
Shield and the Shadow   
_The Horizon Cycle  
No. 1_

by A.M. Yates

Third Edition  
Copyright 2014 © A.M. Yates

Smashwords Edition  
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You were right._
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Chapter 1

_**D** on't give up, Olli. Don't. Give. Up._

Her annoying inner voice kept up the mantra, propelling her forward. Her legs burned and begged for mercy, plotting to give out before she reached the top of the hill.

"Stupid voice," she panted. "I don't know why I listen to you."

For the last three weeks, she'd ridden her bike to her babysitting job. And every morning, she'd walked up the steepest hill. Her brother, Nate, always gave her crap about how weak and out-of-shape she was. Actually, he said, she did have a shape—a stick-shape. She should've been immune to his taunting, but instead she'd been riled. She'd made up her mind to bike this stupid hill and she was going to do it. But at the moment, she cursed her own stubborn determination.

She'd heard that Mississippi was hot, but this wasn't hot—this was hot's sweatier, uglier cousin. Overnight, summer had rolled into town. Haze smothered the skinny pines looming over the narrow blacktop road. A damp, slow-rot stench clung to the air and stuck in her lungs. And the sun wasn't even up yet.

Worse, the insects seemed to love the heat. Her skin itched thinking about the multitude of bugs scurrying through the trees. Their noise was deafening: a virtual insect symphony, performing the soundtrack for the tale of a downtrodden young woman sent to live with her grandparents only to tragically drown in her own sweat while feebly attempting to stick it to her little brother. The tiny cricket violins rose to a pathetic crescendo . . . No, wait, that was a car engine.

She glanced over her shoulder, but the road was dark. She kept pedaling. So close to the top of the hill and yet . . . not.

"This isn't Horizon Creek"—salty rivulets ran into her mouth—"it's one of the rings of hell. Next door to Sisyphus," she grunted with each rocking rotation of the pedals. "Sisyphus's sauna."

At the top of the hill— _take that, Nate!—_ she put her foot down and looked back again.

A car swooped up the hill. Blue-white lights blinded her.

The car flew by, inches away. Displaced air crashed against her in a whirling wave. She gasped and flinched. The bike banged into her thigh, knocking her off balance. She reeled back, fighting to stay upright.

Then she tumbled, down and down and down.

Bumping through weeds, biting her tongue, bouncing over a rock—or two—smashing her elbow, scraping her knees, swearing and crying out in alternating bursts until . . . at last . . . she landed.

Sprawled amongst the weeds alongside the road, her entire body throbbed. Above her, dawn's light crept into the sky, a feeble gray.

Groaning, she rolled onto her side and gazed up at the top of the hill.

She flopped onto her back again with a grimace and a huff. "Being Sisyphus sucks."

Long silent parts of her body complained as she pushed upright. Then she noticed the car. A gleaming black four-door, more like a sports car than a sedan, slammed to a stop in the middle of the road.

The driver shoved his door open and rushed to her. He crouched on the road's edge. His hands hovered at either side of her like she might fall over again. Mingled aromas of fresh coffee and leather wafted off of him.

"Oh, guards. I—I—didn't see you. What are you doing out here?" he asked.

Her head spun, more from a boiling surge of anger than the fall. What kind of question was that? As if she wasn't supposed to be . . . Where was she again? Oh, yeah. Horizon Creek, Mississippi.

She blinked furiously and did her best to focus her glare on him, but her vision bobbled like she was still tumbling. She pressed the heel of her hand into her temple and closed her eyes.

"I didn't expect anyone to be out here," he said, straddling apologetic and defensive, which she found annoying.

As far as she was concerned his first words should have been _I'm sorry_. A few adjectives would have helped too, like desperately, deeply, very, very. Instead, he repeated his first question, "What are you doing out here?"

She took a deep breath, rubbing her grit-crusted forehead, checking for blood, or worse, bugs. "Trying out for the part of a hit-and-run victim. How am I doing?"

His tone darkened. "I didn't hit you. You were just—and I was . . ."

Opening her eyes again, her glare finally fixed on him as he ran his hands over his face and glanced towards the top of the hill, squinting as if trying to replay what had happened.

Two things struck her. One, why did he have to be attractive? Attractive in a long black hair, deep dark eyes, tall and handsome, moody romantic drama way? Even his dark T-shirt and jeans combo somehow contributed to his flutter-inspiring look. And two, she recognized him.

She didn't know him, exactly. But she'd seen his picture. Olli's young charge, Farren, chattered nonstop about her eighteen-year-old twin brothers. She was giddy for their return from boarding school. Farren had gone to their graduation weeks before, but her brothers had stayed to join their friends on a yacht or something like that. But apparently, they were home now.

Olli sighed, resigned to the awkwardness. Setting her teeth against the pain from the stinging wounds on her knees, she stood. She beat back her ridiculous concern over how terrible she looked—skin coated in grime, ponytail askew and afrizz, blood oozing from various wounds.

He stood when she did, watching her with wariness, like she might attack him. He wasn't much taller, but she was pretty tall—freakish, was the word Nate used.

"You're bleeding," he said.

"We mortals tend to do that," she muttered, not as sharply as she'd meant to. She picked twigs and grass from her scraped elbow. Her knees were both bleeding, angry-red and raw. Seeing them, somehow, made them hurt more.

She glanced up the hill to the fallen Schwinn—a long climb with injured knees.

He ran his hand through his hair. "Look, I'm . . ." Smoldering's eyes narrowed again, his head tilted. "Do I know you?"

Why was he still here? Like she didn't feel gross enough without Handsome standing there staring at her?

Nothing she could do about it now. She had to introduce herself sometime. She wiped her hand off on her shorts and held it out.

"Olli Speare," she said, looking him right in the eye, no matter how much it made her blush. Her mom had always taught her to look at a person directly when introducing herself.

His eyes were long and heavily fringed, just like his little sister's.

"You're a Speare?" His gaze raked over her, up and down.

_Not helping with the awkwardness, Handsome. Thanks._

"Yes, I'm a Speare."

Why did people keep asking her that? Okay, she had her mom's lean build, hazel eyes, and streaks of blond in her hair. But she had her father's dark honey coloring and full mouth. Still, no one seemed to recognize any of her father in her. Nate, on the other hand, was greeted by every stranger with things like, "You must be Archie's son," and "I'd know a Speare anywhere." Except they didn't seem to know her. When she told them who she was, they gave her the same look that she was getting from Tall, Dark, and Smoldering now—skepticism.

She braced herself for the next comment she was used to receiving, something about how her mom was from out-of-town and how Olli must take after _her_. _Her_ , they always said, like her mother had committed some offense by being born outside of Horizon Creek.

But Smoldering didn't make any such remark. Nor was he shaking her hand. Not that she could blame him considering the sweat and dirt. She let her hand fall.

She glanced back up the hill and then behind her.

_So awkward. Need to escape._

She could disappear into the trees—if they weren't so bug-filled and gloomy and foreboding . . . Where was the sun already?

Was it her imagination or had the drone of insects disappeared? She listened harder. No chirping, no buzzing, no crick-crick-cricking, but there was a sound . . .

"You're the one who's been watching my sister," he said as if suddenly realizing.

"Uh-huh."

. . . a sound like running water, except the river was too far away to hear, wasn't it?

She peered into the trees. The shadows between them seemed to grow darker. The sun had to rise soon, didn't it? Maybe she was about to faint. Except she didn't feel faint. She felt more alert than any sixteen-year-old had the right to be at six a.m. In fact, everything appeared ultra-crisp. As she gazed into the forest, her vision grew sharp enough to peel shadows apart. A prickle buzzed under her skin. All her aches and pains vanished.

"She said you're reading her _The Lord of the Rings—_ "

Was he still talking? She strained to hear over him . . . Was there a stream nearby?

"I don't know if your _CV_ includes working with many seven-year-olds, but don't you think she's too young—"

"Shut up," she murmured.

"What?"

Why was it so quiet? No bugs, no birds, just a weird sort of . . . whisper-whisper.

Her chest tightened around her heart.

Deep in the trees, a shadow moved.

No, it darted.

_Snap, crunch, crunch, crunch_.

Her hand slammed into Handsome's chest, pushing him away from the tree line.

He stumbled back. "Wha—"

"Get in the car." She barely heard herself. All of her attention was fixed on the trees. Her eyes searched. Her ears ached. Nothing. No movement. No whisper-whispers.

"Why?" he asked from behind her.

Clenched as tight as a fist, breath shallow and rapid, she combed the thin understory of the pine stand, hunting shadows. And then . . . it passed. The surge of adrenaline subsided, the shadows blended together again, the bugs resumed their whining concert, and all she felt was . . . stupid.
Chapter 2

**"W** ant to tell me what that was about?" he asked as they drove the remaining distance to his house.

Hugging her backpack to her chest, she continued to stare straight ahead. If she'd been uncomfortable before, she was now exploring terrible new depths of the sensation. The interior of his car was pristine, black leather with a soft sheen. At once inviting and repulsive to a girl covered in dirt and blood and sweat. But she couldn't say no when he'd offered to drive her. They were going to the same place, and she was clearly injured.

Worsening her discomfort, the shadowy confines wrapped around them like an embrace, seeming to pull them so close she feared if she moved, she'd smear blood on him. She sat as still as possible with her tatty backpack, which he'd retrieved from the basket of the Schwinn. When she'd wondered aloud if it was okay to leave the bike on the side of the road, he'd given her a strange look. "No one will take it," he'd said. "Hardly anyone comes this way except family."

True. As far as she could tell the only people who lived on this side of the bridge were his family, the Gates. She had never even passed anyone else on the road, not one of the gardeners or maids, or Peter, the family's personal chef. She supposed Smoldering had been speeding because he hadn't expected to meet anyone on the road.

"Did you see something?" he pressed.

Why was he driving so slowly now? Did he think it would make up for his speeding earlier?

"Something?" Playing dumb was all she could think to do to end the conversation.

How could she speak while drowning in embarrassment? What was wrong with her? She'd shoved him. And why? She didn't know.

When she thought about it, all she could come up with was a vague sense that she'd needed to protect him. But why and from what, she had no idea and really didn't want to linger on the subject. She made it a policy not to dwell on things she couldn't change. Nothing you can do? Then move on. That was her motto. Whatever had happened, it had been weird, and now, thankfully, it was over. If only he would let it be over.

"If you saw something, you need to tell me," he said.

"I didn't see anything," she said, except—

"Except . . ."

