The Gathering (13 page)

Except for a dingy neon sign across the street advertising a local tavern, the street is abandoned and dark. Any second it will be crawling with cops. We need to get to safety and we need to get there fast.

But where? The tavern?

I glance at the sign. Something on it has me doing a double take. I’m positive I’m seeing things. Except no. I’m not. It’s there. Off in the corner, like a hardly-noticeable bit of graffiti. I point at the inky swirls. “Do you see that?”

“What?”

“The symbol on the sign. Upper right corner.”

Luka cocks his head and nods.

It’s all the verification I need. I grab his hand and pull him across the street.

“Tess, what are you doing?”

“It’s safe.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that symbol is the same one on all the journals.” And the journals belong to the Rivards. And the Rivards are on our side. It can’t be a coincidence.

Luka opens the door and we step inside.

Except for a broad-shouldered bartender and a woman wearing a skirt so short it’s barely a skirt at all, the tavern is empty. The bartender pours amber liquid into a shot glass. The woman knocks it back and wipes her mouth, smearing a streak of blood-red lipstick across her forearm, then ogles Luka as lewdly as the lady with the hats. “I think some jailbait just stepped inside your tav, Hez.”

The bartender refills her glass, not bothering to look in our direction. “We don’t serve minors here.”

I stay where I’m standing, not nearly as confident on this side of the door as I was on the other. I’d give anything for that hat back. Some measure of cover in case that symbol is a fluke. Luka must have lost his, too, as it’s no longer on his head. I swallow. “There’s a symbol on your sign out front.”

The bartender’s attention snaps to me, standing in the doorway beside Luka. He pulls a white rag from his back pocket and begins wiping a beer glass dry, eying us with unmistakable interest.

“What she talking about, Hez? There ain’t no symbol on that sign.” The lady with the short skirt pours another shot down her throat, then pats the empty stool beside her. “Why don’t your tall, dark, and handsome mister come over here? I sure wouldn’t mind his company.”

Luka’s posture stiffens.

The bartender has yet to peel his attention away.

I take a small, hesitant step forward. “Do you know the Rivards?”

He sets the glass on a shelf and studies me for a bit longer. I can’t tell if my questions interest him, or if he’s recognized our mugs from TV. Finally, he stuffs the rag back into his pocket. “Follow me.”

“Where’re you goin’?” the woman asks.

The man—
Hez
—doesn’t answer her. He doesn’t wait to see if we’re following either. He walks through a doorway behind the bar. I limp after him—around the bar, through the door, up a set of rickety stairs, into a spacious, sparse room that has a bed, a dresser, a recliner, a TV, and a desk in one corner.

The bartender closes the door behind us. When he turns around, his eyes are bright. Excited. “It’s been years since anyone’s seen that symbol.”

I almost melt into a puddle of relief. “You know the Rivards?”

“Every Believer south of the Mason Dixon line knows the Rivards.” He reaches out a meaty paw and shakes our hands. “Name’s Hezekiah. Welcome to New Orleans. Cressida has been expecting you.”

Tests

A
s Hezekiah makes a phone call, I peek out the window of his second floor apartment, my mind buzzing with questions. Namely, how in the world is Agent Bledsoe here in New Orleans when early this morning, he was in Greeley, Missouri? I look at Luka who looks back at me, the same question reflected in his eyes. My suspicion from earlier returns, stronger than before. I hate even thinking it, but what other explanation is there? “It’s like somebody’s giving the authorities our location,” I whisper.

The muscle in his jaw ticks.

“Do you think we can trust Jillian?”

“What about Link?”

“No way. It’s absolutely not Link.”

My quick response has Luka raising his eyebrows. “He’s the one with the phone. It wouldn’t have been that hard for him to make a phone call or two.”

I shake my head. Vehemently.

“Why not?”

“Because I trust him. One hundred percent. And besides, I volunteered Link to come, remember? Jillian volunteered herself.”

“She blew up a car so we could get away.”

He’s right. She did. I want to trust her. I think I can trust her. But I also thought I could trust Clive. I knead my temples, as if this might loosen the knots in my brain and the worry in my heart. Link is out there. He’s out there with a potential betrayer. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.

