eyes do not. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”
I brandish Mom’s dagger at him.
“Easy.”
My foot nudges a pile of bikes belonging to those still inside the store.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
I drop the groceries, snatch up a bike, and take off. I risk a glance backward. He is blowing air between his fingers, and more thunder rolls overhead. I swerve across the intersection where traffic has doubled at the promise of rain. My calves burn, pushing the pedals faster as I dash between rows of cars packed like sardines at a stoplight. Once I reach the motel parking lot, I dash up the stairs.
“Mom!” My fist connects with the door.
“Quell?”
It opens and I hurry inside, shove it closed, and lock it.
“Someone was at the store. And his face! Not the same guy from the Market. But another one. Another what did you call them?” I can’t breathe. “Dragun.”
“Slow down. Start over.” Mom peeps out the curtains.
“At the store, there was someone I thought I knew. But then his face changed.” I look for shock on Mom’s face, but there is none. “He had a coin at his throat,” I manage. “Like the guy from the Market.”
“What was on the coin?”
I close my eyes, and his face shifting slithers through my memory. Outside, thunder booms, rattling the windows of our tiny room. The Dragun is here. He has to be. I shudder, trying to focus on Mom’s question. “A column. A cracked column was on it.”
“Not a talon?”
“No.”
“Beaulah.”
She shakes her head, tsking.
“Mom—”
“Quiet! Let me think.” She peeps out the window again. “That traffic outside came out of nowhere. It’s stop and go, backed up all the way down the street. We couldn’t even get out of the parking lot if we wanted to.” She paces, the lines in her face deepening.
Knock. Knock.
“We have to get out of here.” I tug at her.
“No, you do.” She unshoulders her bag. “You go on. I’ll get them off your tail.”
“Mom, no! It’s both of us, always.” The rest of my words die on my tongue. She’s right . . . Usually she flits, I follow, that’s how it goes. But she has no reason to run.
She doesn’t have poison coursing through her veins.
I’m the reason we’ve had to do any of this.
“Guard these things as if it’s your life,” she says, opening her duffel. She pulls out a journal and tears out the last page, where there is an address hastily written. “Go here. Hopefully, the safe houses are still intact.” She digs out what I’d thought was a makeup compact and a tiny vial of glowing powder. She spreads it into a smooth shallow circle in the silver dish of the compact, tipping the vial all the way upside down until it’s empty. “Should be enough.” She hands it to me. “Whisper the place you want to go, then blow. It’ll take you there.”
“What about you? I can’t—”
“Do you have your key chain?”
I pull it from my pocket.
She pulls out one just like it and squeezes. Mine glows. “Let me know you’re okay by squeezing it. I’ll do the same. It’ll send me your location. So I can find you wherever you are.”
I squeeze mine, and sure enough, Mom’s lights up.
The compact is chilly to my achy fingers, my toushana stirring with something that feels like recognition. Come with me, I want to say, but the words won’t form.
“I’ll sort this out here, get rid of the Dragun, and come for you tonight.” She zips my bag and nudges me to go.
“But—?” Tears swallow my cheeks. Running without Mom doesn’t feel right.
“Quell.” She shakes me. “Get ahold of yourself!”
Knock. Knock.
“Open up, ma’am.” It’s the hotel manager. “I have someone here with me to see you. Says it’s urgent.”
“Just a minute!” Mom says in her plastic cheerful voice. To me, she whispers, “Buckle down. You know how to stick to the shadows.”
I nod, saltiness on my lips as she presses her own to my forehead.
“Mommy, please. I’m scared!”
“You’re a Marionne,” she says, her chin rising ever so slightly. “You can do this.” She gives my hand a squeeze. The door handle jiggles, the lock clicking.
“Now, Quell!”
My heart hammers. Fear kneads my insides. I glance at the safe house address again. “Twelve Aston Lane,” I whisper into the powder, and blow. The world tips sideways. A rush of pressure latches onto me and I feel it like a weight on my chest. Breath sticks in my lungs, and I lurch forward as if I’ve been punched, a thread of cold winding me tighter in its clutches. I blink, but the world fades into nothingness.
Grass mushes under my feet. The air is thick with the scent of woodsy pine and wet moss. Trees surround me like a thousand sentries. Between the rustle of foliage meddled by the wind is deafening silence. I move through the forest toward a break in the canopy up ahead. Though, there is no semblance of a roof or porch.
My foot catches on something, and clanging rings through the trees. I swallow a dry breath, holding still to see if anyone heard. Nothing moves but the broken lantern cracked under my shoe. I’m close. I hustle to a clearing up ahead where I find a house.
What’s left of it.
My hopes for safety shatter like the wreckage I see: crumbled foundation, furniture in pieces, collapsed walls, and broken windows. Mom’s given her whole life to keep me safe. This time, it’s on me. I have to figure this out. For both of us.
“Watch it; that’s my foot, you klutz,” a whisper breaks through the forest. I wedge myself in the thicket between the trees.
“If your feet weren’t so big, they’d be easier not to step on,” someone else says. “Honestly, how do you even find shoes for those things?”
Two girls in long black cloaks lined with thick red fur pass, hoods slung over their heads.
“Dancing with you is probably like trying to woo a bear.”
“Brooke, shut up!” She shoves the other girl playfully. “Keep talking, I’ll turn your bones to metal. See how you like that.”
Brooke laughs. “You think you’re something special all of a sudden with more than one trick up your sleeve?”
“Mother says I could be.”
“Ha, you wish.”
“Enough, all right? Come on. Mother said make sure.” She gestures at the rubble. “So get in there, make sure there’re no traces we’ve been here. Draguns will be all over this place inspecting by morning.” The girl’s hand hovers above a small pile of rubble. Air ripples beneath her fingers and the pile shifts, stretching, twisting until it’s turned into a heap of forest brush. I blink as she moves on to the next.
Amidst the wreckage, a cloud of black fog appears like a summoned ghost. The Dragun who is after me emerges from it. I gasp. How did he track me here? Mom . . . Is she okay? The pair of girls raise their arms as if they intend to defend themselves.
“Identify yourself,” he commands.
“You first.” Brooke flashes the Dragun something shiny. His fist hits his chest.
“Memento sumptus.”
The girls lower their hands. “Non reddere bis.”
“I’m looking for someone,” he says. “A girl. I’m on orders from Mother herself. I had a lead that she might be traveling with someone older. But that ended up being a monumental waste of time.”
I bite into my fist. Mom got away.
“Have you seen anyone come this way?” he asks, and the one with big feet inhales deeply.
“The levels of Dust in the air do suggest someone other than us recently traveled here,” she says, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together.
I swallow, pressing deeper into shadow. I need somewhere I feel safe. But there’s nowhere I can . . .
Chateau Soleil . . .
Grandmom.
I turn the compact in my hands, which thankfully have warmed.
“Shh.” The Dragun raises a hand, and all three heads rotate in my direction.
She’s my grandmother. Family. A kind woman from what I remember. And Mom said she doesn’t know about my toushana.
“She’s here.” The Dragun rushes in my direction.
I flip open the compact. Mom will come for me soon. Tonight, she said. I can hide my toushana for a few hours. “Chateau Soleil,” I whisper, and I blow, the last of the glowing powder dissolving into the night.
Hands reach for me as I disappear.
