Seraph of Sorrow (19 page)

“Do you have any idea how complicated this was on short notice? I had to fly through O’Hare and Mexico City. The mountain drive from San Cristobal nearly made me throw up.”

“Have a lozenge; there’s a pack on the end table. I wish I could have given you more time, but I don’t know how much longer the conditions will be right for entry.” It sounded as if she were pacing back and forth, pulling zippers and locking clasps.
Packing.

“When do you leave?”

“Immediately, now that you’re here. Francis is in the next room.” Skip felt a nudge again. She was checking to see if he was up. Still numb, he stayed on the bed, listening.

“How did he take it when you told him what you were doing?”

“I didn’t tell him why. He knows I’m leaving. He’s upset.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“Neither do I.” This comment was directed not at the other, but at Skip. “Saying sorry doesn’t begin to describe how I feel. But I can’t pass on this opportunity. As our families always liked to say, ‘With sorcery comes sacrifice.’ I have to hope you both understand.”

The voice hardened. “I’ve never understood why you do many of the things you do, Dianna. I didn’t understand your teenaged crush on the lizard, or your trips across the southern hemisphere, or your insistence on raising our son alone, without letting me see or talk to him.”

“I’m letting you see and talk to him now.”

“Only because you have no choice,” the man shot back. “Where you’re going is plainly too dangerous for him. If he were a few years older, you never would have called me.”

“Let’s not get into this now, please.” Through the connection they shared, Skip could feel his mother’s impatience for this man. “You and I both know you’re no ideal parent. At six years old, he’d have been clinging to your hind leg as you firebombed Eveningstar.”

“So if I’m such a travesty, Dianna, why did you marry me? Why stay with me long enough to have a child, and then disappear as if we had nothing?”

Family.

Skip heard that word before she withdrew. “I thought I could start something new. I was wrong. I’ll be trapped in the past until I get this settled. That’s no fairer to Francis than leaving. This way, he has a chance to move on himself. I hope you can help him.”

“What about The Crown? You’re putting the Quadrivium at risk, for your own interests.”

“How ironic. Your paranoid fantasies about an Ancient Furnace, and your expansion of Winoka’s sewer system, have nothing to do with your friends in the Quadrivium. Were you following The Crown’s instructions, you’d focus on Mayor Seabright, not an innocent young—”

“Never mind my plan. At least it keeps me here, in this universe. Once you’re done with
your
adventure, how will you stay connected to the rest of us?”

“I will keep my ties to the Quadrivium. If things go badly, Edmund should be able to reestablish a connection.”

Skip shook his head.
Quadrivium? The Crown? Edmund?
Who were these people?

The man’s laugh was not kind. “Sure. Edmund will wheel himself over the Mayan ruins searching for your ethereal corpse. Such a field trip! Shame he can’t climb any pyramids.”

“Don’t mock him. Otto, I need your promise here.”

“What, I’m not doing enough by coming down to a far corner of Mexico and agreeing to raise our child alone, at a moment’s notice?”

“Promise you’ll arrange for Edmund Slider to come to Winoka, once you’ve settled in.”

“Are you serious? He would never come. Not after what Mayor Seabright—”

“Francis will need him. He can study with Edmund. With you and Edmund there, Francis will reach his full potential. Please, Otto.”

There was a pause. “I’ll talk to Edmund. No guarantees.”

“Thank you. One last favor.”

The man sighed, but did not stop her.

“I need you to give this to Francis.”

There was a pause, and then the man chuckled. It was a bitter sound. “Lovely. What every teenaged boy wants from his mother, before she abandons him.”

“He’ll want it, if he falls in love.”

“And what would you know about falling in love, Dianna Wilson?”

A chill settled over the entire hotel room. “I fell in love once,” she told the man.
“Once.”

Her thoughts turned to Skip again.

You will fall in love, too. Don’t make my mistake, Francis. Don’t let it slip away. When you find it, hang on to it with—

If you have to go,
he fumed,
then go.

He could feel the residue of her sadness as she withdrew. “I have to go,” she said aloud.

“Off you go, then,” the man snarled. “Give my regards to oblivion.”