Hezekiah hangs up the phone and claps his hands. “All right. Time to go.”

“Can you help us find our friend? We got split up when we started running.”

He starts shaking his head before I can finish. “I’m afraid that’s a bad idea.”

“But the city is crawling with cops.”

“Exactly.”

“Link can take care of himself,” Luka says.

I shake my head, hating Luka’s answer. What if Link had that same attitude when it had been Luka in need of saving? “You owe him.”

“I owe him?”

“He helped save you. Nobody at the hub believed that you were still alive. Nobody except him. Without Link, you’d still be—” I stop myself from saying anything more. Luka doesn’t need the reminder of where he’d still be. I’m pretty sure he has them every time he falls asleep.

“Link has the address. He knows where to go.”

“An address won’t do him any good if he’s being gunned down in an alleyway!” I turn to Hezekiah. “Please help me find him.”

“I will, as soon I get you safely to the Rivards.”

A sinking sensation falls through my stomach. What if it’s too late by then? But arguing is no use. Luka won’t help and Hezekiah won’t budge. He ushers us out a back exit, into a navy sedan parked behind the tavern. Luka and I crouch in the back seat while we drive further and further away from the French Quarter, a bluesy sax playing from the speakers.

“Lots of flashing blue and red lights,” he says, drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Make sure to stay out of sight back there.”

I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to ignore the sharp pain in my ankle and the cool metal of the gun against my back.

“Should we be concerned about your customer in the bar?” Luka asks. “We just left her there. What if someone walks inside and asks her if she’s seen us?”

“Stacy’d sooner sober up than talk to a cop.”

“And if the police show up at the Rivards?”

The question grabs my attention. If Jillian is the one handing out our location, then of course she’d alert the police that we were headed to the Rivards.

“You don’t have to worry about that. The Rivard home is very well guarded.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

Luka and I exchange a look. His eyes are filled with unspoken words, an entire conversation that saturates the small, dark space between us. He’s sorry about Link. He’s sorry I’m worried. Just not sorry enough to help me convince Hezekiah to change his mind.

Hezekiah starts humming along with the music.

The scent of jasmine blows in through his opened window. The sweet fragrance makes my dark thoughts feel darker. I picture Claire, reaching out her foot to trip me. Luka, bound and dragged away. Clive, dropping his cloak. Jillian, handing our location to the enemy while pretending to be my friend. Link, somewhere out in the city, cuffed and dragged in for questioning. Or shot in the back by a crooked-nosed FBI agent. The what-ifs expand and swirl into a dense, dark cloud. The pain in my ankle grows worse with each passing mile. Until finally, Hezekiah says it’s safe to sit up and a strange glow filters into the car above our heads.

Curious, I rise up onto the seat. A gasp tumbles past my lips.

We’ve turned down a private lane that leads toward an expansive lawn enclosed by an iron fence. And standing guard on either side of the gate are two sentinel-like beings that light up the night. I gape, the strangest combination of hope and terror joining forces inside my chest, chasing everything else away. For the life of me, I can’t decide if I want Hezekiah to slam on the brakes or hit the gas.

“You see ’em, don’t you?” Hezekiah watches me in the rear view mirror.

See them?
How could anybody
not
see them? I swear, not even my father could miss these things. They are the most magnificent, otherworldly creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on, with two sets of wings rising up behind them and a golden sword in each of their hands.

Gravel pops beneath our tires as we approach. The creatures are directly outside the window now. I’m a moth. They’re the flame. An army of white-eyed men could show up at this very moment, Agent Bledsoe and Scarface leading the way, and I’d be able to do nothing but sit and stare.

The gate groans open.

Hezekiah drives inside the grounds.

And this feeling pours over me. It’s one I haven’t had in a long, long time. This overwhelming flood of warmth and safety. Like a thousand pounds of dead weight just rolled off my shoulders. I feel light. I feel free. I feel like I could float up to the sky. Hurdle Mt. Everest. Swim across the Atlantic. I look at Luka, an uncontainable smile stretching across my face.

But Luka grimaces, and my smile slides away.

