The Keepers (32 page)

“It doesn't matter,” Chloe said. “They'll be here too late. I have to be there exactly when the malkund arrives.”

“What? No, no, you can't go back.”

Chloe seemed to hesitate, for the briefest instant, but then she said, “I can. I'm going to.”

Horace read the note again—“under no circumstances.” He shook the paper at her. “Why are you ignoring this? Ten minutes ago you were all rah for the team.”

“God, don't say that. I'm going to puke. Look, I said I'll join the fight, but in the meantime this particular fight can't wait. It's nothing personal.”

“You don't even know what you're going to do with the malkund.”

Chloe looked over at the window again. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. Then she rounded on him, frowning. “Look, Horace, you're lucky I haven't left already. If the Wardens came here to warn me about not going home, that means
something's wrong. You think I really want to be hiding out here? I'm trying to be patient. I'm trying to be reasonable. But reason tells me I have to be there tomorrow when the malkund reappears. If I'm not, it'll just take my dad under all over again.”

“I'm going with you, then.”

“No. I'm safer alone. They can't catch me.” She held up the dragonfly.

“You don't know that.”

“I kind of do. I'll come back, I promise. I'll be back in time for the meeting at midnight tomorrow.” She waved a hand at the Fel'Daera. “Go on down there and check.”

“You can't—” Horace began, and then stopped. It was 12:04. He looked over at the box. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Chloe said, clearly warming to the idea. “Let's go check and see. You'll see me there tomorrow night, safe and sound.”

Horace took the box in hand, and they eased down the stairs and out to the toolshed. Chloe, as usual, was nearly noiseless, even on the gravel driveway. It was deeply dark inside the toolshed. But with the Fel'Daera, Horace didn't need a light. He began to open the box, then stopped. “Wait . . . if I do see you here tomorrow night, maybe that'll mean you never left at all. Maybe you'll decide to listen to the note.”

There was silence in the dark for several long seconds. Finally Chloe, her voice thick with skepticism, said, “Have we met?”

Horace sighed. “Is there anything I could see in the box that would stop you from going home tomorrow?”

“Nothing comes to mind. Maybe a newspaper headline that said
EVERYONE EXPLODED BECAUSE CHLOE WENT HOME
. Maybe not even that. But go ahead and check.”

Horace lowered the box. “No. Not unless you promise. If I don't see you here tomorrow night, you don't go. You said we were in this together.”

“And I said you had to let me be me.”

“I am. But if you're so sure you'll be safe, what's the harm in promising?”

Silence, and then a sigh. “Fine. Promise.”

Horace remembered his trick with the mint, back at the House of Answers. How Chloe had said she was going to take on the golem anyway. Would this be like that? “Cross your heart,” he insisted.

Another pause. Then at last a rustle, and her arm swung across her chest. “Cross my heart.” Horace could hardly make her out in the dark, and the dragonfly was just a faint gleam, so he couldn't tell whether she'd actually done it or not. “Happy now, Mr. Logical?” Chloe said.

Frowning, Horace laid his fingers on the lid of the box. She wanted Mr. Logical? Fine. That was just how Mr. Meister had told him to be. He tried to recall what else the old man had said about using the Fel'Daera. He had to believe; he remembered that much. The problem was, he really only believed one thing about this entire situation: promises or no
promises, and no matter what he saw right now, Chloe would still leave.

Horace opened the box, trying to convince himself that Chloe would be safe. And through the blue glass he saw—
tomorrow's toolshed, shadowless and still; the hanging bicycle, the refrigerator door
. His heart sank a little; he could see just fine, but he could tell the shed would be dark. And he saw no one. He spun, still feeling that queasy chill as he passed over today's Chloe and watched her seem to turn invisible in the box. He spun all the way around, searching.

No one. No Chloe—but also no Horace, no Wardens.

“You're not here,” he said, closing the box. “No one is.”

“No one? What does that mean?”

“Maybe you're in trouble. Maybe we went out looking for you.”

“Or maybe it was a short meeting.”

But it was only 12:08. “You think Mr. Meister would come out here just for an eight-minute meeting?”

“Probably not,” Chloe admitted. “But I'm not staying here tomorrow just because the box showed you nothing. Wait, though—wouldn't you leave a sign? Tomorrow night, you'll know you already looked through the box. Why not just leave yourself a message?”

A message. Of course. The way he'd left a message for himself on that day of discovery, so long ago:
yes, Horace, this is tomorrow
. Horace opened the box again, trying to believe in a future in which everything was okay. One where Chloe
returned safe from destroying the malkund. One where the Wardens had come for them—surely that's where he and Chloe would be this time tomorrow, with the Wardens. He believed it. He opened the box. . . .

The toolshed, still empty; but a flicker of motion—the hanging bicycle swinging slightly, its rear wheel spinning slowly to a stop
. “Someone was here,” Horace said, wondering why he hadn't seen that before. He turned, but still saw no one. Then he looked down at the gravel at his feet—
something different, stones out of place, lines in the floor
. He sidestepped, still staring, and slowly letters came into focus, a foot high, scratched into the gritty ground.

DEAR HORACE,

I AM SAFE.

YOUR FRIEND,

CHLOE

Horace breathed out a sigh of relief and read the message out loud.

“Hey, it's from me,” Chloe said. “How about that?”

“Yeah . . . weird.” Horace tried to shake off a mild case of déjà vu, remembering the night Chloe had written on his wall.
Dear Horace . . . Your friend, Chloe
.

“I told you,” Chloe said. “I'm safe.
Now
are you happy?”