What was he? A mind reader?

"Except nothing," she insisted. "I fell. I must've hit my head a dozen times. I'm probably concussed. I'm sorry I pushed you. I really didn't mean to, honestly."

"It's only been a few months. These things don't always show themselves right away, ya? If you saw something, if you felt something, you need to tell me."

Did her head hurt because she'd fallen, or because she didn't understand anything Handsome had just said?

She turned towards him. "A few months since what? What things?"

He frowned, still watching the road. "You are a Speare?"

"You already asked me that. Yes, I'm a Speare. So I'm not short and burly. Do I need to wear a nametag?"

He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. "Do you know where my parents are?"

"Hope said they're on . . . What's it called? Sabbatical. Somewhere."

He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. "You're a Speare?"

She resisted the urge to shove him again. "Which one are you?" she asked.

"Which one?"

"You're one of the twins, right?"

His lips pursed, as if he found her question distasteful. "Brend."

"Brend. And the other one's Roper. Is he back home now too?"

He slid her a suspicious glance. "Yes."

"You're not identical, are you?"

"No."

"Good." She sat back fully—to hell with his upholstery.

He slowed the car to a crawl as they turned and rolled past the open iron gates to his family's house. If _house_ is a word that can be applied to a mini-palace.

Weary-looking pines stood behind the fifteen-foot-high fence, shielding the house. Three weeks ago, when Daniel, her cousin, had first circled up the driveway to the front step, she'd thought he'd been pulling a prank on her. She hadn't even believed it was a house. It looked more like a postmodern museum.

A glass dome rose above the roofline, a glittering crystal swell. The front windows were small, geometric portholes. Faced with white stone, the house was low-slung and appeared to be one long single-story building. In fact, numerous floors, visible from the back of the house, tiered down the hillside in a cascade of white boxes. She'd never seen anything quite like it.

Then, when she'd realized that Horizon Creek was much too small to have a postmodern museum, much less one of massive size, she'd thought her grandparents had been mistaken. Whoever owned this house did not want _her_ watching their kid. They could afford to send away for a proper nanny, one with a magic umbrella and a carpet bag.

That first time, she'd almost been too intimidated to ring the bell. At the moment, she couldn't wait to go inside, away from the strange tension warming her in spite of the icy air blasting out of the vents.

The car stopped behind a daisy-yellow moped belonging to the family's personal chef. The engine continued to purr, idling. The doors remained locked.

Brend slid back in his seat and faced her. He held her gaze for a few seconds. Somehow, instead of inspiring more awkwardness, his gaze chased away her discomfort. She forgot about the grime and the blood. She forgot he'd almost hit her—and still hadn't apologized. She forgot that she'd shoved him for no reason. And in those brief breaths, she felt oddly, completely, at ease. The kind of quiet comfort she hadn't yet experienced in Horizon Creek—or anywhere—but had hoped for ever since she'd learned she was moving back.

"Farren seems to like you," he said.

"I like her."

He smiled a little. "I think I like you too," he said. "Speare."

He turned off the engine, unlocked the doors, and left her sitting there, dumbfounded and seized, once more, by awkward girl feelings.

He held the doors open for her, the car door and the front door. A small courtesy she couldn't help but find charming. Stupid girl feelings.

Once they entered the foyer, the house opened up. Overhead, glass panels arched, filling with pale morning light almost as white as the sprawling marble tiles underfoot. The first time she'd seen the interior it had struck her as over-bright and austere. But over the last few weeks, she'd learned to appreciate the clean lines and white spaces. Still, she found the extreme lack of decoration odd. A few family photos hung here and there; otherwise, the walls were bare. She'd always imagined people with wealth spent money on art and vases and busts. But what did she know about how wealthy people lived? The Gateses were the first truly wealthy people she'd ever known.

For a moment, she stood inside the door, soaking in the chill of the air conditioning and the calm of the house.

A rapid _stomp, stomp, stomp_ broke her meditation.

Frazzled and bleary-eyed, even more than usual, Hope stormed up the steps from the front room into the foyer. She was supposed to be at the hospital early, which is why Olli had left before dawn, but Hope was still in her spandex workout clothes.

"Where have you been?" she shouted at Brend. "I've been up all night."

Brend hung back behind Olli's shoulder. But she wasn't feeling any desire to protect him now. She hadn't known his aunt very long, but Olli had never seen the doctor's veins pop the way they were now. Though petite, Hope was all compact muscle, like a little bulldog. When not at the hospital, she sweated away the hours on the treadmill in her room. Farren said Hope ran to clear her head, but as far as Olli could tell, it didn't seem to be working. Dr. Hope always seemed preoccupied.

"I told you where I was going," Brend said.

The vein in Hope's forehead bulged. "You didn't," she said through her teeth.

Olli sidled towards the wall, out of the line of fire. She slipped into the formal front room, edging past the ultra-modern white leather sofa and the skeletal wooden chairs. She didn't want to get blood on anything if she could help it.

Brend growled, "I'll do what I have to do."

"Brend!"

"I didn't see her, okay?"

Olli frowned over her shoulder, though she couldn't see Brend or his aunt as she passed through the wide threshold into the kitchen. Their voices dropped to angered hisses and whispers behind her. Brend and his brother must've gotten back sometime over the weekend. So they'd only been in town a couple of days at most. She wondered what he'd done in the last forty-eight hours to push Hope to this frothing state, and just who this mysterious "her" was.

As she winced her way down the steps into the kitchen, Peter shut the refrigerator door and lifted a pierced, manicured eyebrow at her.

"I hope you gave that hussy a whoopin'," he said.

She dumped her backpack on the floor and limped around the massive slab of granite that was truly big enough to be called an island, pulling herself onto one of the stools. "Huh?"

Peter leaned his thick, tattooed arms on the countertop. A field of white flowers cuffed one. The entire Looney Tunes cast graced the other. His brown eyes were warm as a teddy bear's. But he was as big as a real bear, tall and broad. His black hair was shaved on the sides. The top sculpted and highlighted.

"It means, I hope whoever did this to you looks worse than you do," he said, leaving off his Southern accent as he translated. He was the only person she'd met in Horizon Creek who sounded, even remotely, like how one might expect a Southerner to sound, but he only seemed to do it to scandalize everyone else. Farren giggled uncontrollably every time Peter said anything in his Southern drawl.

"I didn't get into a fight," she said. "I fell."

He tapped his phone screen rapidly as she spoke.

"Fell?" he said, finally setting aside the phone with a roll of his eyes. "Honey-pie, that is not a Speare-worthy story." He bent, opened a cabinet, and came back up with a first aid kit. "You have to take care of that yourself," he said, pushing the white box across the dark stone towards her. "I do not do blood."

"You're a chef," she said, taking the kit.

"Human blood," he amended. "Did you fall off that disaster you call a bicycle?" He picked up his phone again. Before she could answer, he said, "I'm making a grocery list if you think of anything." He eyed her with a grin. "You've been putting on weight in all the right places since you've been getting fed proper."

She ripped open a disposable alcohol package. "Aren't you gay?"

"Yes, gay, not blind." He winked.

Her cheeks flushed.

A thud, like a door slamming, or being kicked, made her jump and drained the warmth from her.

Brend shouted. "She should've said something! She—she shouldn't have done it!"

"Keep your voice down!"

Peter tsked, shaking his head and crossing his arm over his blinding-white chef's coat, while his thumb moved over the screen of his phone. "That boy . . ."

"What did he do?" She sucked air through her teeth as she dabbed at her scraped arms with the alcohol pad.

Peter's cheeks drew in. "Did you meet him?"

"Yes. He's the reason I fell." She grimaced. As the alcohol sting tingled up her arm, little sparks of pain popped across the back of her neck.

"The reason you fell?" Peter repeated with a widening grin, a mischievous glint in his eye.

She frowned. "Why are you smiling?"

He straightened his mouth. "No reason. But I don't guess it's every day that our young Master Brend finds himself a long-legged, green-eyed vixen come home 'cross the river, and a Speare to boot."

She laughed. "I'm not a vixen."

He leaned on the counter again, dropping his voice to confidential levels. "Darling, you have a complexion like my browned butter frosting, a figure that just keeps getting better, and a face that, as my Grammy would say, 'Would break open the gates.' Put your books down once in a while and take a good look in the mirror, because I can promise you that _that_ boy"—he pointed in the direction of the foyer—"sees everything I do, plus some. And he is drama that one, so you better prepare yourself. Besides, you're already bleedin'. So it is too late for you, missy."

Before Ollie could ask him what he meant, a shrill pixie voice interrupted.

"Olli! What happened?" Her bare feet slapped the tile. Her long black hair flew behind her, bed-tangled. "Oh my guards!" She covered her Cupid's bow mouth, her doe eyes widening as she took in Olli's dirt-and-blood smeared body. Peter could say what he wanted, but the way Farren looked at her made her feel like a corpse who'd just clawed her way out of a fresh grave.

"It's all right, really," Olli said to her, but her outburst had drawn Hope from the foyer.

"Farren, what is wrong?" she asked.

Farren pointed, causing the ruffles of her violet nightgown to swing around her. "Look at Olli! She's hurt!"

Hope finally seemed to see Olli. The bulging vein and boiling sheen over her eyes vanished, replaced once again by that cool, professional façade that was always a bit elsewhere. "Oh, Olli . . ." Hope hurried to Olli.

Brend appeared in the threshold. He scowled at Hope's back. Hard edges of anger framed his face, along with his shoulder-length hair. He met Olli's gaze and—maybe it was just her imagination—some of the hardness seemed to relent.

Peter let out a soft _um-hmm_ and tucked his phone in the pocket of his loose chef's pants. He winked at Olli, who only then realized that she was as warm as browned butter. "Bring down the Gates, girl."

"What's that, Peter?" Hope asked as she picked through the first aid kit.

"Nothing, Dr. Hope," he said, resuming his drawl. "I'll be back by later. Have a good day y'all." He scooped up his white helmet dotted with yellow daises and headed towards the front door. As he passed Brend, Olli swore she heard him say,

"Like browned butter frosting."

Whether he did or not, Olli's face burned. Hope snapped on some gloves from the first aid kid and set about cleaning and disinfecting Olli's wounds. Farren hopped up onto the stool next to Olli's.

"What happened?" Hope asked a few moments later.

"I was almost hit by a car," Olli explained.

