Unchosen (9 page)

Ally
’s face fell. “I actually think I’m gonna miss that place.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

M
Y GRANDPARENTS HAD hired a limousine service to be at our disposal. As we exited the hospital, the long black car was waiting for us. Sandra and Derek sat on one side, and Ally and I took the other. Ally grasped my hand and squeezed, and I squeezed back. I’d never known my little sis to be so insecure. It just reminded me that Ally needed protecting (and not just Ally, but my whole family).

             
I didn’t want to freak my sister out by agreeing with her magical fire theory, even though I thought the same thing. I wondered if Ally finding that box had somehow triggered a spell meant to destroy the box. Better minds than mine would have to figure it out. Demitrius had seen the magic, too, and he had said someone did it. I had a gut feeling Dem wouldn’t rest until he figured out what had happened. I took some comfort in that.

             
What I wanted was the answer to the big question: Why had my mother hidden that box at the Zomporium?

Molly’s Reaper Diary

Your Past is Sometimes Your Future

IF YOU’RE A reaper, you may have done things in your past that can affect your future. For example, take Parental Lecture #58:
Bad Grades Affect Your Ability to Get Into a Good College.

When you start high school, the phrase “on your permanent record” is said a lot, especially if you get an F on your Algebra test or a C- on your English essay (that was assigned a month ago, but you totally did it the night before).

Now, if you take this concept and apply it to reaperhood, you have a lot more to worry about than whether or not you’re going to a community college or to a four-year school. IOW, you can do something as a human that will come back to bite you on your reaper bootie.

Worse, as if you think you’ve dealt with something—a.k.a. mommy issues—well, guess what? You haven’t. I don’t think anyone’s past is ever truly gone. You carry every experience, good and bad, within you.

And sometimes … you don’t get a choice which one will visit your future.

“You want good advice? If something big, bad, and ugly is chasing you, don’t trip. Dumb ass.”

~
Secret History of Reapers, Author Unknown

Chapter 9

MY MOM LEFT us when I was 10 years old. My sister Ally was only eight. I don’t remember anything that led up to my mother abandoning us. I mean, like a super bad fight with my dad. Or stomping out of the house and yelling, “I’m never coming back!” Or sneaking into my bedroom one night and saying, “I have to leave, but I’ll see you again soon.”

I do remember coming downstairs for breakfast one morning and seeing my dad sitting at the kitchen table. After
Ally joined us, Dad gave us the bad news
. Your mother is gone. She’s not coming back. I’m sorry.

It was one of the only times I remember seeing my dad in an unbuttoned shirt and wrinkled pants. Daddy was something of a clothes horse (Where do you think I got my sense of style from?) and a big believer in a professional appearance. “If you look good, you feel good,” he often said.

Of course, Ally and I did not react well to the news that our mother was gone. He couldn’t really offer us any kind of explanation. He just held us while we cried. Not long after that, Nona arrived from New York and moved in with us.

Mom didn’t take much with her. Maybe she had hidden that mysterious
box in the Zomporium on purpose. Maybe she meant to get it back, but couldn’t. Or maybe my dad put it there and just forgot about it.

I have vague memories of my dad packing up Mom’s things into bags and boxes. I didn’t know where he had taken them, but I always assumed he’d given them away to charity or dumped them in the trash.

It seemed that Cynthia Briarstock left everything — and everyone — behind.

And she never looked back.

T
HE LIMO PULLED up into the driveway of our home on Grimsby Avenue. I stared at the two-story brown stucco house. I had spent all sixteen years of my life here, but now the place seemed unfamiliar. I felt like I was visiting my sister’s house instead of returning to mine.

“Let’s go, girls,” said Sandra. “I’m sure you’re both tired.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” said Ally. She negated that statement by yawning widely.

We all piled out of the limousine. The driver gave us a little wave, and backed out, driving away.

“He’ll be back in the morning to pick us up,” said Sandra. “We’ll visit your father right after breakfast.”

“Thanks,” I said. It seemed I had been thanking a lot of people lately. It just reminded me how much I needed others in my life. I thought of Rath. I hadn’t seen him at the hospital, but I figured he was in reaper mode. I knew that he’d make a point to visit me, and I was glad for that, for him. I really needed his promised back-up.

Our grandparents ushered us toward the front door, and Ally and I went first. Ally produced a key and fit it into the lock. I heard her mutter, “Weird.” Then she pulled out the key and twisted the knob. The door opened easily.

“You guys left it unlocked?” I asked.

