Dangerous (20 page)

a lot of things.

By the next week, Dad had agreed to weekly library visits

if I wore sunglasses and a long-sleeved shirt. I sat at the com-

puter, forcing myself to check the news sites first. The “flu” from

South America had a name: the Jumper Virus, so called be-

cause of how it seemed to jump around the world. Entire towns

on four continents were known to have contracted it and were

placed on complete quarantine.

The news was all depressing. I went to the Japanese site.

There was a post from Talos. My skin felt cold as if I’d just dived

into the unexpected waters of the ocean.

It’s snowing outside, and the day is dark.

I want to slow down and contemplate

those lovely and dark and deep woods,

like the Robert Frost poem. But I have

this token. And I can’t resist. Not for

winter, not for anything.

But I take a breath. And I feel how much

I miss you.

How do I respond to those last words? Apparently with a

heart that slammed against my ribs and a face that burned. So

what’s it going to be, Maisie—flight or fight? I read his message

over and over, letting each word take as much power as a shout,

as a touch.

I decided to ignore his last line and respond to the weather

chitchat. A library window was open, the breeze warm as bath-

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Shannon Hale

water, the sky dazzling. I closed my eyes and tried to remember

what those Utah Decembers were like.

I love nestling into the dark days of

snow. I love how the afternoon feels

days long, the prolonged feeling of Cozy,

that wistful slowness, how the energy of

doing is buried under the heavy, soft

layers of watching.

When I think back on those months in Florida, the ex-

changes with Wilder were hot bright spots in a long wash of

gray. Mom, Dad, and I ate oranges and oatmeal, sat by open

windows and read books, all the time watching for black cars

and tensing for the sound of helicopter blades. Crying at night,

smiling by day. It was a time of clenched jaws and fists and feel-

ing muggy and tired and adrift. Little to distinguish one day

from another, besides a weekly message from Wilder. His words

gave me something to hope for, an outcome other than fear and

absence.

I am thinking about you, though I know it

makes things harder. I am thinking about

you, your hair in a ponytail. You’re

wearing blue. And you don’t smile at me.

His messages often left me wordless, but I had to keep the

conversation going, or I was afraid I’d disappear.

Today I’m imagining you wearing an orange

sweater vest, because it’s so wrong and

it makes me laugh.

His responses would come within the hour, though I

wouldn’t see them until the following week.

I happen to have a closet full of

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Dangerous

sweater vests. I wear them at every

opportunity—to dress up or dress down,

over collared shirts or nothing at all

(I dare you to imagine that). I wear

them while swimming, while bathing, while

sleeping. I rock sweater vests like a

rock star.

Each week I expected to see Luther’s LEX to discover the

conversation, but he must have given up on looking there. May-

be he’d given up altogether. Wilder seemed to be the only being

out in the world who remembered me. And all I could do was

wait for something to change.

Waiting felt like holding my breath longer than twenty

minutes. Waiting felt like being buried alive. Each day I sat and

did nothing, my body throbbed harder. My dad staring at a wall,

his mouth turned down. My mom lying on the bed after a night

shift, her body a sigh.

At night when I tried to sleep, I would fidget and thrash

against the real physical pain of inactivity. Morning runs and

felled tree trunks weren’t distracting my brute body anymore. I

was made to do
something
. I could almost feel the nanites nip-

ping at me as if I’d swallowed a nest of fire ants.

“We can’t live like this forever,” I whispered into my pillow,

and I knew at last that it was true.

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C h a p t e r 2 5

The next trip to the library gave me the excuse I’d been

craving.

I was reading news online. Schools in Florida and other

states with quarantined towns were shut down until scientists

could figure out how the Jumper Virus was spreading and con-

tain it. Universities and churches too, and even Congress. Cra-

ziness.

An unrelated article from three months before caught my

attention: BILLIONAIRE SHOT WITHOUT A GUN.

Businessman Alexander Islinger was killed on

Wednesday while he delivered the keynote address at a

Chicago charity banquet. He was shot twice in the chest and

died instantly. No bullets were found.

“We had metal detectors, x-ray machines, so I don’t know

how anyone got a gun in,” reported the head of security.

The building was locked down and police searched

every guest and employee and then combed the premises.

Witnesses say whatever weapon was used was completely

silent.

This is the fourth mysterious assassination in the past

month, leading to speculation—

The story was interrupted by a photo of the guests leav-

ing the building. There were dozens in the photo, all wearing

face masks to guard against the virus contagion. But I made

out a slight figure with dark hair and a pale face. Were her lips

Dangerous

stained blue? What had she shot at the guy—one of the plati-

num rings GT had given her? Could she simply shoot an ice

cube from her water glass, leaving no evidence at all?

I searched Alexander Islinger: onetime business partner

of GT, their relationship soured when Islinger accused GT

of unethical business practices. Was GT holding the safety of

Mi-sun’s family over her head? Guilt like a hatchet cracked my

chest. I’d abandoned Mi-sun to wolves.

I messaged Talos.

I’ve read the news. Keeping still is

killing me.

His response appeared a minute later.

Yeah, it’s not good. If the team stays

together, we can protect one another.

I was disturbed by how happy that thought made me, but

I wrote:

I feel sick about Blue, but I shouldn’t

abandon my den.

Wilder replied so quickly, he’d been typing his rebuttal be-

fore he even received my decline.

They are safer away from you. Besides,

we have a responsibility to help our

teammates.

I hadn’t responded when Wilder sent another message.