"My car," Brend offered from the opposite side of the kitchen island, where he'd made a French press coffee while Olli grimaced and sucked sharp breaths under Hope's disinfecting ministrations. Farren and Hope stared at him.

"Your car?" Hope repeated.

"You hit Olli!" Farren's round cheeks flared pink.

"Only almost." Olli smiled thinly at him.

He raised his eyebrows as if to say, _Oh, is that how you want it?_ But too quickly dark shadows swallowed the glint in his eyes. "Something happened afterwards."

"What happened?" Farren asked.

He took a sip of coffee and then said softly, "Olli saw something."

Olli scowled at him. "No, I didn't."

"It scared her," he said, not only like she wasn't there, but also like it was fact and not something she'd imagined. Why was he telling them about this? Did he want them to think she was crazy? Hope would probably make her go to the hospital for a CT scan and a psychiatric evaluation. "She tried to protect me from it," he added.

"From what?" Farren asked in a tiny voice.

"You did?" Hope said, giving Olli an odd look. Odd only because she didn't seem to think the incident called for lengthy medical testing.

"Nothing. No," Olli insisted, shaking her head.

"Yes, she did," the handsome jerk contradicted.

"What was it?" Farren demanded, slapping her hand on the counter, looking from Olli to Brend and back. When neither of them answered, she recoiled. A worried line creased her brow.

Olli touched Farren's knee gently. "It was nothing."

This time Brend didn't argue. His eyes stayed on Hope. "What's going on?"

Hope's broad face tightened. "Later."

"Why doesn't she know?"

His tone even caused Olli to pull back for a moment. She couldn't imagine speaking to any of the adults in her world the way he spoke to his aunt—like _he_ was the adult.

"Not now," Hope sighed, dropping the last of the bloodied pads into the garbage.

In spite of the returned tension, Olli had to ask, "What don't I know?"

Farren chewed her lip, kicking her legs faster and faster.

Brend continued to frown at Hope. Hope tore open a bandage to place on Olli's forearm, though the bleeding had already stopped.

"Wait." Olli laid her hand on Hope's arm. "What don't I know?"

"We're not supposed to tell you," Farren blurted out, clapping her hand over her mouth even as the last word left it. Hope shot her a warning look.

"Why not?" Brend asked again.

"I said later," Hope growled.

"Why—"

"She's not from here," Hope said.

"Who decided that?" he demanded.

"That's not your concern."

"Yes, it is," he said. "You should've seen her—"

Olli stiffened. "What does that mean?"

Hope leaned over the counter, blocking Farren from Olli's view, to point a finger at Brend. "Booker made a promise."

Brend leaned in too, apparently unthreatened by his aunt's sharp gesture. "She's a Speare. She tried to protect me. You know what that—"

"I don't know anything and neither do you." Hope's hand and voice dropped, but she was no less threatening. "It's not your place to question Booker. Besides,"—she stripped her gloves off and tossed them into the trash—"it's been three months. I'm sure it was nothing. It would be better if you forget about it."

"Hello. I'm still here, remember?" Olli interjected, head reeling as she tried to make sense of the conversation. "Want to fill me in?"

"It's not better," he said. "What if something happens? What if—"

"What if the Dowager finds out?" Hope's question chilled the room. Even Farren, who seemed to be in perpetual motion, froze.

"No, she can't," Farren squeaked. She looked a Brend, pleading. "Don't let her take Olli."

"Take me?" Olli asked. "What does that mean?" Again, she was ignored.

"I won't," Brend said to Farren, softly. Then he turned to Hope. "I know what I saw." He dumped his coffee in the sink, clunked his cup down on the counter, and stormed to the glass wall overlooking the pool. He yanked open the patio door. "I'm going to talk to Booker."

"Brend! It's not going to change anything!" Hope hurried after him.

Before Olli could say anything, Farren jumped down from her stool and ran through the adjoining family room. She darted around the leather sectional, hands over her ears.

"I have to use the toilet! Don't ask me any questions!"
Chapter 3

**B** rend flopped onto the teak lounger next to her.

Overhead, clouds puddled in a flame-blue sky. The air smelled baked and chlorinated. Under the umbrella, it was almost cool. Beyond the pool, down the hillside, past the fence, the trees—so green they looked wet to the touch—were pocked by shadows. No matter how many times she forced her eyes back to the page in front of her, they kept wandering back to those distant dark patches—searching.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he said.

She dropped her book into her lap. "You mean for contradicting me in front of your aunt? I told you I didn't see—"

"Olli! Olli! Watch this!" Farren called as she took yet another graceful dive from the end of the spring board.

"Good form, Farren!" Brend called when she surfaced.

A grin spread over Farren's face. She sank back under the water.

He slid to the edge of his chair, so his knees touched Olli's lounger. A sudden intense expression overtook his face.

"I meant I'm sorry for almost hitting you and for making you fall. It was an accident. My mind was elsewhere . . . but I should've been paying more attention. Friends?"

He held out his hand, finally offering to shake hers, like he should've done back on the road. For a second, she considered leaving him hanging the way that he'd done to her, but she wasn't much for holding grudges or for petty vindictiveness. Besides, he seemed sincere.

She put her hand into his.

He turned the back of her hand up and brushed his lips against her skin.

She attempted to cap the heat-gush flooding up her arm, but it was useless. If anyone else had kissed the back of her hand she probably would've screamed for the nearest cop, but somehow, he made it seem chivalrous and gentlemanly and sweet.

Slowly, she withdrew her hand from his, glad she'd washed the dirt and grit off. She'd gone ahead and changed too. She always brought an extra set of clothes just in case. Not that she had many to bring.

"Okay," she said when her voice came back to her. "Now that we're friends, how about telling me what you and Hope were talking about earlier?"

He watched Farren rising and diving, rising and diving. "Tell me what you saw in the woods."

"I didn't see anything." Annoyance rising. "Why don't you believe me?"

"Because you thought you saw something."

She threw her hands up in the air. "Fine, yes. I _thought_ I saw something. So what? It doesn't mean something was actually out there." She twisted her ponytail around her hand. "And even if there was, it was probably a deer or a boar or an armadillo or whatever. I'm from the city." She flung her hair back over her shoulder. "What do I know about all the weird animals around here?"

He reclined and slid his hands behind his head. His face sank past her shoulder, forcing her to turn to see him. He closed his eyes. "And when you saw this weird animal, what was your first instinct?"

"Club you over the head and leave you for dead . . . Wait, what was the question?"

He smiled.

Annoyance diving.

"You're cute when you're annoyed," he said.

Rising. "You can't even see me."

"I'm seeing you."

_Stay focused. Not at all flustered._

How could he get away with saying things like that? And why, instead of making her want to hit him, did it make her stomach all knotty? She liked nice, normal, level-headed guys, not brooding, arrogant, rich boys. Yet reminding herself of this did not make the feelings go away.

"You're avoiding my question," she said, refocusing. "Why were you and Hope fighting? What don't I know? Did you see something in the woods?"

His smile faded. "No, I didn't." His broad chest rose and fell heavily.

How could he stand to wear such a dark T-shirt in this heat? All she wore was a tank top and shorts, and she was sweating through the cotton. So much for clean clothes.

"I wish I could tell you, Speare. I really do, but I can't. My brother made a promise. We change our name to Mum for the new girl."

"A promise about what? What am I not supposed to know?"

"Don't tell her!" Farren popped up, big eyes peering over the edge of the pool. She sank lower when Olli shot her an irritated look. "Sorry, Olli. But we promised."

"Booker promised," he said.

"It's the same thing," Farren said.

He propped himself up on his elbows. "I know what a promise is."

Farren's head sank, but the water rippled where she bobbed, just out-of-sight.

"I also know what it isn't." He snagged _The Hobbit_ from Olli's lap, glanced at the cover, and then tossed it over his shoulder. The paperback somersaulted and then plunked onto the concrete behind them.

She shot up. "Hey!"

"Don't waste your time." He leaned back again. "Try local history instead."

"Sounds boring." She retrieved the book. Thankfully, the pages weren't bent. "That was rude."

"Forget the book, Speare. It's not important."

"Maybe not to you, but my dad—" She bit her lip, running her hand over the cover. It wasn't her dad's. She knew that. She'd heard people say songs and smells triggered memories. But she didn't have melodies or scents. All she had was the knowledge her dad had loved Tolkien. She didn't even remember how she'd come by it, since her mom never talked about him. But when grief-time came around, the books were there. They were always there.

When she looked up, Brend was watching her.

"Sorry again," he murmured.

She scowled down at the book. She wanted to scowl at him, but couldn't bring herself to do it. He was right. The book wasn't important. Books could be replaced.

"How old were you?" he asked softly. "When he died?"

She rolled her shoulders back. "Four."

He gazed down at his boots. "Do you remember how he died?"

"Brend!" Farren popped up again, dripping and distressed.

He ignored her.

"In a car accident," Olli said.

"That's what they told you."

"Yeah . . ."

His eyes were so dark and so full on her, she almost couldn't hold his gaze—it was too much. "Do you believe everything you're told?"

Sweat wove a web down her spine. "You're saying that's not how he died?"

"I didn't say it." He glanced over at Farren, who was chewing her lip into a red crumple. "Did I?"

Farren looked up like she expected an answer from heaven, or like she expected heaven to come crashing down.

Olli's mind cranked, slower than her legs pedaling up a hill. "If he didn't die in a car accident, then how did he die?"

He slipped his phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen for a long moment. He turned it over, seeming to study the back, and then turned it over again. And again. "Do you remember what your dad did when he lived here?"

"He cooked at the diner, Olli's. That's where he met my mom. That's how I got my name."

His gaze lifted towards the guest house. No doubt, the eldest Gates brother, Booker, was somewhere inside. Olli had only seen him in the main house once—that first day when he and Hope had greeted her and kept a discreet eye on her as she interacted with Farren. Actually, Booker had mostly kept his eyes on his book. He'd spent the whole morning hunched over the same fat tome, rubbing at his forearm absent-mindedly like an addict. She hadn't ruled out the possibility he might have a drug problem. He was gaunt and clearly exhausted. But then everyone in the Gates family had the bruised eyes of sleeplessness. The shadows under Brend's eyes were so dark they cast their own shadows.

"Maybe your dad did that," Brend said. "But your grandparents both work for the Dowager . . . my grandmother, don't they? And your cousin too."

"Your grandmother?" Olli asked. "I thought she was Hope's grandmother, wouldn't that make her your great-grandmother? How old is she?"

"She's old," he said.