A door opened. Footsteps faded. A door closed. And then there was silence.

It lasted for several minutes. The man in the other room did not make a sound—did not get up, did not shift in his seat, did not read a newspaper or clear his throat. Skip lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. His tears came steadily, though slowly enough that he could wink them away. Outside his window, there was plenty of noise. He heard chattering crowds and vehicles rumbling past with rusted mufflers.
One of those engines,
he realized,
is carrying her away.

“You’re awake, I assume.”

The man’s voice startled Skip. He didn’t answer right away.

“I am not experienced with children, much less teenagers,” the voice continued through the painted door. “But I know you are better off with me than where she is going.”

Skip climbed out of bed and opened the door. The man resting on the cheap couch was certainly related—same chocolate hair, same blue-green eyes, same tall and lean frame.

When the man stood up and stepped closer, Skip picked up two energies at once. First, the man held himself proudly and appeared calm. Second, that poise was nothing more than a façade, and something unstable lay underneath.

“My name is Otto Saltin. I’m Dianna’s husband.” He did not offer a hand.

“You’re my father.”

Otto nodded and scanned the boy. Skip tried not to reveal any emotion. He did not want to be read as easily as he could read this man.

“There’s no need to stay,” Otto said. “When you’re ready, we can leave for the States.”

“Where did Mom go?” Skip asked evenly. “What did she find, after all these years?”

His father blew his bangs away from his own forehead. “Your mother,” he answered, “went back to Palenque. She found a portal the eighth-century Mayan kings designed and built.”

“A portal to where?”

“I have no idea. Nowhere, I suspect.”

“My mother didn’t think so.”

“Your mother is obsessed. Possibly deranged. Frankly,” Otto said with a sniff, “I’d prefer not to talk about your mother anymore. I’m not sure why
you
want to discuss her.”

He tossed the item Dianna had given him at his son, who caught it. It was a wooden necklace, with a carved emblem of a moon and falling leaves.

“If I were you,” he told Skip, “I’d leave that in the hotel room garbage can.”

“Everyone, this is Francis—”

“Skip.”

Ms. Graf squinted at the yellow transfer sheet. “Francis Wilson.”

“Please, just Skip.” He sighed. Just what he needed. Hordes of teenagers giggling and calling him Francis.
Who names their kid Francis?
he asked himself hotly. The obvious answer only upset him further. His fingers worked the edges of his calculus text. Why was he in this biology class? In this school? This place had nothing to offer. What was his father thinking?

“Skip’s family just moved here to Winoka from out of state. Right, Skip?”

He shrugged.
Whatever, old woman. Let me sit down.

“Just have a seat over there.” Ms. Graf pointed to a desk.

Skip hated this. He hated the boys who were sneering, and the ones too nerdy to look up from their textbooks. He hated the girls assessing him as the sort of freak they’d never talk to, and the ones regarding him with whatever passed for pity in this barrel full of teenaged crabs. He looked pointedly at each, silently giving these morons a message to treasure.
Screw you. You, too. You, too, buddy. And hey, yes, you, too! And you . . . well, you look like an opossum died on your face. So screw you and the opossum, and the opossum’s mother. Then go screw yourself again.

He paused when he saw the leg. The biggest kid in the class—dirty blond crew cut, gigantic shoulders, and probably as many pimples as I.Q. points—had actually stuck his thick, hairy leg across the aisle, barring Skip’s way.

Face full of disdain, Skip stepped over the leg. Jumping up high enough for the dolt to miss him was no problem. He could have jumped twice as high if he had wanted. But then he wouldn’t have been able to smack the jerk across the face with his calculus book. Which he did. By the time everyone’s head whipped around in reaction to Bob’s bellow of pain, Skip was safely seated. No one had seen it.

Except for
her
.

This had to be Jennifer Scales. He knew it the second she caught his eye. She was right in front of him, and had turned to stare at him with shimmering silver irises, pretty cherry mouth hanging open.
Good night, she’s incredible. Why didn’t Dad tell me she was a stone-cold fox?