“Yes.” Horace looked again, concentrating hard on the message, focusing all his thought on it. The words remained clear
and sharp.
I am safe
. He closed the box, trying to ignore the little seed of unease that squirmed inside him now. Something here didn't quite make sense, but he couldn't put his finger on it. “Promise you'll be careful tomorrow, Chloe.”

“Are you still worried?”

“Not worried. Just . . . unsure.”

“You should trust yourself. Trust the box. The box says I'm going to be safe.” She turned for the door. “Come on, let's go back in.”

“Yeah,” Horace said, and followed after her. But trusting the box wasn't the problem. He did trust it. He believed in the future the box had just shown him. What worried him was the path between this moment and that one. What worried him was tomorrow.

H
ORACE WOKE INTO A FLAT LATE
-
MORNING LIGHT
. C
HLOE
stood beside the bed, peering down at him, her hair rumpled and wispy. “Jeez,” she said, “you'd think with all that beauty sleep your hair wouldn't be such a wreck.”

Horace pointed at her groggily. “You should see your pretty hair, sleeper.”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “You can stay in bed if you want. I have to go.”

“Wait.” Horace sat up, trying to clear his head. It was nearly noon. His parents must have gone to work without waking him. “You've got like twelve hours before the malkund comes back. Why are you going now?”

“I'm not going home yet. First I'm going to Aunt Lou's, to see Madeline.”

“That wasn't part of our deal.”

“It wasn't
not
part, either. Relax. I won't go home until late. And I'll be back here before midnight.” She turned and headed for the door.

“What will you do with the malkund?” he called after her.

“That's a surprise,” she said, and then she was gone.

Twelve hours. Twelve torturous hours to wait and see what would happen. Horace lay there for a while, thinking about the events of the day before, and then he went out to the shed. For just a moment as he was opening the door, he thought he would see Chloe's message there already—and wouldn't that be a bad joke on him? If Chloe had left the message
before
going home, instead of after she came back? But no. The floor of the toolshed was still undisturbed. Horace decided he would risk the box, just one more time. He thought hard about the message he'd seen, and the future it pointed to. He opened the box. The words were there, just as before:
Dear Horace, I am safe. Your friend, Chloe
. That was a relief, but he strained his eyes trying to determine whether it was still as clear as it had been last night. He still could not escape the sensation that there was something strange about this message. Was it possible it wasn't from Chloe after all? Theoretically, the message could have been left by anyone—maybe even Dr. Jericho. But no, as far as Horace knew, Dr. Jericho didn't even know Horace's name, let alone where he lived.

Of course, the Mordin
did
know where Chloe lived. As the afternoon deepened into evening, Horace began to
regret letting Chloe go, his head buzzing with worry. He wasn't sure he believed that she wouldn't go home until later tonight—surely she was dying to check on her dad. And then at dinnertime, a terrible thought occurred to Horace—was it possible that the Riven were aware that the malkund had disappeared? Maybe Dr. Jericho already knew what he and Chloe had done. If so, Chloe was in terrible danger.

After bedtime, Horace lay in the dark, juggling his anxiety, trying to sit tight and continue believing in the future he'd seen. At long last, 11:28 rolled around. A mile away, he knew, the malkund was reappearing. He had no idea what Chloe planned to do with it. A surprise, she said, but he couldn't imagine what that might mean. He tried not to imagine a different kind of surprise—Dr. Jericho lying in wait for her. He calmed himself by reasoning that Chloe would surely get away. She always got away . . . right?

By 11:37, he could stand it no more. He went outside and checked the toolshed, hoping beyond hope, but the toolshed floor was undisturbed. The message still had not been written. His viewing had happened at 12:08 last night, which meant only a half hour remained during which the message could have been left. “
Will
be left,” he murmured firmly to himself, and then he settled in to wait for Chloe, and for the Wardens, too. The air was cool enough to make him wish he'd worn a sweatshirt. He stood at the door to the toolshed, peeking in and out. He kicked at the gravel on the floor. A half hour. Plenty of time for Chloe to arrive. He figured it would
take her a few minutes—maybe five—to do whatever she was going to do with the malkund. Another few minutes to check on her dad. Fifteen or twenty minutes to walk back to Horace's house. That would put her here at 11:55, tops.

But 11:55 came and went. Then midnight. At last, at 12:05, his confidence clinging by a thread, Horace heard footsteps in the driveway, brisk and swift. He hurried out of the shed, heart pounding. Mrs. Hapsteade strode toward him out of the darkness, wearing her usual black dress. She was alone.

“Where's Chloe?” Horace said heedlessly.

The woman stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean? She's not here?”

“She should've been back by now—I was hoping she'd be with you. She . . . went home.”

Mrs. Hapsteade's eyes flared. “What? But we warned her. We warned you both. Riven have been lurking around her house since late last night. Mordin. A full hunting pack of three.”

The unease Horace had been feeling all day suddenly blossomed into panic. He tried to stomp it down. “No, that can't be. She's safe. Where is Mr. Mei—”

“How do you know Chloe is safe?” Mrs. Hapsteade insisted.

“She left me a message. Here inside the shed. She's
going to
leave me a message.” He scanned the yard as if Chloe would appear at that exact moment. “I saw it in the Fel'Daera last night. She said she was safe.”

Mrs. Hapsteade inhaled sharply, her eyes lighting briefly on the box. “A fool's proof,” she muttered. She stood up straight and lowered her chin grimly. “Show me.”

Horace led her inside. He shut the toolshed door behind them and pulled the string on the overhead light. “The message was here,” Horace said as the bulb swung above them. “Right on the floor, scratched in the dirt.”

“And when did you see it? When exactly?”

“Last night at twelve-oh-eight,” Horace said automatically.