“No.” She hesitated. “Maybe Nona forgot.”

We both looked at each other, and shook our heads. Nona had the memory of an elephant. She remembered the first time she made bread with her mother—at the age of six—and every ingredient they had used. She wouldn’t forget to lock the door. Foreboding settled in my stomach like an iron weight. We stepped inside, and
Ally flipped on the foyer light.

Our living room was just a single step down.

Everything was trashed. Not like I-had-a-party trashed, but like someone-tore-it-apart trashed. The couch cushions had been tossed off and ripped open. Books had been thrown off the bookshelves. Even the fireplace had been searched—ash from the interior pit spilled out onto the bricks and carpet.

“Uncle Vinnie!”
Ally pounded up the stairs before anyone could stop her.

I made a move to follow my sister. My grandpa Derek grabbed my shoulder. “You and your grandmother wait outside. I’ll get
Ally.” He looked at Sandra. “Call the police, sweetheart.”

Sandra looked slightly shaken, but as iron-willed as ever. She took me by the arm and hustled me out to the front yard. She withdrew her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

“Yes, I need to report a break-in,” she said in a strong, clear voice. She gave the dispatcher our address and then held the phone to her ear while she put her arm around me. I didn’t know if she was trying to comfort me, or trying to keep me from running back into the house.

The minutes ticked by, and still Derek and
Ally did not come out the door. The only anxiety my grandma showed was the tightening of her fingers around my shoulder.

“Yes. We’re still on the line,” said Sandra.

We heard the blare of sirens, and relief flooded through me. Now, if only my sister and grandfather would come out of the house, I’d be okay.

As if my thoughts had brought them into the doorway, Derek strode out with an inconsolable
Ally in his arms He joined us at the edge of the yard. Ally clutched one of her favorite totes, a hideous flowered bag that she’d gotten at a garage sale last year. She had her other hand clasped around Derek’s neck. She was wailing.

Ally
didn’t cry. Of the two of us, I was the weeper. I knew that whatever they had found in the house had been very, very bad.

A knot clogged my throat. “Uncle Vinnie … is he …?”

Ally sobbed harder. Derek made soothing noises, and he glanced at me, giving a slight shake of his head. My uncle Vinnie had been zombified years ago after his death in a car accident. Still, he’d been part of our family. I knew that his zombie didn’t have a soul, but it was difficult to think that he was well and truly gone. He had been really great zombie.

Two police cars pulled into our driveway.

“Thank you. The police have arrived,” said Sandra, and then she ended the call with the dispatcher.

The next thing I knew, four police officers exited their vehicles. Three drew their guns and went toward the house, and the fourth came to us.

“Is everyone okay?” he asked. He looked at Ally, and frowned. “Does she need an ambulance?”

“No,” said Derek. “She’s just upset.”

“Given the circumstances, officer,” said Sandra. “I’m sure you’ll understand that we would like to get our granddaughters to safety.”

“Of course, ma’am,” said the officer. “Let’s go down to the station, where we can take your statements in a more comfortable location.”

My grandmother bristled. It was almost as if the police officer had offered to trade her Chanel suit for a Wal-mart ensemble. “I will not have my granddaughters subjected to … to … the vagaries of the police station. Nor will I expose them to common criminal elements.”

The police officer blinked at the vehemence in her tone. His gaze flicked to me, and I think he was trying to decide whether or not she was serious. Apparently, he had never met Sandra Briarstock. Well, he would never forget her now.

Ally’s sobs quieted, replaced by sniffles and hiccups.

“I assure you, ma’am,” said the officer, “your granddaughters aren’t at any risk. The safest place for them is at the police station.”

“Hardly.” My grandmother lifted her cell phone and dialed another number. “Bernard, it’s Sandra. We’re in Las Vegas, and the home of my granddaughters has been burgled. Please come at once.” She ended the call, and put the phone into her purse.

The walkie-talkie clipped the officer’s shoulder beeped. “Excuse me.” He pulled the speaker off and away—far enough that we couldn’t hear his conversation.

“Who’s Bernard?” I asked.

“He’s a man of many talents,” said my grandmother. “He’ll take care of everything.”

“So, he’s another lawyer?”

“No,” said my grandmother.

And that was the end of the conversation.

E
ventually, the cops who had been searching the house came out and reported that no one else had been found on the property. They said nothing about my Uncle Vinnie. Zombies weren’t considered “alive” or “citizens.” When one perished, it was the equivalent of losing a pet. We were told that they could not release the house until CSI and ZEU (Zombie Enforcement Unit) had arrived.