"And why does everyone call her the Dowager?"

"What do your grandparents call her?"

"Lady Gates, or the Lady. I figured it was a Southern thing. Like how everyone says guards, instead of god. Isn't that why they do it? But isn't dowager like a formal title—?"

"It's just a fancy name for someone who used to be important," he said, mood darkening further. "From another world," he muttered. "But we're here and now, Olli. That's all we have, right? The present? Otherwise, the past, the future . . . some things can't be changed. Like who the Dowager was . . . before." His hand clenched around his phone, the knuckles straining against the skin.

Then she remembered what Hope had said about the Dowager, and Farren's fear that Olli would be taken. Though Olli hadn't understood what either of them had meant, their conversation had chilled her. In spite of the sizzling morning heat, the chill returned.

"All that matters about the past is what it can tell us about the present," he said. "How it can help us figure out what to do in this moment. This moment is it. There might not be another one." He took a deep breath. "So, let's think about our present circumstance. Everyone in your family works for my family,"—he glanced back up at her—"even you."

Farren whimpered, peeping over the edge of the pool at them.

"I'm not saying anything that Olli doesn't know," he said to his sister without ever taking his too-much gaze off of Olli. "Isn't that right?"

True. Except it wasn't. A throbbing pressure swelled in her head. What was he getting at? She felt like a traveler, lost in a foreign country where she didn't know the language. Brend was trying to point her towards . . . something, but what? Why was her heart hammering erratically, pounding out a Morse code message as indecipherable to her as Brend's mysterious hints? And why did her eyes keep tracking back to the distant woods—not because she feared seeing some flicker of movement again, but because she wanted to see it. She wanted to chase it down and force it to show itself.

"Everyone in my family works for your family," she repeated.

She hadn't thought much about it. The Gateses were _the_ family in town. They owned, or had once owned, just about everything. Their name was everywhere, from the blackened ruins of the old mill to the imposing white halls at the college. Most people probably worked for them one way or the other.

"So . . . are you saying that my father worked for your family? You don't mean at the diner, do you?"

"I didn't say anything," he said. "This morning, when you _thought_ you saw something, you told me to get back in the car. You actually pushed me—"

"I told you I didn't mean to—"

He shook his head. "It's okay. I'm glad you did. Otherwise, we wouldn't have known the truth."

"And what's that?"

He smiled, but shadowy flickers prowled beneath the surface, sapping it. She wanted to seize those shadows and make them disappear.

"You were trying to protect me," he said.

Her voice tangled up in her throat. She gripped the book, like she could squeeze some words out of it that would help her make sense of this situation. But none came.

Crazy. But true. She had been trying to protect him. But why? And from what?

His thumb slid over the screen of his phone like he meant to call someone.

"Wild party?" Roper loped out of the house with a towel around his bare shoulders and an easy grin on his face.

The twins were not at all identical, and they couldn't have given off any more different first impressions. Taller and leaner and smiling, Roper approached her with his hand out.

"You must be Olli," he said. "Great to finally meet you." He tossed his heavy bangs away from his eyes. His hair was lighter and thicker than his brother's.

She shook his hand, thoughts grinding as she tried to switch gears from puzzle-piecing to polite-greeting.

Roper didn't seem bothered by her floundering for a response. He tossed his towel onto the back of the nearest chair. "Farren says you're the best."

"I do!" Farren bounced up from the water, apparently happy for Roper's interruption.

"You must be glad to be home," she managed to say finally.

"Sure. You as well?"

She stared at him for a moment. "Oh, you mean, Horizon Creek."

He sat on the edge of a deck chair, slipping off his sandals and taking his phone out of the pocket of his swim trunks.

"Chelle said that you don't look like a Speare."

He squinted up at her, giving her a quick look over, but his didn't inspire any of the feelings Brend's had—not the awkward or the ease-inspiring ones.

"You look like a Speare to me," he said.

She managed a smile. "You know Chelle?"

"He's stalking her," Brend muttered, his back to his brother.

Olli frowned at him. "Chelle seems really nice."

A few years older than Olli, Chelle taught Farren's ballet class and worked at the local coffee shop. Olli had chatted with her a couple of times. Chelle had cheerfully complained about her lack of a boyfriend and had asked Olli to see a cheesy romantic comedy with her sometime. Olli considered that a good step towards a new friendship. No one else she'd met had said much of anything to her, let alone acted like they might want to be friends.

"Please don't encourage my brother's ill-conceived pursuit of that soulless nymph," Brend grumbled.

She lunged forward and smacked him on the shoulder with her book. He swiped at her wrist, like he might grab it, but she pulled back too quickly for him to get hold.

"Forgive my brother," Roper said, standing up. "He will say whatever he thinks, no matter how tactless, impolite, or vulgar."

"If the truth makes you uncomfortable, Brother, that's hardly my fault." Brend said, back still to Roper.

Again, the tension reappeared. Maybe it had never fully vanished. Was it Brend who made everyone tense, or something else?

"You don't have sole propriety over the truth, _Brother_ ," Roper stated, his eyes distant for a moment. Then he tossed a grin back at Olli. "Welcome back, Speare." He bounded forward, shouting, "Cannonball!"

Farren squealed and scrambled out of the way as he plunged into the pool. Water _splooshed_ upwards. Chlorine-scented droplets pattered over Olli's head. She wiped them, along with the sweat, from her face.

Just as she was turning to Brend to continue questioning him, he whipped his phone across the courtyard. It cracked against the door of the guest house, shattering. Bits of metal and plastic exploded and skittered across the concrete.

The splashing in the pool stopped as Brend surged up. Olli stared at the wreckage of his phone scattered on the pavement. Her first thought was Farren might cut herself on the shards of glass and metal. Her second thought was how only a rich kid would destroy a device worth hundreds of dollars for no apparent reason. Her third thought was cut off in mid-formation when Brend took her hand.

"Repeat this sentence for me, Olli Speare protects Brend Gates."

She struggled to get her tongue to move. "Uh . . ."

"Except take out the first names."

She blinked, trying to focus on what he was saying and not how his thumb traced over hers. Finally, she fumbled the words together. "Speare protects Gates."

He leaned in. "Getting warmer." He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. "And no promises broken."
Chapter 4

**S** he didn't see the Gates brothers again for most of the day. Brend had disappeared right after kissing her hand for the second time, leaving her flooded with tingling confusion. Roper had vanished after Olli had called Farren inside for lunch. And she never really saw Booker. Farren said he was studying for his law exam. Olli didn't know if she believed it; she didn't know what to believe anymore.

As much as she wanted the truth, she couldn't bring herself to press Farren for information. Interrogating a seven-year-old felt wrong. To her credit, Farren did her best to keep Olli distracted. Whenever a second of silence ticked by, Farren found something to chatter about. They ate, played games, read, and then it was back to the pool as the afternoon shadows began to stretch. While Farren pretended to be a dolphin, Olli called her cousin, Daniel. Leaving a message, she asked him to pick her up on his way home. The few times she'd called him, he'd never answered. He, like her grandparents, spent all of his time at Lady Gates's house.

After leaving the message, she placed the cell phone carefully back into her bag, glad it hadn't been damaged when the bike had fallen.

She'd had a phone before, but when her mom lost her job, the phones went first. Olli didn't care much. Nate, on the other hand, threw a fit. When Hope had learned Olli didn't have a phone, she'd insisted on buying her one. Olli understood wanting a phone for emergencies, but this one was more a mini-computer than a phone. The computer Olli had grown up with spent more time frozen than working, and she'd shared that with her mom and Nate. Now, she had one that fit in her pocket. Mostly, it sat untouched in her backpack.

"Five more minutes, Farren!" Olli called. She grimaced as she pushed out of the lounger. Over the course of the day, her knees had stiffened. Every time she tried to bend them, they sent biting reminders of her wounds.

"Fifteen!" Farren called.

"Ten!" Olli hobbled back towards the patio doors.

"Okay, Speare!"

Olli rolled her eyes. Was everyone going to call her that now?

Back inside, she filled a bowl with fruit and pulled the yogurt out of the glass-fronted refrigerator. In the quiet cool of the house, without Farren to distract her, her mind began to work.

Whether or not she'd actually seen something in the woods, she _had_ been possessed by the urge to protect Brend.

Possessed.

That's what it felt like. As though someone else had seized hold of her, forcing her to say and do things she couldn't explain—like push him and order him back to the car. Two connected mysteries. What had she seen in the woods, if anything? And why had she reacted by shoving Brend?

Then there was Booker's promise not to tell her . . . something. Apparently, his promise applied to everyone in the family. No one was allowed to tell her the big secret. But what was it?

Finally, and most disconcerting, was what Brend had said about her dad's death. If her dad hadn't died the way she'd been told, then how had he died? Had her mom lied to her? Or had her mom been lied to first? Was it possible her mom didn't know the truth? Olli was tempted to call her, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. She'd just talked to her mom the night before, and for the first time since her mom had moved to Atlanta, she'd sounded happy.

Her mom hadn't wanted to send them to Horizon Creek, but she was broke. She'd been looking for work for over a year, ever since she'd been laid off from the HR department at the bank. They'd burned through their savings in six months. Bills weren't paid. Food came less and less. They'd lost the townhouse, and then they couldn't pay the rent on their crappy apartment. They'd been living in the mini-van for a couple weeks, her mom scraping up cash working as a clerk at a grocery store. So when her mom had received her acceptance into a radiology tech training program in Atlanta, they'd all been excited and relieved. But the only way she could afford it was to move in with her sister, and Aunt Genie lived in a one bedroom condo.

Nate had already been angry, and the news that they had to move in with their grandparents had only made him angrier. The words "hicks" and "middle-of-nowhere" had been repeated along with a lot of profanity. But Olli hadn't fought. She knew how difficult the decision had been for their mom.

Nate had only been a baby, but Olli recalled the screaming arguments her mom had with their grandparents. After her dad's death, her grandparents had wanted custody. Her mom had taken her and Nate as far away as she could. She'd only allowed phone calls on birthdays and holidays. As far as Olli knew, her grandparents had never pursued any real legal action. Still, her mom had never forgiven Mam and Pap for even suggesting it.

But circumstances had changed. Her mom didn't have any family that could take them. And hard as it was to be away from her mom, Olli understood. In fact, she'd been excited to come back to Horizon Creek.

