Blackwood (21 page)

  Luxurious until she remembered they were in Phillips' room. Together. Alone.

  With no time to do anything but retrieve this mystery item he needed. She knew it must be the letter, but she didn't want to press. His giant duffel bag had been transferred from the bed to the floor, and said bed was as rumpled as the shirt he was wearing.

  Make that, the shirt he whipped over his head. He seemed to realise what he'd done as he tossed it toward a corner, standing frozen and shirtless.

  The moment had an intensity that was ridiculous. Miranda wanted to laugh, but the air was too thick. She made her way to his duffel and picked out a black T-shirt.

  Phillips stayed exactly where he was, and she walked to him, laid the shirt flat against his chest, with its fabric between her hand and his skin. His hand rose to cover hers…

  And then she did laugh, too nervous not to. She lowered her voice, so his mom wouldn't hear and come running. "Now you put it on," she said.

  "Right."

  He took the T-shirt and pulled it over his head. A gray-silhouetted ninja raced across the front.

  "And get what you came for," she said.

  "Right."

  He moved past her and bent before the bag, carefully laying aside the contents until he found a certain T-shirt and unfolded it to reveal a small cream envelope, tattered with time. Phillips' name was written on the back. He wasn't hiding it from her.

  Miranda felt drawn to touch it, much like she'd been drawn to the gun. The gun in her bag. The gun she'd blasted Phillips with.

  
Black dust only.
She hadn't hurt him.

  The light from the window spilled into the room, dappled with the leaves of the tree branches. Both of them flinched at the sound of the front door opening, then slamming shut. Phillips held his finger to his lips, and they waited. Miranda wasn't sure for what. Then, faint but unmistakably, a car engine coughed and turned over.

  "She left," he said, seeming confused about why. "She must have taken dad's old car. Hardly ever leaves the garage."

  Miranda didn't want to mention that the likely reason she'd left was Phillips' jailbreak.

  He filled the silence. "Means we have a little breathing room here now."

  "So, what's that?" she asked, curious if he'd tell her. Her fingers still itched to touch the paper.

  He said, "It's a letter from my grandmother. To me. She gave it to my dad and he just decided to turn it over. Because of–"

  "Everything. I know," Miranda said. She needed to be honest with him. "The other night I listened in on your conversation."

  He blinked at her for a moment. "From the top of the stairs. Exactly what I would have done."

  He seemed pleased.

  "So, what's it say?"

  He gave her a helpless shrug. "I don't know. I meant for us to read it together and then everything went haywire."

  He'd meant for them to read it together. She was afraid for him, afraid what was in the letter would end up hurting
him
. Afraid she would.

  "Do you want me to read it to you?" When he didn't answer right away, she took a deep breath. "I understand if you don't. This is private and–"

  "When gram died," he said, "that night was the first time I heard the voices."

  "You loved your grandmother?" she asked. The answer might not be so simple. She'd never known either set of her grandparents.

  "I did."

  "And she loved you?"

  His lips softened with his nod.

  "It'll be OK then," she said. "Let me read it to you."

  He handed it to her. The envelope opened with a whisper of old paper against itself. She pulled out a single sheet folded into thirds. Tidy slanted handwriting in blue ink bled through the back of the page.

  "Dear Phillips," she read and paused, giving him time to change his mind.

  He waited without speaking. She shifted closer to the light of the window, and read on.

  "I'm sorry you were gifted with such a pretentious name–" when she stopped to gauge his reaction to the unexpected beginning he gestured for her to keep going "–and sorry about the gift I know now will fall onto your shoulders. But the most important fact about our family is our lineage. It is what makes us who we are, the keepers and protectors of this island, a ground with as many names as our gifted have borne over the years. You will not find their names written or their actions detailed, but know that our family line has a long history of service to this place. It would not have been safe to document that history. And so it has been a tale told by one bearer of the burden to the next."

  Miranda cleared her throat, dry as if dust bunnies from under the bed had migrated there. These secrets were never meant for her.

  "Go on," Phillips said.

  "In the past, the gift has passed down through the women in our family, fate's way of ensuring its preservation in our line. When I was able to bear only one child, a boy, your father, I thought that meant that I would be the one to finish our task. That either we would end, or the island would. Your father never developed the gift, never understood it. But you, Phillips, you are different. I see now that
you
will be the last of us. We must have been very close to the edge when your father was born – maybe I was to be the final protector. But events were turned from their course. I don't know how long you have, and I know you were not properly trained. I have failed you on that score, afraid your father would remove you from the island."

  "I removed myself," Phillips said.

  Miranda continued. "Our line stretches all the way back to the first appearance of the devil on these shores. A child was left behind on the beach when the devil's cohort was forced to abandon its plan. Your ancestor, and mine, was taken in and protected by the Secotans. A child well hidden before that bastard John White ever returned, searching for his master's weapon. That child was freed from her parents' sins, left on the island's rough ground because she was too young to promise herself and follow his acolytes into the other world. The tribe knew that decision tied her to this land. Just as the traitor Mary Blackwood's line was to be, marked with the serpent as agents of betrayal."

  Miranda choked out her own last name, barely stopping to wonder that she'd kept it all these years later. Being chained to a cursed name was a curse of its own.

  Phillips said, "Are you OK? Is that the end?"

  She flipped the page to read the last. "The devil and his cohort are bound to return, my boy, and it will be your task to prevent them from staying, to prevent him from bringing a black night over this world. He will claim his acts are of nature, but they are not. He is clever and powerful, and he will not be alone. But know, Phillips, that you are not alone either. Let your gift guide you. Use all your strength, and protect this land as we are sworn."

  Miranda stopped. "It ends there. She didn't even sign it."

  Phillips ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "So John Dee's the devil."

  "And I'm a traitor."