The bully’s rant distracted him. “You’re dead,
Francis
!”

He spared a moment to blow off the jerk, which was too long. She faced the teacher again, some lecture on butterflies began, and he had lost his first chance to . . .

To what? Smile at her? Talk to her? Kidnap her?

This was so ridiculous. How did his brain trust of a father expect this to work? What girl in her right mind—especially one as hot as this one—would warm up to a strange new kid and consent to meet him alone at his house? Didn’t Otto Saltin know how many times schools gathered students in assembly halls and showed them instructional movies about how to avoid, escape, and/or cave in the genitals of kidnappers and other insidious criminals?

Staring at the back of her honey head, Skip let his mind wander around the shape of this girl. She was destined to be something special, or so his father had told him. More special than his own mother had been? He would have doubted it before seeing her . . .

Immediately, he chastised himself for his superficial assessment.
What, she’s a babe, so she must have skills? As if there aren’t plenty of pretty girls who are a complete waste of space. This one probably is, too. All looks, no brains, no heart.

Insulting her made it easier for him to think about his father’s plan.
Get her to the house,
Dad had told him.
Tell her any story you like.
Of course, he wasn’t allowed to mention anything about how special Jennifer might be, nor was he to mention his father’s name. As for telling Skip what they would do with Jennifer once she was there, his father was silent.

Did he mean to talk to her? Hurt her? Kill her?

An index card suddenly flew at his head. He ducked and fumbled it in his hands. “Hey, whoa, easy!” Examining it, he saw an orange and black butterfly, with pins through its wings. “Lessee . . . mmmm . . . lunch.”

She giggled at his lame joke but didn’t turn around.

He caressed the soft scales of the insect with his fingertips, and then flipped the card over. The back read:
Monarch Butterfly. Danaus plexippus. North America.
He recalled seeing an enormous migrating swarm down in Mexico with his mother. She had told him at the time that several species of butterflies were the beautiful but devious servants of dragons, used to spy on their enemies.

What about these here?
he had asked her as he surveyed the cloud of dancing wings with apprehension.
Are they spying on us?

Her laugh had been medicine for his fears.
Not these. They’re just bugs.

Still stroking the insect’s wing gently, he realized he wanted to see more of these butterflies.
Where’s the next one?
He cleared his throat, waiting for this girl in front of him to get the hint. She didn’t seem to hear him, so he reached out to poke her with his finger—

Her hand moved too fast for him to see. “Hey,” he muttered in surprise.
She’s fast!
“I just wondered if I could look at the next one. And, um, maybe have my finger back?”

Her cherry smile as she let go was brief yet rewarding. “Sorry. Don’t poke me.”

As he took the next butterfly, he nodded. “Sorry. Nice reflexes.”

“Thanks.”

The peacock butterfly on the second card was not as evocative to Skip as the monarch had been. He and his mother had never been to Ireland, where these lived . . .

Suddenly, the girl’s back arched.
“Cripes!”
Then she shot up and dropped the third card.

“Ms. Scales!” Skip noted Ms. Graf was not leaping out from behind her desk to help out. “What is the matter?”

Jennifer Scales pointed down at the swordtail butterfly. “No one else hears that?”

Hear it,
Skip almost said in astonishment.
Of course I can hear it! Who can’t?
The sound the pinioned insect made was piercing and heartrending. He had half a mind to ask Ms. Graf what kind of sadist she was, nailing live butterflies to stiff paper. Then he looked around and realized no one else could hear the crying—and so he kept his mouth shut.

“Ninth graders are never as funny as they think. Ms. Scales, please take your seat.”

As the rest of the class tittered, oblivious, Skip watched in amazement as the butterfly on the floor kept sobbing.
What is going on here?

He wanted a closer look. Once Jennifer was seated, he immediately tried to get her attention. What on earth could he say, without revealing he could hear the screaming, too? “Um, if you’re sure that’s dead, could you pass it on back?”

The resulting hiss reminded him that she didn’t like to be poked.
Whoops.
She reached down and picked up the card, but instead of handing it back, she held on to it. He watched her stare at the card, then at the windows, then at the card again . . .