She'd never quite felt like she'd fit in back home. She'd had friends, and even a couple of casual boyfriends, but people had always accused her of being distant, too serious, and lost in her own head. But to her, it always seemed like they were the ones living in fantasy worlds. School, sports, dating, dances; she'd done them all and had never felt as though she was really ever a part of any of it. She'd never felt as though she belonged, as if it were all a big masquerade. And at any moment, everyone would take off their masks, and she'd see who they really were . . . who she really was.

Then everything had fallen apart, and she'd had to switch schools, and she hadn't really missed any of her old friends. When her mom had told them they'd be moving back to Horizon Creek, while Nate had sworn and fought, Olli had grown hopeful. Maybe she just hadn't found where she fit. She'd hoped that by coming back to the town where she was born, where her father had lived, where her family still lived, she might finally find some sense of belonging. That is, until she'd arrived. While Nate was welcomed back like a returning soldier, most people greeted her like a hotel guest—with polite disinterest. She didn't seem to fit in Horizon Creek any more than she had back home.

She hadn't told her mom about her disappointment. If her mom was loosening the chains of gloom she'd been dragging around the last year, Olli didn't want to weigh her down with worry again. To call her mom now and bring up her dad's death . . . she couldn't do that. Besides, she had a feeling her mom didn't have the answers anyway, which brought her back to the questions of the big secret and the promise and her father's death.

"You look worried," Brend said, shuffling through the family room that adjoined the kitchen. He yawned as he finger-combed his shoulder-length hair back from his face and secured it in a loose ponytail.

She plunked the yogurt covered spoon into the bowl. "You almost kill me and then you nap all day?"

He pulled out a wrought-iron stool and plopped down, flashing a grin. "I had the most incredible dreams. Want to hear about them?"

Heat flooded her face. "No."

He reached for the bowl of fruit. She snatched it away. He gave her a truly pathetic look, and she grudgingly pushed it back at him, returning to the fridge.

"You're annoyed again," he said.

"You're a genius." She pulled out the cartons of berries and a wedge of muskmelon. She plunked them down on the counter. He had already devoured everything in the bowl. She pulled the cutting board from the dishwasher and dropped it on the counter. "Who asked Booker to make this big promise?"

He grabbed the bottle of water off the counter, heedless of the fact that it was half-drunk and hers, and gulped it down.

Before he could reply, the doorbell rang.

He slid off the stool and disappeared up the steps into the hall. Olli pulled a knife from the block and started carving the last of the melon. The deep orange fruit gave off a pungent aroma that reminded Olli of Nate's dirty socks, but Farren loved it. She ate nothing but fruit and cereal. Olli wondered when Peter would be back. She'd have to tell him to pick up more melon on his next shopping trip.

"What are you doing here?" she heard Brend say. She put the knife down.

"Picking up my cousin." Daniel's voice matched Brend's on the hostility-meter: somewhere around barely-restrained-fist-fight. "She called me, Your Royal Highness."

Before Olli had the chance to hobble to the door, Brend reappeared with Daniel close behind him, shorter, darker, bulkier. She guessed Daniel was cute in a rough country way. Chelle said that he had a "roguish reputation." Olli had laughed. Some people in Horizon Creek had the strangest way of speaking, like they'd been watching too many old period-piece dramas. Nate had been the one who'd pointed out that no one spoke with a Southern accent. They did have an accent, though it was subtle and nothing like she'd heard anywhere else.

"Did you call him?" Brend returned to the opposite side of the counter, frowning at her.

"I—"

"I would've given you a ride," he said.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that." Daniel ambled down the steps, his steel toe boots scuffing the tile. "You wouldn't have any untoward ideas about my young cousin, would you, sir?"

Brend sat down with a cool smile. "What if I do? What are you going to do about it, Speare?"

Daniel's smile sharpened.

"Whoa." She held up her hands. "Clearly, you two have issues, and I don't want to be a part of them. My day has been weird enough."

"Weird?" Daniel finally looked at her for longer than a second. That might've been a first. "What happened to you?" He inspected her face, which sported a few small cuts from her fall. She shied under his scrutiny.

When she'd been younger, she'd admired Daniel like an older brother. She'd wanted to do everything he did. He'd been good to her then; she remembered that more than anything about her early years in Horizon Creek. Though five years older, he'd never been annoyed by her following him everywhere. But since she'd come back, he hadn't shown any interest in her.

"I fell," she said. "That's why I need a ride. Mam's bike is still on the road. I had to leave it."

"Fell?" Daniel looked at her like he didn't know what the word meant. Of course, being the once-gifted athlete, he probably didn't fall over very often. He'd had football scholarship offers from all over the country, but he'd injured his knee senior year and hadn't been able to play anymore. He seemed to have recovered though, since he spent most of his free time at the gym. He'd appeared pretty disappointed when she'd first arrived and reported that she no longer played sports and didn't particularly miss her volleyball or basketball days. She'd been good enough, but had never really felt like she was a part of the team, as if all the girls had gone to an extra practice on how to bond as teammates that she'd missed.

"I must've hit a rock or something," she muttered.

She knew he'd think she was even a bigger reject for falling off of her bike, but she decided not to mention Brend was the reason she'd crashed. Brend didn't offer the information either.

She changed the subject.

"You're early. Hope's not home yet."

"Don't bother, I can watch Farren," Brend said, filling the air with frost.

Daniel seemed unperturbed by Brend's icy demeanor. "Well, we wouldn't want to keep your from your duties, Your Royal Highness. What is it you do again? Maybe I should ask your parents. Can you give me their number? I'd love to call them."

Brend shot up, knocking the stool back. The metal clanged against the tile. Daniel squared off with him. Fortunately a sizable slab of granite lay between them.

"What are _you_ going to do, sir?" Daniel said, teeth bared.

Brend's fists curled. Daniel was shorter, but the muscles under his navy blue T-shirt showed like he wasn't wearing a shirt at all. Olli didn't doubt that he could hurt Brend—badly.

She threw her arm out in front of Daniel, like she could prevent him from doing anything. Next to his swollen biceps her arm looked like a twig begging to be snapped.

"Stop." She gave Brend a hard look. "Both of you."

Brend continued to glower. "Let's discuss parents, Danny. Maybe we should talk about yours. Or Olli's father—"

"Go ahead. I'd love to see your big mouth finally bite your high and mighty ass, sir."

"What's going on here?" Booker's usually soft voice was hard. He stood just inside the doors. Farren cowered behind him, clutching her towel around her, dripping water onto the floor.

Daniel stepped back. Although Booker was even less of a threat than Brend, being shorter and skinnier and looking as though he hadn't slept for a week, Daniel bowed his head as Booker came towards him. Farren trailed behind Booker like a wet puppy.

"Why have you come, Speare? Did _she_ send you?"

"I came for my cousin. She needed a ride, Your—"

"I think we can do without, considering." Booker's eyes settled on Olli. Their pale brown hue seemed washed-out, like they'd been exposed to too much light for too long. "You'd better go with your cousin, Olli."

Olli nodded and gathered her backpack. She gave Farren a tight smile. Brend caught her eye, stalling her. Daniel muttered something, hooked her elbow, and dragged her out of the house. 
Chapter 5

**W** hen Daniel hopped out of the truck to retrieve the Schwinn, Olli turned off his thundering heavy metal music.

After tossing the bike into the bed, he jumped back into the cab, scowling. "What do you think you're doing?" He reached for the stereo. "Don't you know not to touch a man's radio?"

She seized his thick forearm. "I want to talk to you." Her palms sweated, in spite of the blasting air conditioning.

"If you weren't my cousin, and a girl, I'd knock you flat on your—"

She let go of his arm. "How did my dad die?"

"What kind of question is that? You know how." He jammed the truck into gear and hit the gas pedal, racing down the hill faster than Brend had raced up it. Even though his truck looked built to run smaller cars off the road, he usually drove it like an old lady.

She clung to the handle above the door. "Do I?"

He leaned back. His tone turned cool. "Why would you think any different? Did someone say something about your dad?"

She hesitated, knowing that by "someone" he meant Brend. And that if she told him why she was asking, she risked putting Daniel and Brend at even greater odds. It made her wonder where their antagonism had started, but she had enough mysteries on her hands at the moment.

"I don't really remember him, that's all," she said finally.

He slowed as they crossed the bridge. Pea-green girders flashed by, framing the sluggish river in rust-spotted triangles. She didn't know if the bridge or the river had proper names. Everyone just called them _the_ bridge and _the_ river, like there weren't any others in the world.

"He died the same way he lived," Daniel said, "with honor."

"How is dying in a car accident honorable?"

The truck growled as he sped up the hill towards town.

"What do they need a babysitter for with the princelings back in town?" he muttered. "I ought to talk to Pap."

About to accuse him of avoiding her questions the same way Brend had, it hit her. Of course, he was avoiding her questions. He'd probably made the same promise as Booker. Or if he hadn't, he knew about it. Because who else would care what she knew and didn't know? Who would lie to her about her father's death? Who were the only people in town who'd given her a second thought at all?

Mam and Pap.

An avalanche swallowed her in that moment, biting into her with jagged-ice teeth and sweeping her into a cold airless hole. Had her grandparents lied about her father's death—to her, to Nate, possibly her mom? Why? It should've been obvious as soon as Brend had hinted her father hadn't died the way she'd thought, but she'd been too overwhelmed by everything, by him, that she hadn't realized what it meant.

"Are you getting out?" Daniel barked. "I'm going to the gym."

She blinked. The truck idled behind their grandparents' house.

The brick ranch sprawled along the crest of the hill. The backyard overlooked the bridge and the river and the forest beyond.

She pushed open the door. Heat rushed in, wrapping its sweaty arms around her. She glanced back at Daniel. His dark eyes slid over and met hers.

_I'm going to find what you're hiding_ , she wanted to say, _and then I'm going to bash you over the head with it._

Instead, she smiled. "Thanks for the ride."

"Any time."

Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Her grandparents were still at work. Always early and often late, they never took a day off as far as she could tell. They'd already been gone before she'd set out earlier that day.

The kitchen opened into the living room, off of which branched a four-season porch that had been converted into Nate's bedroom. Heavy curtains hung over the French doors.

She set her bag on the kitchen table and went to the doors. Fist raised, she hesitated. She and Nate hadn't been on very good terms lately. He'd been cultivating a bad attitude for a couple of years, but this last year, with all of the stress, he'd finally perfected it.

