Shutter (38 page)

Authors: Courtney Alameda

BOOK: Shutter

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One person was missing from the picture.

“How’s Oliver?” I finally asked.

Dad shifted his weight, leaning on his crutch. “The surgeons were able to save his hand. He woke up a few hours ago and doesn’t remember anything.”

“That’s probably for the best,” I said, hugging myself.

To my surprise, Dad reached up and stroked my bruised cheek with the back of his finger, tracing the mark he’d left on my face. “Micheline, this … was a mistake,” he said, almost too softly to hear. It took him several seconds to choke out the next few words: “I’m sorry.”

I looked up at him. Blinked. I hadn’t ever heard my father admit guilt or wrongdoing, and wasn’t sure what to say or how to respond.

“Tell me you stopped her.” His hand trembled on my skin, showing me his seams. He didn’t say
Alexa
or even
your mother
, but I knew who he meant. I tried to keep my upper lip stiff, but my core quavered and my face crumpled.

I nodded.

When he opened his arms, I buried myself in his bear hug, careful not to disturb the bandages around his waist. I hid my face in his jacket and let him hold me for a while, remembering what safety and home felt like for the first time in a long time.

My father was human.

Human meant fallible.

Human meant forgivable.

He kissed the top of my head. “Tell me everything.”

And just like that, dawn broke in my heart.

TEN DAYS LATER

I
STOOD INSIDE THE
foyer of St. Mary’s Hospital, watching the camera-wielding sharks on the other side of the glass doors. Hundreds of people crammed into the hospital’s tiny parking lot, hoping to get a first glimpse of the boys and me.

“Vultures,” Dad said, straightening the cuffs of his suit coat. One of the PR ladies tutted at him, dabbing a bit more gloss on my bottom lip and admonishing me not to scrunch my brows so much. “Press corps and family and friends of the deceased only. I want the rest of them gone.”

The PR lady lifted a shoulder. “The crowd will create a lot of buzz for Miss Helsing’s announcement—”

“Or a big, bloody security risk,” Ryder said, appearing at my elbow. Kennedy stood two steps behind him, and both wore plainclothes suits, comms hooked around their ears, and nine millimeters. Ryder was supposed to be confined to a bed for a week, doctor’s orders. But he stayed down for all of thirty-six hours before I found him doing push-ups in his room, chest stitches be damned. He’d insisted on coming today to be a part of my security detail.

He squeezed my arm and said, “You ready?”

I bobbed my head, wishing we had one last private moment before I stepped in front of the cameras. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You look beautiful,” he said, leaning down to kiss my cheek—gently, aware of the bruises hidden under my makeup. “I’ll be in the crowd.”

Dad didn’t even scowl when Ryder kissed my cheek or glare at Ryder’s back when he headed outside with Kennedy. As soon as PR discovered how much the tabloids were paying for photographs of Ryder and me together, they pressured Dad to let us date.
People eat up a good love story—
the head of PR, Samantha Marquez, told my father—
and you will look positively medieval if you continue to keep them apart, sir
.

Dad took her assessment with surprising aplomb.

I owed PR one, so I didn’t complain about the shellac on my face or the curls in my hair, or how off-kilter the heels made me feel. How did women wear these things on a day-to-day basis? What did they do if they needed to run to catch a train or cab? I’d be lucky if I didn’t topple off the dais in them.

“We’re live in five,” PR lady said, arranging my curls so they cascaded over the shoulders of my suit. “Remember, we’d like you to smile as you make the announcement, miss. You should seem thrilled about it, okay?”

“Thrilled?” I asked, arching a brow high enough to wrinkle my makeup. “We’re giving the people of San Francisco restitution, not building them ‘the happiest place on earth.’”

Her right eye twitched. When she opened her mouth to retort, Dad shook his head. She sniffed and turned on her heel, clip-clopping outside to fuss with my teleprompter.

“You’re sure about this?” Dad asked. “About the Presidio?”

“Positive,” I said, staring down at the podium outside. Addressing the crowd might be more daunting than running into St. Mary’s on my own, but it felt right. I’d never held a press conference before, but I’d issue only a single statement with no question-and-answer session. Easy.
Maybe
.

By now, everyone knew the official story. Dad held a large news conference one week ago, releasing a version of the soulchaining events fit for public consumption. He didn’t reveal the ghost’s identity, nor did the official statement include any mention of Luca. Reynold Fielding remained in Helsing’s custody, sullen and suicidal. I doubted he’d ever reveal the rest of Luca’s—or the Draconists’—secrets to us.

Only a small group of the Harker Elite knew about Mom, people who’d sworn their loyalty to our family. They wouldn’t talk. As for Luca, Dad asked to keep his potential identity a secret between the boys, myself, Dr. Stoker, and Damian.
We don’t know for certain he has any real connection to Dracula,
Dad had said.
He could be nothing more than a charlatan and an opportunist.

Our story went viral, hitting major national news networks and blowing up across social media platforms. Dad shielded the boys and me from the media fallout, declining all interview requests, keeping us off camera and low profile.

Until today.

“Once you announce your plans for the memorial park, there will be no revoking them,” Dad said for the hundredth time.

“I know,” I said. “But I think it’s what Mom would’ve wanted.”

One corner of Dad’s mouth tugged up, but the smile didn’t quite touch his eyes. He put a hand on the small of my back and kissed the top of my head. He’d been good to me since I’d gotten home, even sending my cameras to specialists for repair and replacing those too broken to salvage. He’d given Ryder permission to take the Harker Elite exam as soon as he was cleared for active duty; awarded Jude the Harker cross for his service to the family in the Obscura; and as for Oliver, Dad gave him a large research grant and space in the R&D department to develop prosthetic eyes for Gemma. Ryder, Jude, and I had already taken bets on how long it’d take him to develop a working prototype. A few months, maybe less. As for Bianca, Jude still saw her die every time he touched her—but somehow, he still managed to smile.