My home was a crime scene.

“You can’t take my uncle,” said Ally.

“The zombie?” The reporting officer shook his head. “Sorry, miss. CSI gets him first. Then the Z
EU needs to dispose of him properly.”

De-animated zombies were cremated, which destroyed the body and any residual magic within it. Since a funeral had already been held and a memorial placed for the soul of my uncle, his body was considered as important as a piece of broken furniture.

Ally started to cry again, and my grandfather kissed her forehead and held her tighter.

I leaned into my grandmother’s embrace. “I don’t think I can take much more,” I said. I could hear the break in my own voice, and gulped, trying to forestall tears. I wanted to be brave and not feel like a weeping wimp.

“There, there,” she said. “It’s all right.” She held onto me fiercely, and I was grateful for her support.

I watched t
hree black SUVs with tinted windows pull up to the curb, and park in an impressive line of elegant efficiency. A tall man dressed in black tactical gear—and five others like him—emerged from the cars.

“Mr. and Mrs. Briarstock,” said the first man. “Please come this way.”

“Thank you, Bernard.” Sandra guided me forward, but was stopped by the officer who’d tried to interview us earlier.

Bernard smoothly inserted himself between us and the policeman. He blocked the officer’s attempt to reach us, and offered him a charming smile.

“Excuse me,” said the officer in a no-nonsense voice. “I need to speak to those witnesses before they’re released from the scene.”

Bernard produced a card, which the officer took, and then our rescuer spoke in a low, quiet voice.

We were hustled to the middle SUV, and secured inside the very comfortable confines. Soothing classical music played faintly in the background. Ally and I were tucked between our grandparents. Then we were each handed bottled water and told to hydrate.

While we were hydrating, Bernard and one of his look-alike companions got inside the car.

“The safe house will be ready by the time we arrive, ma’am.”

“Excellent, Bernard.”

Soon, we were on our way, protected from anyone who might think about attacking us. Or even talking to us.

“Wow,” said
Ally. Her voice was hoarse. “Being rich is awesome.”

Sandra laughed, and it was a nice sound. I realized I’d never heard her laugh before. “Yes, my darling. Being rich is very awesome.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING, Grandma Sandra woke me up. “It’s time to get up, Molly. Get dressed, and come have breakfast.” She brushed the hair off of my forehead and gave me a smile. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

My grandmother left. And I rolled out of bed. Our safe house was a very luxurious, but rather cold, abode somewhere in the fancy part of Las Vegas. I had no idea where we were because
Ally and I had fallen asleep by the time we arrived. At that point, we were both so exhausted, that all we wanted was a soft bed.

I wish I could say that I felt better. But the truth was, I felt even more tired, and like I’d reach
ed the end of my rope. Nothing was more emotionally wrenching then knowing someone you love almost died. Worse, the people who probably did him harm, had also destroyed our house and removed Uncle Vinnie from this Earth permanently. Through the grief, I felt the roiling presence of anger.

No one hurt my family.

I got dressed. Then I grabbed my brush from my bag and dragged it through my hair until I got all the tangles out. I didn’t know where the bathroom was, but I was more interested in filling my belly right now. I left the room, and saw Ally hovering in the hallway. She clutched the tote as though it were a newborn infant she was trying to protect.

“We really need to talk,” said
Ally.

“Okay,” I said. “After breakfast. I’m starving.”

“Donuts can wait.” Alex grabbed my arm and dragged me back into the bedroom. She shut the door and locked it behind us.

“Oh Em Gee! There are
donuts
?”

Ally
sat down on the bed, and pulled open the tote. Despite the fact that sugar-encased fat awaited me in the kitchen, I knew that what Ally had to show me trumped food. Now, of course, I realized what she’d been hiding and keeping safe since last night.

I sat next to her and watched as she pulled out an ornately carved box from the flowered bag.

“This is what I found,” said Ally.

“How do you know this box belonged to Mom?”

“The letter is addressed to her. And I’m pretty sure it’s her handwriting on the book pages. She scribbled notes in the margins.”

“How do you know it’s her handwriting?”

Ally bit her lower lip and stared at the top of the box. Then she sighed. “When daddy was packing up her stuff, he left one of the boxes open. I don’t know why he left the room, but I snuck in there. I saw the packet of letters with a ribbon around them. So, I took them.” She looked at me, tears in her eyes. “I just wanted to keep something of her, you know?”