On a daily basis he'd made their mom cry, calling her names and accusing her of being selfish and terrible. He'd been suspended three times for fighting. He'd been thrown out of a friend's party after destroying a TV (which their mom had paid for, which meant they ate at the shelter every day for two weeks). Olli had been sure that moving to Horizon Creek would only escalate his bad behavior, but she rarely saw or heard from him. He seemed to spend all of his time in his room.

She knocked on the glass. "Nate?"

When he didn't answer, she turned the handle and peeked in. Her nose wrinkled. The lingering stink of over-used body spray couldn't cover the funk of teenaged boy. For a former sunroom, the porch was dark—cave-like. A lump of blankets occupied the futon, but she couldn't tell if Nate was among them. "Nate?"

The blankets shifted and a muffled grunt issued from within them.

"Are you awake?" she asked.

"No."

"Can I talk to you?"

"Isn't that what you're doing?"

She ground her teeth. "It's important."

Nate threw back the covers. She could barely make him out from the shadows. "What?"

"It's about Dad," she said, trying not to be annoyed—and not succeeding.

"What about him?" Nate's voice was flat. He seemed to be talking to the ceiling.

"I don't think he died in a car accident."

Nate propped himself up on his elbows, his big eyes owlish. "Are you smoking something?"

"I think, maybe, there's more to it."

"Like what?"

"I don't know . . ."

Nate dropped back. "You don't know anything. Why do you think there's some mystery? Car accident. Bam!" He smacked his hands together. "Pretty obvious."

She flinched. "Someone said something—"

"Someone said something," he parroted like it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

"A guy I met. He said that Dad didn't die the way we were told," she said, straining not to leap onto the bed and pummel him.

"Oh, I see. A guy you met. Did he tell you to meet him on a deserted road at midnight to hear the rest of the story? Was his name Deepthroat?"

"Nate, I'm serious."

"Okay, Nancy Drew."

"Nate—"

"Look, I don't care! Dad's dead. What does it matter how it happened?" He yanked the blankets back over his head.

"Something's going on and . . . it's weird and . . ." Her tongue tangled in her mouth. She gave the door a sharp tug, letting it bang shut, rattling the glass.

She stalked over to the kitchen table and emptied her backpack. Why did she think she could talk to Nate anyway?

Because she needed to talk to someone. Her grandparents were the next obvious choice, but if they really were keeping some secret, if they had made Booker promise to keep her in the dark about it, they wouldn't just spill it if she asked.

She pulled her cell phone from her bag. A sudden sympathy overcame her for Brend and his phone-smashing incident.

She'd met plenty of people, but outside of the Gateses and her own family, she had only one local number in her contact list.

Before she could think about it too long, she called.

Three rings later, a melodic voice answered, "Hello?"

"Chelle, it's Olli."

"How are you? How lovely you called."

"I'm okay, I guess. I was wondering"—she twisted her hair around her hand—"do you know anything about my father's death?"

A long pause followed her question.

"Might we meet?" Chelle finally asked.

Olli looked down at her bandaged knees. "I'm not very mobile at the moment. I fell—"

"Let me come for you."

"Sure, okay."

"Ten minutes."

Olli hung up. She slid her phone into her pocket and glanced over at the French doors. "Pretty obvious there's no mystery."
Chapter 6

**C** helle's hatchback shuddered when she shifted.

She offered Olli a warm smile. "I knew that you weren't, strictly, a Speare. I had no idea they were treating you as if you were from the other side of the river." Her lips pursed. "Not that they would tell me." She lifted a slender shoulder. "Their mistake."

Olli's heart jumped around like a jack rabbit. "Not tell you what? Do you know how my father died?"

Chelle's fingers brushed Olli's arm. "Let's not rush, my lovely. If you haven't any notion of what it means to be from Horizon Creek, then we best begin _adagio_."

"Ah-what?"

"Slowly."

Olli took a deep breath. "I just want to know if my father died in a car accident or not."

"I don't know," Chelle said.

Olli gripped the frayed edge of the seat. "But I thought—"

"For certain." Chelle's voice rolled up from her swan's neck and between her pouty lips, cool and silky. "He may have died in a car, I don't know. Very few people would know the precise circumstances. The Gateses, surely. Your family as well. Perhaps the Reeves. But everyone knows that Speares rarely perish in accidents."

"Chelle, please. I feel like I'm losing my mind. I'm begging you. Tell me what's going on."

Chelle pulled into a small, busy parking lot. As the day waned, the sky turned hazy. Yet the heat only seemed to intensify.

Chelle left the engine running. Tepid air poured from the vents. Sweat ran down Olli's temple, but Chelle's skin looked powdery dry.

"What happened today? Tell me that first," Chelle said.

Olli ran down the day's events, skimming, not wanting to sound too crazy, and skipping all the tingle-inspiring moments with Brend. When she finished, a frown etched Chelle's porcelain-doll face. She turned off the engine and opened the door.

"Where are you going?" Olli asked, noting the high panic-pitch in her voice with a grimace.

"For custard," Chelle said, gesturing to the building in front of them. "We're both going to need it."

Olli didn't get a chance to argue because Chelle was already out of the car. Olli shoved open her door and followed.

Creamers—a small concrete building painted rust red—occupied a prime spot next to the park entrance. Out front, two rows of picnic tables split the parking lot. All were occupied. A few people glanced at her as she passed, but no one greeted her, even though she'd been introduced to them. Most had been at the city council meeting and the coffee afterwards on the first Friday night she'd spent in Horizon Creek. A couple hundred people must have been in attendance. She guessed there wasn't much to do in Horizon Creek on a Friday night.

Chelle joined the line, sneaking a small wave at a cluster of young girls who smiled shyly at her and then hurried away giggling over their sundaes and milkshakes.

Olli bounced on her toes behind Chelle. A whole baseball team of preteens stood in front of them. Olli wanted to beg Chelle to skip the custard, but whenever she started to speak, Chelle held up her finger and shook her head. As the team peeled off from the window one-by-one, each with a sweating cup or melting scoops of custard piled high in their cones, Olli began to think this wasn't such a bad idea. She'd never tried frozen custard. Farren claimed it was much better than ice cream. Olli couldn't remember the last time she'd even had ice cream.

Chelle stepped up to the window and ordered for both of them.

"On me," she said to Olli.

Then they stepped over to the next window.

A woman held out two waffle cones containing vanilla custard. Taut scars covered the woman's skin in tangled strands of milky-white and puckered tight patches of wounded-red. Olli glanced at the woman through the glass. The shape of her eyes, nose, and mouth remained intact, but only as tragic markers of what her face had once been—probably quite beautiful. When she met Olli's eye, she looked away.

Chelle took the cones and handed one to Olli.

Chelle led them away from Creamers into the park. Olli's knees ached stiffly, but she kept up as Chelle strolled languidly beneath the blooming mimosas. Silky pink puffs drifted around them, perfuming the staid air spicy sweet. Cicadas droned in hollow chorus like wind blowing through a thousand straws, while human whistles and cheers ebbed and flowed from the distant baseball diamonds. Custard dribbled over Olli's hand.

Shorter than Olli by a head, Chelle moved along the broad path with unconscious grace—floating—making her seem much taller.

"What happened to that woman?" Olli asked as they left Creamers behind them, moving past the baseball diamonds towards the shadowy heart of the park.

"She cheated on her husband," Chelle said.

"That's awful. I hope he's burning somewhere right now."

Chelle lifted her eyebrow at Olli. "No, Olli. He didn't do that to her. Marriage is a vow of the highest order—a promise not to be broken. She did that to herself."

"What?"

But Chelle didn't answer.

They came to a solitary bench near a wooden bridge. Chelle sat, poised in her flowing brown slacks and sleeveless ivory shirt. She took small laps at her custard, somehow keeping it from leaking all over her. Olli, on the other hand, was a sticky mess. She shoved the last of the waffle cone into her mouth and swallowed as fast as she could.

"Okay," she said, wiping at her hands with the crumpled napkin. "Tell me."

Chelle sighed. She crunched into her cone, gazing towards the trees bordering the creek. The water murmured.

"Perhaps I shouldn't."

Olli almost jumped up. "Chelle!"

Chelle tilted her head, taking another bite. Then she looked at Olli. The gravity in her velvety eyes made Olli feel very young, like a child who'd asked a question beyond her years.

"Please, Chelle," Olli begged. "Tell me."

Chelle finished her cone and then slid to the edge of the bench, gazing at the path before them. "I saw Brend at the coffee shop this morning," she said, "early." Her brow dropped. "He doesn't care for me."

In her summary of the day's events, Olli had left out the part about Brend calling Chelle a "soulless nymph." The weathered bench creaked as Olli shifted, waiting for Chelle to continue.

Chelle lifted her chin. When she looked at Olli this time, her eyes were flashing, like a prowling cat's. "Do you know what I meant when I said that they treat you like you're from the other side of the river?"

Olli shook her head.

"It means you're an outsider," Chelle said. "You're not one of them." The corner of Chelle's mouth curved in a smile that made Olli lean back. The rich gold light spoiled around them, curdling as the shadows spread in dark blooms. "Say it again, what _he_ made you say before."

"What? You mean, the Speare protects Gates thing? That?"

Chelle's unsettling smile widened. "He's quite clever. But then, they always have been. Leave it to a Gates to find a way around a promise."

"What—"

Chelle waved her off. "Olli, think back. This morning you felt an overwhelming, albeit inexplicable, urge to protect Brend. Isn't that right?"

Olli opened her mouth. She wanted to argue. She wanted to say that she'd been suffering from a temporary form of insanity due to her fall, and that's why she'd pushed Brend and ordered him to get back in the car. But she couldn't. She _had_ felt the urge to make sure that nothing hurt him.

"It is," Chelle said. "Because that's what Speares do. Speares protect the Gates family. They always have. At least, as long as I can remember. What happened to you, on the road this morning, was exactly what was meant to happen. It is what you are meant to do."

"Meant to do? You mean like . . . fate?"

Chelle shook her head. "Think of your desire to protect Brend as an instinct, one that is inborn. No different than eating or breathing. You are a Speare. He is a Gates. It would have been the same if it had been Farren or Booker or Hope, any of them. A Speare protects a Gates. That is your purpose. That is your calling. That is who you are."

Olli searched Chelle's face.

"You can't be serious."

Chelle's hand propped beneath her chin, poised like she was modeling nail polish. "I can only imagine how strange this must be for you, Olli, which is why I think we should move slowly. I don't want to overwhelm you."

"Overwhelm me? You're telling me that I'm born with an instinct to protect people of a certain family . . . it doesn't even make sense. It doesn't work like that."