I never developed the roll of film I brought back from the Obscura, but burned it instead and scattered the ashes around Mom’s grave. Somehow, I’d find her killer.

“Miss Helsing?”

I looked up, finding the PR lady waiting just inside the sliding doors.

“It’s time,” she said.

“Okay.” My nerves twisted into a tight bundle, and I tried not to think about how Jude told me most people were more afraid of public speaking than they were of death itself. If people saw the world the way I did, knew what I knew about ghostlight and death … well, that was my duty, to protect the living from the kinds of terrors that could kill.

Dad gave me a gentle push toward the doors. “Good luck.”

“You’re not walking out with me?”

He shook his head. “The world should see you’re strong enough to stand at the helm.”

His words squared my shoulders, lifted my chin and my soul. When I turned to face the crowd, I smiled.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

B
RINGING A NOVEL INTO
the world requires the work of many hands, hearts, and minds. First and foremost, thanks to my literary agent, John M. Cusick, whose unflagging enthusiasm for this book turned me into a believer, too. No author could ask for a better agent or friend, and I am blessed to have both in one amazing person. You have my deepest and sincerest gratitude. Thank you.

To my keen-eyed, sharp-witted, wonderful editor, Liz Szabla—I do not exaggerate when I say it has been an honor to work with you. The wise, gracious advice you gave me shaped this novel in unimaginable ways—thank you for leaving your mark on this project and for everything you taught me. I am a far better writer and person for having worked with you, for which I am most grateful.

Jean Feiwel, thank you for believing in the project (and in me). After I met you, I knew Feiwel and Friends was the only place I wanted
Shutter
to be, and I know how richly blessed I am to be on your list! To Allison Verost, Ksenia Winnicki, and the marketing team at Macmillan—you all deserve to be showered in cupcakes (not literally, as that would be awkward). Thank you for everything you have done and will do for this book, my gratitude is immense! And I cannot forget Rich Deas, cover designer extraordinaire: Thank you for
all
the hard work you put into the book’s terrifying and wonderful cover; you are a gem!

To my amazing critique partners, who have been my most stalwart supporters through this whole journey—Kate Coursey, Chersti Nieveen, Kristen Knight, and Jane Hughes. Thank you for your shrewd insights, your indefatigable friendship, and your constant confidence. You keep me afloat. And to the writers who read this tale first—Katherine Mardesich, Jennifer Mardesich, and Rachel Mardesich—thank you.

Thanks to Carol Lynch Williams and the Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers conference—you changed my life and will always have my gratitude. To Holly Black, who I had the good fortune to meet at said conference, thank you. Your words gave me the courage to throw out the early draft of this book and start afresh, and it made
all
the difference. And to Cynthia Leitich Smith, thank you for being my literary fairy godmother. I keep expecting the clock to strike midnight, but I am starting to think your magic is real.

To Gene Nelson, thank you for letting me run amok in your library and for all the extraordinary things you empowered me to do. Thank you for “going steampunk” with me and for being the best boss (and most well-read one) I have ever had. To all the librarians, staff, and patrons at the Provo City Library—you are my joy. Thank you for the years of support, friendship, laughter, hard work, and celebration. I am lucky to have you in my life. And to Carla Zollinger … you now have your name in a book! (Blame Breanne Gilroy.) Thank you for bringing me home again.

To the great friends who have been my lights: Emily Ellsworth, Kylie Comfoltey, Carla Morris, Sara Larson, Kathryn Purdie, Jennifer and J. Scott Savage, Mark Holt, Celesta Rimington, Melanie Jex, Lauren Widtfeldt, Trina Hsieh, Rachel Coleman, Kerry Fray, Melissa Walker, Cori Vella, Ashley Crosby, Jess Smart Smiley, Mikayla McIntyre, and many, many others. I am blessed to have so many remarkable people to love. Many thanks to the YA Scream Queens: Hillary Monahan, Catherine Scully, J. R. Johansson, Lindsay Currie, Lauren Roy, Sarah Jude, Trisha Leaver, and Dawn Kurtagich. I hope we’re screaming together for years to come, ladies.

Thank you to Diantha French, who taught me about shutter drag and took my killer author photos. Thank you, Marie Teemant, for showing me how to develop film in a darkroom.

Thank you to Josh Callahan and the team at Wilson|Meany, who gave me a personal tour of San Francisco’s historic Pacific Bell Building. Sorry to demolish the top of your beautiful building in fiction!

Thank you to Jason Graves, whose musical scores are truly, deeply terrifying. My best work is done while listening to yours.

To Mom and Dad, my deepest gratitude and affection. Children are not born readers, we are raised readers. If I have achieved any modicum of success, it is because you put books in my hands and kept putting books in my hands. Mom, thank you for taking me to the library, for letting me read (mostly) unsupervised, and for promising me I hadn’t seen the last of Gandalf in the Mines of Moria. And, Dad, thank you for the childhood ride-alongs, for stakeouts at two in the morning, for plastering my face to the passenger-side window doing a U-turn at sixty miles an hour. Those moments stuck.

And finally—Mr. Stoker, no tale ever frightened me as deeply as yours did. Thank you for giving the world
Dracula
.

A F
EIWEL AND
F
RIENDS
B
OOK

An Imprint of Macmillan

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

ISBN: 978-1-250-04467-9 (hardcover) / 978-1-250-07388-4 (ebook)

Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto

First Edition: 2015

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eISBN 9781250073884