Once we’re far enough inside the Rivard property and the creatures are well behind us, I’m able to notice other things. That is, the house. Until the hub, I’d only ever lived in big homes, affluent neighborhoods. A byproduct of my father’s occupation. But none of our houses came close to this. The Rivard family lives in a grand antebellum manor of pristine white with soaring columns and large French windows lit against the night.

Hezekiah pulls to a stop in a brick-laid roundabout driveway that circles a five-tiered fountain. I step out into the balmy night and limp behind Hezekiah toward the front doors. I’m barely more than a few steps before Luka is there, wrapping his arm around my waist to help me along. I catch him hiding another grimace.

Hezekiah rings the doorbell. A long-faced, stiff-shouldered man dressed in a black butler suit answers and welcomes us inside an impressive foyer.

Heels click against polished wood flooring. A regal woman with skin the color of ebony strides into the room, her slim figure clad in a tailored business suit, her smooth dark hair pulled into a tight, low bun that accentuates her high cheek bones. “Thank you, Geoffrey. Zekiah, it’s a pleasure to see you.” She clasps the tavern owner’s hands, kisses both of his cheeks in greeting, then turns to me and Luka. “I’m so glad you made it. Your friends have been worried.”

Our friends?

Two familiar faces peek into the foyer—as if making sure we’re not the New Orleans police.

“Link!” I untangle myself from Luka’s side and nearly knock him over with a hug. Judging by the tight way he hugs me back, he’s as relieved as I am. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, thankful he’s okay. Thankful he’s alive. I don’t let go until the woman with the beautiful skin clears her throat.

I tug at my shirt and glance at Luka, who’s carefully avoiding eye contact.

“My name is Vivian Rivard. My daughter, Cressida, is very eager to meet you. Unfortunately, she and her father are away for the evening. Any questions you have regarding the journals will have to wait until morning. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be any help to you.” Vivian’s attention drops to my torn jeans. My scraped palms. The obvious way I favor one leg. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to assess your injuries. Please, follow me.”

Like Hezekiah before her, she doesn’t wait for us to follow.

This time, Luka doesn’t wrap his arm around my waist. He scoops me off my feet and walks after her. My entire face catches fire as we enter an open room with cathedral ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and pristine furniture too nice for the likes of me and my filthy self to sit on. But Vivian points to one of the chairs and Luka deposits me on the cushion.

While she props my leg onto a footstool, the ten o’clock news plays on a large screen television. Our faces stare back at me—mine, Luka’s, Jillian’s, Link’s. A reporter stands in front of the festival we just fled and explains that we are still at large and believed to be in the area.

“Don’t worry,” Vivian says. “You’re safe here.” She carefully removes my shoe and examines my injury with cool fingers.

“Viv’s a doctor,” Hezekiah says.

Geoffrey hands her a handheld x-ray machine from a black medical bag like Dr. Carlyle’s. I’ve seen similar machines before—inside the school nurse’s office, in the ER when we had to rush Pete to the hospital after he fell off a set of bleachers. As the news changes from four wanted fugitives to the official ceasefire between Egypt and Sudan, Vivian scans the red laser beam down the outside of my ankle, around my foot, and up the inside of my ankle, and studies the small screen in front of her while I study Luka. It’s obvious he’s having a harder time hiding his grimace.

“It’s not broken,” Vivian says.

I clasp the armrests of the chair. “Can you check him, please?”

Everyone’s attention shifts.

Luka raises his eyebrows. “I’m fine.”

“Then why do you keep grimacing?”

“I tweaked a muscle.”

Vivian stands. “Where?”

Luka rubs the small of his back. “It’s probably from jumping on the garbage truck.”

Jillian’s eyes go wide. “You jumped on a garbage truck?”

“We ran into Agent Bledsoe.”

“What?” Link sounds shocked.

I keep my attention pinned on Jillian’s face, watching for any signs of guilt or deception. I see neither, but that doesn’t mean I’m in any hurry to give her back the gun.

Vivian lifts Luka’s shirt, exposing a slice of toned lower back, and presses her fingers against the spot. “Is the pain sharp or dull?”

“Sharp.”

“Hot or cold?”

Luka’s brow furrows, as though considering. “Cold.”

She presses against the spot some more, then lets his shirt drop. She uncaps a bottle, shakes two peach-colored pills onto her palm, and offers them to me.