"What doesn't?"

Olli threw her hands into the air. "Life. Genetics. Our biology."

Chelle's fingertips brushed Olli's leg, so cool they sent goose bumps over her. "But Olli, _your_ biology does."

"So you're saying I'm a freak. Have you been talking to my brother?"

"This is no jest, Olli. Have you ever noticed how certain talents are shared in families? Some are musical, others athletic. Have you ever said to yourself, 'It must run in their family'?"

"Yeah, but musical talent is a general trait. What you're saying is that my family's talent is to protect, not just anyone, but another specific family."

"Not simply a talent, Olli. A gift . . . and—"

Olli dropped her head into her hands. "Please, don't say a curse."

"I was going to say a duty."

Olli tried to make sense of what Chelle was telling her, but couldn't. "It's crazy. It's not rational."

"Not according to what you've learned here," Chelle said.

"Here?"

Chelle gazed at her again, as if trying to see into her soul. "When you felt Brend might be threatened, you reacted without thinking. You said it was like someone else took over. Someone did take over, Olli. The Speare in you took over. She may not seem rational to you, because she is not rational. She is instinct. She is action. You wanted the truth, Olli. And that is the truth. Perhaps, the reason your family chose not to share it with you is because they feared you weren't ready to hear it."

Olli opened her mouth and then closed it. She thought back to that morning. Inexplicable as it was, she had felt like she wanted . . . no, _needed_ to protect Brend. The protectiveness had taken hold of her just as Chelle described, like an instinct. Maybe it didn't make sense, but it had happened.

"So . . . what if I believe you?" she said, not sure what she believed. "Is that the big secret? I'm a genetic freak born with an instinct to protect the Gates family?"

When she said it aloud, it didn't sound so bad. She could've been born with worse genetic anomalies: goat legs or an upside-down face. Protectiveness, that wasn't terrible. In fact, she could see how it could be a good freak trait—an _honorable_ anomaly.

"Is that what Daniel meant?" she asked before Chelle could answer her last question. "He said my father died with honor. Did he mean that my father died protecting the Gates family?"

Chelle continued to study Olli like she was searching for the hidden image in a stereogram. "No doubt, that is the case. Those were fearsome days. Many people died, including Daniel's parents. But as I said, I do not know the precise circumstances." Her bitter smile returned. "I'm like you, Olli, not thought of as one of them."

"Daniel's parents are dead?" The lingering anger she had towards him drained away. "I thought his dad was in prison and his mom ran off. That's what my mom said."

"That's what they must have told her."

"So she didn't know the truth either. Not even about my father."

"She was an outsider. I recall their marriage was not well-received."

"You recall? You must have been a baby when they were married."

"I'm older than I look," Chelle said.

"Oh." Olli slumped back, mind-reeling.

Chelle took Olli's hand, guiding her to her feet. "I think you have enough to contemplate for one evening."

Olli shuffled alongside Chelle.

"I'm glad you came to me," Chelle said. "Undoubtedly, your grandparents have asked everyone in town to treat you as an outsider. Almost everyone, that is."

Olli stopped. "Everyone in town knows? About my family's freak genes?"

"The old families, yes. Outsiders live in town, because of the college mostly, but none of them stay long. They must feel it."

"Feel what?"

"That they do not belong."

Olli's encounters with the community were thrown into a new light. No wonder they all said she didn't look like a Speare. They didn't think she was a freak like the rest of her family. That's when it hit her . . . "They think Nate has it too."

Chelle nodded. "He looks like a Speare."

Olli started walking again, slowly. "I was hoping this conversation would make my day less weird." She let out a heavy breath. "I guess I should tell them."

She tried to imagine _that_ conversation.

_Hey Pap, don't worry about your big secret. I'm a freak like you._

"Perhaps," Chelle said. "Perhaps not."

"Why not?"

Chelle tilted her head as she walked. "There may be other reasons your grandparents didn't wish for you to know the truth, Olli. Speares rarely act without good cause. But what occurred this morning, what you saw . . ." Chelle glanced over her shoulder like someone might be following them. Olli looked too. Nothing but an old bridge shrouded by the hazy gloaming.

"I didn't see anything," Olli insisted again, "just a shadow."

Chelle winced.

"What's wrong?"

Chelle threaded her arm through Olli's, drawing her close. "Why don't we keep this conversation to ourselves for the moment, Olli? There's more yet you have to understand."

"More?" Olli's head grumbled at the thought of having to digest any more life-altering information.

"Normally, I stay out of these matters," Chelle said. "Unlike others, I've been given a degree of acceptance. But I am always wary. They never let me forget."

"Forget what?"

"Another time, Olli. For now, _ballon_."

"Balloon?"

"Be light as you go," Chelle clarified. "You may be anxious to tell your family you are truly a Speare. I cannot blame you. I know how you feel. There are times when I think . . . well, who doesn't long for inclusion, acceptance? But, sometimes being on the outside allows you freedom that you might not otherwise possess."

"But you said there's more—"

"There's always more, Olli. If I were you, I would not be so anxious to become known as a full-fledged Speare."

"Why not?"

Chelle's lips pressed together. She didn't answer.
Chapter 7

**"L** il' Engine, you're hurt?" Pap pushed out of his chair at the table as she entered the kitchen. "Dan said you fell."

Mam leaned back from the steam of pots on the stove and gave Olli a once-over. "Looks in one piece to my eye."

Pap slipped behind Mam. Broad and thick, his hands touched her arm as gently as mimosa blossoms falling by on staid air. The concern in his deep brown eyes sapped the heat from the boiling emotional brew she'd been stirring up on the ride home. She hadn't been sure what she'd say, or if she'd say anything. Now in her grandparents' kitchen, embraced by buttery baked aromas and faced with Pap's kind eyes, she decided to let it rest—at least until after dinner.

"I'm fine, Pap," she said, stomach rumbling.

"Of course, she's fine." Mam hefted a big pot off the stove and hauled it over to the table. "And nearly late for supper—"

"I'm here." Daniel hustled into the house, sliding past Olli and Pap and charging to the table. He plopped down and began piling food onto his plate.

"Wait you." Mam slapped his hand. "Wash up, you stink."

Daniel plunked his fork down and charged back through the kitchen into a short hallway leading to the pantry, laundry, and a small bathroom.

"You sit." Mam pointed to Olli's chair. "No one in this house needs to eat more than you."

Pap placed a guiding hand on Olli's back as she limped to the laden table. The walk with Chelle had worn her out. Her head ached and her knees stung. She slumped into her chair.

Mam scooped a pile of sweet potatoes dripping with butter onto Olli's plate, like she couldn't serve herself.

Daniel returned, water droplets clinging to the dark spikes of his hair. He'd replaced his sweaty T-shirt with a rumpled white one that looked like it had come out of the dirty laundry hamper. Before he could sit, Mam said,

"Gather Nathan."

Daniel frowned. He clomped over to the French doors and pushed one open. "Get up, Lump! Time to eat."

"I've already gained five pounds," Olli said as her grandma filled her plate with green beans. "My clothes are getting tight."

Pap settled down at the end of the table. Daniel returned without Nate. He sat across from Olli without a glance.

"Then we'll buy new clothes," Mam said, adding a hunk of corn bread the size of a paperback dictionary onto her plate. "Taylor's has some very nice clothes."

Daniel snorted. "If you're an old lady."

Mam rested her fist on her spindly waist. "And what's wrong with being an old lady?"

"Nothing. If you are one," Daniel said, mouth half-full.

"Then you can take her to that big shopping place tomorrow." Mam sank into the chair next to Olli's, groaning. Her grandparents were graying, Pap more than Mam. Otherwise, they seemed to be holding their own against time. Her grandpa was as thickly muscled as Daniel, without all the trips to the gym.

"Nope," Daniel said after a big gulp of iced tea. "I have work to do."

The table fell silent. Olli had fallen into step behind Daniel, inhaling her dinner. She inspected each of her family members in turn. She should have been furious they'd kept such a huge secret from her, but they all looked so tired and distracted. Chelle might've been right. She needed time to think things through. It still seemed so crazy. If she was going to confront her family, she wanted to have all her thoughts sorted out first.

"Well, Sunday then, maybe," Mam said after a time, propping her elbows up on either side of her empty plate.

Daniel shrugged and gave Olli an unreadable look.

"I don't really need new clothes," she lied. She was wearing the same clothes she'd worn last summer. She hadn't grown taller, thankfully, but since her grandma refused to let her leave the table without cleaning her plate, her clothes had begun to stretch in places they'd never stretched before—as Peter had pointed out.

"I hear the boys are back," Pap said, wiping his fingers on a lace-edged napkin.

"That's right," Mam said, cupping her chin in her hand and looking towards Olli. "How did they look?"

Not sure how to answer that question, Olli picked up her glass and took a long drink of sweet tea. Daniel sat back in his chair, his chiseled face darkening.

"They look the same," he said. "Older."

"You saw them?" Mam sounded surprised and suspicious.

Pap frowned. "You didn't cause any trouble—"

"No," Daniel said.

Mam pinned a sharp look on Daniel. "Just remember yourself."

Daniel's ears turned red.

"Why don't you like Brend?" Olli asked.

Daniel leaned towards her. "Because he's a mouthy little shit with no respect."

"Daniel Rider Speare!" Mam slapped her hand on the table, rattling the silverware. "Not at my table. No, sir."

Daniel pointed his fork at Olli. "You stay away from him."

Her mouth opened, but before she could reply, Mam said, "Now what's the meaning of that?"

"Nothing," she said, blushing.

"Not nothing is what I think," Daniel said. "That one had some ideas I could practically read his mind about."

Now all eyes were on her. She bowed her head and pushed more food into her mouth. Mam leaned back in her chair, laying her napkin across the floral print of her tight-waisted dress.

"Now wouldn't that be a thing?" she said to Pap. "What do you think, Old Baer?"

Pap raised his heavy silver eyebrows and touched the gold ring he wore on a chain around his neck. He gazed at Olli in a way that made her sink deeper into her chair.

"He needs to watch himself," Daniel grumbled.

"Shush." Mam gripped Olli's arm with her knotty fingers. She threw a quick look at Pap, but he was staring off into some middle distance between the potatoes and the salt and pepper shakers, running the ring back and forth on its chain. "No harm in it I can see. Olli will only be with us a couple of years. How many girlfriends have you had in the last two years?"

Daniel tapped his fork on his plate, his scowl deepening.