Do you remember what those two can

do? They’re with him, and I can’t get

to them on my own. I need you. And Blue

most definitely needs us.

If GT had gotten Mi-sun to kill for him, then Jacques was

in no better shape. It was pointless to try and break away from

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Shannon Hale

the team. We’d been reformed by the tokens, and we would be

linked together until we accomplished the Great and Mysteri-

ous Purpose. Or if there was no purpose, then until we died.

Okay.

Again, his response was nearly instantaneous.

Call me.

He gave me a phone number in code, for example, “the

number of onion rings you ate in our stolen car” instead of one

(one was enough—it was my first and last onion ring) and “the

number of strands in the necklace” instead of three. At the mo-

ment, I couldn’t remember why I’d been avoiding him. It didn’t

matter, not with Mi-sun and Jacques working as GT’s assassins.

Not with my parents languishing in perpetual danger.

I went into the library bathroom and dialed mentally. The

phone only rang twice.

“We need to meet,” he said. I’d forgotten his voice already,

how it was a little rough and caught on some words.

“Are you working for your father?” I had to know.

“There’s been a pretty aggressive estrangement in the fam-

ily. He tried to kill me.”

“Okay. That’s good. I mean, I’m sorry of course, but I’m

glad to know you’re not with him.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I feel terrible about what’s happening, but I don’t know if—”

“I’ve tried to get to her, but I can’t,” he said, and I knew he

meant Mi-sun. “I can’t figure out a way to break her out of there

without your help.”

Any doubt dissolved. I had to help Mi-sun, and Jacques too

if he needed me. “I don’t have money for travel.”

“I’ll wire you some.”

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Dangerous

“I’ll call you in five days with the details.”

That would give me some time to get out of Florida. I

thought I trusted Wilder, but suspicion kept me wary. Even

more, I didn’t trust anyone who might be listening in, and I

would not lead anyone to my parents.

“So…” He paused again. “How are you?”

“I have to stretch. I’m supposed to
work
, you know?”

“Yeah, I do.” He paused. “Call me in five days. I’ll be on

this phone.”

“Okay.”
You confuse me and I’m suspicious and logic says to

keep away
, I might say,
but I can’t anymore. Maybe the token is
nothing but a wasp-stinger, but I need you so much, more than

anyone else in the world.
But I said, “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” he said, sadly it seemed.

“Wait,” I said, remembering our conversation at boot camp.

“I also meant to say, ‘Hello. And how are you? And . . . and,

I miss you.’ Because, you know, someone should speak those

words to you.”

“And mean them,” he said.

“Right. And mean them.”

He said, “I miss you too.”

It sounded like good-bye, so after a few moments of silence,

I disconnected.

Five days. I had to get as far away from my parents as I

could.

That night I updated them over dinner. Mom brought ro-

tisserie chickens from work. I ate two, bones and all. Food was

too expensive for me to throw parts away. Besides, bones were

delightfully crunchy. Mom said watching me eat was like being

trapped in the scary parts of fairy tales, but she said it nicely.

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Shannon Hale

“Wilder is right,” I said. “It’s our responsibility to help Mi-

sun and Jacques get away from GT and stop them from hurting

anyone else.”

Dad’s shoulders slumped. “So you’re leaving.”

“I don’t like feeling dependent on Wilder. He lied so eas-

ily to Ruth. But I have to fix this,” I waved to the apartment

that still didn’t feel like home, Dad’s frown, Mom’s gray conve-

nience store shirt with a name tag that read MARIA.

“You’re my baby,” Mom said. “I should be taking care of

you.”

“You are,” I whispered. “But if I can help, then I should.”

We were quiet. I ground a chicken leg bone into powder

between my molars. Mom and Dad looked at each other. Dad

nodded.

“Well,” Mom said, slapping the table, “this is perfect for your

schooling. We’ve never done a project on the social systems devel-

oped by those who are infected with alien technology!”

Dad groaned and put a hand over his face. “My baby girl . . .”

“Don’t worry,” Mom said, rubbing his back.
“La Peligrosa

es fuerte.”
Danger Girl is strong.

I handed my dad a knife, handle first. “Here, break this

against my hand. It’ll make you feel better.”

He smiled at me through his fingers. “Someday you may

grow up and have kids of your own and understand why break-

ing a knife against your hand will not make me feel better.”

Mom soothed the back of my neck. “Go save the world,
la

Peligrosa
.”

There was little chance of that. I felt so pathetic when I

thought of Luther’s superhero plans. The brute token was wast-

ed on me.

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Dangerous

We had just enough cash to buy Mom and Dad prepaid

cell phones. They wouldn’t be able to call my Fido phone, but

at least I could reach them, and I promised to call twice a day—

morning and night.

I hugged them good-bye. I could feel everything about this

embrace, so aware of their bones, their skin, their hair, the thump

of their hearts and inhale of their lungs. They were fragile.

But we couldn’t hide forever. And I couldn’t ignore the

tugging that insisted Mi-sun was partly my responsibility. And

Jacques too. And Wilder out there, reeling me in.

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C h a p t e r 2 6

I walked to a marina, the sunset at my back pushing my

shadow forward, a spindly monster always just ahead.

I’d prepared shoes and a change of clothes in three layers

of plastic bags. Adding Fido, I tied the baggage to my chest and

dove in. I seized the underside of a cruising boat, hitching a

ride away from the oily marina waters and into the Gulf Stream.

The current was swifter there, and I swam on alone, exhilarated

by the added speed.

After buying the cell phones, my parents had no cash to