The Gathering (15 page)

“Well, we’re not going to get anywhere tonight. Not without Cressida.” Link sets the candelabra back on the mantle. “I think it’s time for you and I to pay Agent Bledsoe a visit.”

*

As soon as I fall asleep, I find Link inside a large, dank cave, leaning against a vehicle that can only be the Batmobile. He opens the door and flashes a lopsided grin. “Ready for an adventure?”

“What exactly are we hoping to accomplish by visiting Bledsoe’s dream?”

“I think it’s time to point out some inconsistencies.”

“You think he’ll listen?”

“Never know unless we try.” He wags his eyebrows and opens the passenger side door wider. “Shall we?”

“If we show up in that thing, he’ll never take us seriously.” I take Link’s hand and pin my mental energy on Agent Bledsoe. Mostly, his crooked nose—like he broke it in a bar fight and never had it reset. And also, the fact that he’s prowling around New Orleans trying to find us.

The bottom of the dream drops out from under us. My stomach swoops. Link’s grip tightens. And when I open my eyes, we’re no longer in the Batcave. We’re standing on a stage surrounded by teenagers and the loud boom of rap music. A crowd of faceless onlookers sits elbow-to-elbow in an auditorium. Agent Bledsoe stands at the front of the stage, leading a group of girls through a hip-hop routine, yelling over the music for everyone to keep up.

“This is weird,” I mumble as Link pulls me through the dancers and taps our man on the shoulder.

Agent Bledsoe stops.

So does the music.

The second he sees us—
really
sees us—his eyes go crazy wide. They zip from me to Link and back again. Two wanted fugitives standing calmly in front of him. He fumbles inside his coat pocket. I expect him to pull out a gun. Instead, he pulls out a phone, punches a few buttons, and presses the device to his ear. “I found two of them. They’re standing right here at my daughter’s dance recital.”

The audience slowly fades away. The dancers have become very still. Some vanish altogether. Our sudden appearance inside Agent Bledsoe’s dream has changed the dream’s focus. If we don’t tread carefully, the whole thing will disappear and we’ll be kicked out.

“No, they aren’t running.” He seems to realize the oddity of this fact as soon as he says it. He looks at us with a furrowed brow. “Why aren’t you running?”

“Because this is a dream,” Link says.

The stage is almost completely empty now. All that remains is me and Link and one other girl. Judging by the shape of her eyes and the color of her hair, she’s Agent Bledsoe’s daughter. Not his real daughter, of course, but his projection of her. She stands like a robot that’s been powered off.

Bledsoe scratches his earlobe. “A dream?”

“Unless you usually make a habit of getting on stage at your daughter’s dance recitals.” Link waits for his words to sink in before continuing. “Think about it. Why would we come here in real life? We’re running from you.”

His scratching fingers move from his earlobe to his chin to his chest. It’s as though he’s having an allergic reaction to the discovery.

“Why are you after us?” I ask.

“You’re wanted for murder.” He points his accusation at me.

“That’s not true. Look at the initial reports. The coroner ruled Dr. Roth’s death a suicide. So did the media. So why was it changed?”

Agent Bledsoe’s eyes flicker. They are a window to the soul, and I can see a mustard seed of doubt burrowing inside the black depths of his pupils.

“I haven’t committed any crimes, unless you count escaping from a mental facility I didn’t belong in.” Or breaking into the highest security mental rehab facility in the country. I push away the picture of my father sitting inside a prison cell and focus on the man in front of me. “Why should
that
make me FBI’s Most Wanted criminal? It’s a little strange, isn’t it?”

“Y-you set off a bomb.”

“It wasn’t a bomb. It was a diversion. And nobody was hurt.” Jillian made sure the car was empty. She made sure nobody was close by.

The seed in Bledsoe’s eye germinates.

Link places his hands on the man’s thick-set shoulders. “Do some digging. You’ll see the inconsistencies.”

Bledsoe’s dream blurs at the edges.

Link grips his shoulders tighter, gathering his full attention. “Remember this when you wake up. Don’t forget it. We’re not dangerous. We’ve done nothing wrong. Look at the facts.”

And just like that, before I can hear another word, I’m pushed like a wave out to sea.

Link is gone.

Agent Bledsoe and his bizarre dream is gone, too.

I float off into nothingness.

The Prophecy Revealed

S
unlight streams in through the large windows of my new bedroom. I turn over and spot a familiar backpack sitting on an armchair. Someone must have retrieved them early this morning. I remove the poultice Geoffrey wrapped around my ankle last night. The swelling has gone down significantly, and when I put weight on it, so has the pain.

Ditching the awkward crutches, I make quick work of getting dressed, splashing water on my face, pulling my hair back into a ponytail, and gargling some mouthwash. I grab the five journals from my bag and make a beeline for Luka’s room. I want to see how he’s doing. But the room is empty, the bed already made.

In the dining room, Jillian and Link eat a plateful of crepes with Vivian and a man dressed in a suit and tie. His skin is more creamed coffee than ebony. Mr. Rivard, I assume.

“Good morning,” Vivian says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, I did, thanks. Do you know where Luka is?”

“He ate breakfast earlier this morning with Cressida. She’s an early riser. The two are in the library.” Vivian introduces me to her husband, Marcus Rivard. I shake his hand, noting the smoothness of his palm as he welcomes me to New Orleans.

Vivian dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “How’s your injury?”

“Much better, thanks.”

She looks pleased with my quick recovery. “Would you like something to eat?”