20

Damned Truths

Phillips knew this was difficult ground to navigate. Land mine, trap door, quicksand ground. The late afternoon light traced shadows under Miranda's eyes, hollowed out her cheeks. He wished there was more light on her face, wished there was enough light to see inside her head. The letter his grandmother would probably be horrified to discover
anyone
besides him – not even getting into the Blackwood thing – had read was clutched in her hand.

  "The letter did not say that," he said.

  Miranda held her hand beside her face, flourishing like a showroom model. "Because the serpent is equal to light and sunshine, and agents of betrayal are all the rage." She lowered her fingers, the gesture tired. Not defeated, tired. "That's exactly what it said. Phillips… maybe you shouldn't be helping me. You have a job in all this, on the side of the angels–" her lips quirked to one side "–literally, I guess. And I have the exact opposite."

  Phillips stepped toward her, coming close enough to lift the letter from between her fingers. He was careful not to snatch it away. The voices in his head were talking and talking and talking. He did his best to shut them out. This was between him and Miranda.

  "I'm supposed to protect the island, right? How can I do that without protecting you? Your dad–"

  "He's the devil in this now, isn't he?" She'd used the same flat tone when his dad told her about her father's death. "He has to be. He was dead. We saw his body."

  Phillips waved the letter. Her eyes followed it like the single piece of paper had made solid everything she'd suspected about what her family curse meant. He folded the page quickly – better to put it away, out of sight – and shoved it inside his pocket.

  "Gram never met a situation she couldn't add drama to. She and my dad had that in common. But that's
not
your father. You told me it didn't feel like him when he looked at you. Your father's gone."

  "Like the people from town were gone?"

  She was too smart for him to manipulate.

  The beginnings of a theory about the disappearance and the return hung unspoken between them. What if the people who'd come back were ones meant to be long dead?

  Miranda said, "If we're betrayers and traitors, then maybe it
is
my dad."

  "Even if it is, or some part of him, or an ancestor…" Phillips reached for her hand, but she skittered away. "He isn't you. You aren't your family."

  "No. We
are
our families. Both of us. We are the baggage twins. That much, I get." She blew out a breath. "If I do turn out to be the bad guy, you have to promise me something."

  Phillips already knew he wouldn't want to. "What?"

  "This town has never treated me like anything except its trash. These people – most of them – have never done anything for me, except call me a freak. Except make me feel like one. And that's OK. That's what people do. They whispered about my mother after she died. She wasn't one of us. She deserved better."

  Phillips wanted to tell her she never had to do anything for the people she was talking about, that they didn't deserve
her
consideration. His gram's words stopped him. His family was sworn to protect the island, and that meant the people who lived on it too. His mother and father were among that number.

  No one deserved to have their life hijacked by alchemists from beyond the grave.

  Miranda wasn't done. "So they couldn't help themselves. So all that was part of my being a snake. If I'm the bad guy, you have to promise not to let me win. I've resented all this, all these people, for so long. But I can't be responsible for whatever Dee, my father, whoever has planned. I won't prove them all right."

  He touched her shoulder. "I promise not to let you be the bad guy."

  "Thank you."

  "But what
does
he have planned? You have the weapon, which seems to be the key to everything…" Phillips broke off when he caught a hint of sirens in the distance. Had they just started or had he not noticed them before? He answered Miranda's questioning look with, "Sirens. You hear them?"

  She pivoted toward the sound. They were both facing his mother when she stepped through the door to his room.

  "I'm sorry," his mom said, "but what was I supposed to do?"

  She had on gardening clogs instead of real shoes. He'd bet anything she hadn't gone much beyond the driveway. He'd underestimated her. His mistake.

  Miranda's alarm was clear, which meant he needed to remain calm. Even if the sirens
were
getting closer. He asked, "You faked leaving?"

  "I've learned a few things from you over the years," his mom said. "And you know how I hate borrowing your father's car. I drive a stick like somebody your age, not mine."

  "Were you listening the whole time?"

  "Your dad shouldn't have given that to you," she said. "I wouldn't have let him. And I won't have you sacrificing yourself for this island. Not for anyone on it. I love you too much."

  "So you called Dad."

  The false calm she wore dropped. "You drugged a police officer and an FBI agent?"

  She was pissed. That he understood.

  "You did
what
?" Miranda clamped her mouth shut, as if she hadn't meant to speak out loud.

  "It's not good for Miranda to be mixed up in this either. Your father can protect her."

  "Mom," Phillips sighed the word. "I know you're worried and feeling all maternal, but you have to let us go. If they take me in now, no college, no nothing. Jail. If we stop without finishing this then…"

  "The devil?" His mother prompted. "The devil will come back and what?"

  She'd waited to come in until the sirens were on the way. She was trying to delay them. She didn't want them to leave before the squad cars rolled in. "Why didn't you warn them not to put on the sirens?"

  "The feds are a little too upset to go the quiet route."

  Maybe he could use her worry to convince her to
let
them leave. "If we stop what's happening, then it won't matter so much what I did."

  The tilt of his mother's head meant she was listening to him, but the sirens were getting close.

  "It won't matter if you're dead, either," she said. "Will it?"

  Sirens. Voices. All getting louder.

  He looked with longing at the window, wished for time to plan an escape. The voices roared in his ears. When he looked back, Miranda was pointing John Dee's antique gun at his mother.

  It would have been a lie to say the sight didn't make him uneasy. But he wasn't worried – the black powder wouldn't hurt her. He shoved the voices back.

  His mother rolled her eyes. "That's clearly a museum piece and they'll be here any minute. Guys, I'm the adult here. I rarely pull rank. Listen to me."

  Miranda ignored her, or pretended to. "Can you help me get over to the tree? You'll go first," she said to him.