I decline and with a polite wave, I backpedal from the room and head to the library. Sunlight shines through the stained glass windows up above, giving the room an entirely different feel from last night. A woman with skin like her mother’s sits behind the antique desk. Her hair, however, isn’t nearly as tidily pulled back. It’s a mess of coiled curls that spring from her head in every direction. Luka stands behind her, looking over her shoulder with his thumbnail wedged between his teeth. He looks healthy and whole and completely engrossed. Cressida wears reading glasses, and is equally focused. So much so that she bites the end of her tongue as she marks something on the page. Luka bends lower and peers at whatever she’s writing.

“What are you looking at?” I ask from the entryway.

Luka looks up, his eyes meeting mine. My heart rate picks up speed. I have a million questions. How does he feel? Did he have a nightmare last night? Does he remember what happened? Did he hear what Vivian said about the tumor on his soul? Now that the leech is gone, is his gifting back?

Cressida slips off her readers. “You must be Tess. Come in.”

When I reach them, Luka wraps his arm around my waist and kisses my forehead. “How’s your ankle?”

I melt against his side. Not a scent of Samson’s stringent salve remains. Just soap and wintergreen and … everything Luka. “Mostly healed.”

“My father likes to joke that my mother’s poultices have magical powers,” Cressida says.

“Do they?” I ask.

She smiles. “We were just studying a journal written by a Keeper. We have a few in our collection, but not as many as I’d like. Keepers are quite rare.”

So I’ve been told. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Luka wanted to know whether or not a Keeper has ever lost the ability to protect his or her
anima
.”

I glance at him. “And?”

“There’s nothing recorded,” he says, his green eyes dark.

I guess that answers one of my questions.

“At least that we know of. My grandfather was the Scribe before me. He only died three years ago. I haven’t had enough time to read them all.” Cressida spots the journals in my hands, a strange glow overtaking her expression. “What are those?”

“A gift from Non.”

“Thank you.” She takes them from me so carefully, so reverently, that I feel a little guilty for stuffing them haphazardly beneath my mattress these past few months.

“What exactly do you do with them all?” I ask.

“Oh, lots of things. Study them. Add to them. Most importantly, preserve them. Whenever the writing begins to fade, I transcribe the journal into a new notebook. It’s very time-consuming work. Every letter has to be meticulously copied and triple checked.”

“Wouldn’t it be more efficient to digitalize them?” The question comes from behind me. It belongs to Jillian. She and Link must have finished their crepes.

“Efficient, yes. But also dangerous.” She sets Non’s gift on her desk, then turns around with eyes that are impossibly awake. “Tell me, what are you searching for?”

My heart begins to tap dance inside my chest. I’m not sure I want to learn whatever it is we’re about to learn. I lick my bottom lip and take a deep breath. “There was a prophecy given during the fall of Rome, in 476 AD.”

Cressida’s eyes glow brighter.

“We’d like to know more about it.”

She heads to the ladder on the left wall, climbs a few rungs, and skims her pointer finger along the spines. “This particular bookcase is reserved for the prophetic journals. The prophecy you’re asking about is one I’ve studied extensively. I think you’ll see why.”

She pulls out a notebook and climbs down the ladder. “We don’t have the original account. This comes from a secondary source, but it’s a very reliable one.” She opens to a specific page and slips her reading glasses back on her nose.

The four of us move closer as Cressida begins to read.

“A time approaches when evil will grow to such heights, our kind will face extinction. One will arise with the ability to set captives free. She alone will see evil’s mark and her gifting will be complete in its power. She will be our victory.”

My scalp tingles.
Her
.
She
.

“Or she will be our downfall.”

“Wait—
what
?”
Our downfall?
Cap failed to mention that part.

Cressida holds up her finger, turns a page, and continues reading. “How shall we know the time is at hand? Hear these words. Listen carefully. When the cessation of war offers the illusion of peace, when strife divides from within and darkness gathers without, when death ushers forth in secret, the death knell will sound. The time is at hand. This prophecy was foretold by the prophet Jabed in the upper room. I, Caius, son of Decimus, was there among the witnesses.”

She closes the journal.

“When death ushers forth in secret,” Jillian says. “It’s happening. At Shady Wood and other rehab facilities. Link confirmed it.”

Cressida’s eyes glitter. “Tomorrow night, a ceasefire between Egypt and Sudan will be signed, ushering in an unprecedented time of peace.”

“The cessation of war. Strife from within.” Jillian’s voice sounds breathless. “The prophecy is coming true, isn’t it?”

Cressida nods. “It seems like it.”

Link looks over her shoulder and peers at the open page of the notebook. “What does it mean—
the death knell will sound
?”

“A death knell was an ancient custom where a church bell was rung to announce death,” Cressida says. “I think, here, the term’s being used metaphorically. The original word is alluding to something loud and unmistakable. Something that tells us we’ve reached the end. Something we can’t miss.”

“Like a grand finale.”

“Exactly like that.”

I shake my head, still hung up on the first bit. “I don’t understand what it means about the choice being hers. Why would the One choose to be our downfall?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Prophecies are difficult to understand without hindsight and by then, they’ve already come to fruition. That’s why a lot of people choose not to read too much into them. But I think it might have something to do with this.” Cressida opens the journal again and thumbs to a page near the back. “
Victory must come through sacrifice.
The original word Caius used for sacrifice is the same one he uses later, but in this instance, the word was translated to
offering
.”

She turns to the last page and adjusts her glasses. “How will we know this One? A beacon will come before. A sign will be given. The beacon will shine light on the One who is our hope. Evil will rise up to destroy her. If an
offering
is made, she will give hope for freedom.”

My ears start to ring.

“A beacon?” Jillian says. “What’s that?”

“Again, I’m not certain. But if I was a betting woman, I’d say that the beacon will be a person. This person will be given some sort of sign. And the sign will point to the One.”

The ringing grows louder. My grandmother kidnapped me as a baby. She said I had the power to save her. She called me “the key”.