"Guards know that boy could use a girlfriend." Mam picked at her cornbread like a bird. "Take his mind off matters. Improve his attitude, ya?" She looked pointedly at Daniel.

Daniel glowered. "Let him find someone else."

"I'll do what I want," Olli said. Everyone looked at her and she shrank back. "Not that there's anything . . . I just met him today."

Her grandpa's gaze rested heaviest on her. "You fell today. That's when you met him, ya?"

"Sort of—"

"I thought you fell on the road," Daniel said.

"I did," she said. "He just happened to be driving by."

"Now there's a thing." Mam looked less amused.

"It wasn't his fault I fell—" Apparently, lying ran in the family.

Daniel grumbled about rich little somethings and Italian cars.

Mam shot him another warning look. Her eyes flicked back in Pap's direction. But he was still watching Olli a little too closely for comfort.

"No, we wouldn't think that," Mam said. "It's only that around here we have . . ."—she twirled her hand like she was searching for the word—"superstitions." She gave Olli a tight smile. "Not that it's anything like that in your case."

Olli frowned. Why did she feel like she was once again being told that she didn't look like a Speare? The truth sat on the tip of her tongue. She could tell them she was a freak too. What would they say then?

Instead, she asked, "What superstitions?"

"See this scar here?" Her grandpa pointed to a thin pale line running from his temple to the straight line of his silver crop of hair. "When I first saw my Violet here, I tripped and cracked my head on one of those iron fountains that used to be in the park. Right there. Ten stitches." He began toying with his necklace again. "That's what these people call . . . head over heels, ya?"

Mam rolled her eyes, smiling. "We've known each other our entire lives."

"But that was the first time I really saw you." He winked at Olli. "If you take my meaning."

Daniel gagged. Olli smiled.

"That's not what this is." Daniel pushed his food around on his plate, not eating.

"Course not," Mam said. "So nothing to concern yourself with."

"What isn't it?" Olli asked. "What's the superstition?"

"Love and pain come together," Mam said. "Some of our people used to think that if you meet a person and hurt yourself in the meeting, then it's a sign. Bleed a little and you're stuck for life." She smiled as if the whole idea was silly. But neither Pap nor Daniel joined her. "That's why you married me, Old Baer? Knocked yourself senseless?"

Pap's preoccupied expression faltered, and he smiled a little.

"Imagine how different the world would be, if we all married a person only because we bumped our heads when we first saw them. People'd divorce on the grounds they'd had brain injury when they proposed." Mam chuckled.

"He'll have injuries if he tries anything," Daniel muttered.

"It's none of your business. I don't know why you care so much," Olli said.

He glared at her. Then he turned to their grandparents. "You know what she says about him." Her grandparents lowered their eyes. Daniel pressed on, "He's trouble. And he talks too much."

Olli sensed her opportunity to speak up. Clearly Daniel feared Brend would tell her the big secret. He was probably right to feel that way. Brend had wanted to tell her. The only reason he hadn't was because of the promise Booker had made.

Now that she knew the secret though, it didn't seem all that big. Weird, yes. She still wasn't sure she understood what it meant to be born to "protect" the members of a specific family. Did it mean she was a natural-born bodyguard? Looking at Daniel and her grandpa, she could see how they fit the part, but being the stick, as Nate never failed to point out, she didn't feel especially equipped for that role. Besides, why did the Gates family need protecting? What made them so special?

"Where is Nathan?" Mam asked.

Pap held up his hand. "Hear that?"

Olli listened. She did hear it.

Sirens.
Chapter 8

**"W** hat do you hear, Speare?" Their neighbor, red-cheeked, balding Mr. Baker, asked when they joined him on the corner. He cradled a bowl of popcorn against his belly, his feet bare.

Pap shook his head, craning his neck like everyone else.

Behind and around them, the crowd grew. Thirty or forty people gathered at the end of the street. Her grandparents stood at the head, Olli beside them. A part of her laughed. What a small town occurrence. Everyone coming out when they heard sirens. Back home, she'd heard sirens every day. No one took notice.

At the same time, her fingernails clawed at her thighs. A knot formed in her stomach. In the distance, sirens blared, but she couldn't get a fix on them. She squinted through the mist of dusk, across the river, towards the sun's last gasps of light as it sank behind the trees. Though the air had cooled, tacky sweat broke out all over her.

The high wail of an ambulance approached. The crowd leaned back as it whooshed past. In a blur of red and blue flashes, the van zipped down the hill, towards the bridge—towards the Gateses' house.

Her first urge was to run down the hill after it. But her grandpa spun back towards the house. She followed him. The crowd parted before them. They didn't go far. Daniel's truck barreled down the driveway. People scattered out of his way. He pulled up next to the curb.

Pap yanked the passenger door open.

"I'm coming too." Olli opened the back door of the crew cab and jumped in.

"Olli!" Mam called.

Olli shut the door.

"Leave her." Pap climbed in.

The truck leapt forward.

"She shouldn't be here," Daniel grumbled as they flew down the hill. Olli clung to the back of her grandpa's seat.

Over the bridge.

Up a hill.

"What if—" Daniel started.

"Quiet," Pap commanded.

Around a curve. Down another hill. Second curve.

Almost there.

Olli squeezed her eyes shut. _Please don't be Farren. Please don't be_ —

"There!" Daniel almost sounded relieved as they came up on the cluster of emergency vehicles parked outside the gate. He slowed the truck. Two police cars, an ambulance, a fire truck—sirens off, lights still flashing. Daniel pulled up behind one of the police cars. Olli shoved the door open. Her grandpa stepped out in front of her or she might've run straight into the officer striding towards them.

Taller and leaner than her grandpa, Chief Bill Reeve wore a hard, business-like expression. He had a dark, square faced that reminded her of some WWII Pacific-front officer—full of command and confidence. The silver streaks at his temples shone brighter than his eyes in the shadows. She knew him because she'd babysat the last two Thursday nights when he'd picked up Dr. Hope for their weekly date.

He nodded at her grandpa. "Speare." His gaze touched on Daniel, who had come around the front of the truck to join them, and then rested on her. She knew he was wondering the same thing Daniel was: _Why is she here_?

"Trouble, Chief?" Pap asked.

Olli wanted to scream for them to move. Beyond him and the police car, the paramedics conferred with the firefighters. None of them looked hurried. She tried to see past her grandpa and the chief, hoping for a glimpse of something. She couldn't tell if her freak instinct had kicked in or if it was simple genuine concern, but she needed to know if someone was hurt.

"You might say that." Chief Reeve cleared his throat and looked at Olli again.

Pap placed his hand on her shoulder. "Wait for us."

She wanted to tell him, right then and there, that she was as much as Speare as he was and if one of the Gateses was hurt then it was as much her business as his, but the look on his face silenced even that stubborn inner voice of hers.

Pap nodded and followed the chief into the crowd of officials. Daniel shot her one last critical look and trailed after them. She stood on her tiptoes, near tears. She couldn't see anything through the gap in the police cars. She needed a better vantage. She slammed her fist against the truck, barely feeling the impact.

The truck.

She lodged her foot on top of the wheel and boosted herself onto the hood. From there she could see over the police cruisers, but little else with everyone milling around. Pap squatted down. Two paramedics stepped away. And then she saw an arm. Flat on the pavement, outstretched, fingers curled upwards, motionless.

Too big for a child. Not Farren. She squinted, searching for more detail. Was there something black on the arm? A tattoo? Her head began to spin. Booker had a tattoo on his forearm.

"What the hell are you doing?" Daniel barked. He swiped at her. She leapt down and backed away.

"Who is it?" she asked.

Daniel turned a flashlight onto the hood of his truck. "If there's a scratch or a dent, I swear to the guards I will—"

"Forget about the truck. Who—"

"Dan!" Pap called. "Come here."

The beam of Daniel's flashlight hit her in the face. She squinted against it.

"You shouldn't even be out here. Get back in the truck."

She backed up. "Who is—?"

"Dan!" Pap called again.

The light dropped as he turned away.

"Who?" she demanded.

He didn't answer.

"I'm going up to the house," she called after him, not sure he'd heard her or that she cared if he had.

She turned and sprinted through the open gate. Lights lined the driveway and shone on the landscaping. The white blooms of the yard's centerpiece, a sprawling magnolia, glowed like the stars. The front of the house, too, was lit like a billboard. Halos of light emanated from the glass domes, brighter than Wrigley on game night.

Brushing by the police car parked out front, she went straight inside without knocking. She stopped in the foyer, pushing the sweat on her forehead back into her hair.

"Olli!" Farren collided into her, wrapping her arms around Olli's thighs. "I knew you'd come," she said into Olli's side.

Olli stroked Farren's hair and scanned the front room, noting the occupants. Hope and a police officer closest to her, both giving her quizzical looks. Roper on the couch, gnawing on his thumbnail. And Booker . . .

She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

Booker stood at the fireplace, leaning on the mantle and staring into the cold dark hearth.

Which only left . . . Her heart and her lungs stopped in unison.

She detached Farren from her and stepped towards Hope. "Where's Brend?"

"Right here, Speare." He moved into view, sliding behind the officer and coming up the steps. "All present and accounted for."

Her pulse stuttered back to life.

"All except Peter." Tears trickled down Hope's cheeks. She wiped them away. "He'd just left. He'd dropped off dinner." She shook her head, covering her mouth with her hand and staring at the floor.

Farren held tight to Olli's hand. Olli held on just as tight.

Peter? She could hardly believe it and yet hated herself for the relief that flowed through her knowing that none of the Gateses had been hurt.

"What happened to him?" she asked.

"That's not clear," the youthful officer said. "You're Olli Speare, Baer and Violet's granddaughter?" He gave her the you-don't-look-like-a-Speare look. She hated that look.

"She's babysitting Farren," Hope added. And then she frowned. "Olli, you're bleeding again."

Olli glanced down at her knees. At some point, the bandages had come off. Fresh blood smeared her knees and trickled down her shins. She waited for the pain to register, but it didn't.

"I was in a hurry," she said.

"We'll take care of her," Brend said, gesturing for Olli to follow him down the hall. "Won't we, Farren?"

Farren nodded.

"If you're finished, Officer?" Brend asked.

The officer's walkie crackled to life. He nodded curtly to Brend and stepped back from Hope, murmuring into his receiver.

The main hall led past the front room, then down, beyond the kitchen and family room. More steps to the next landing where there was a laundry room and the guest bathroom.

Spacious enough to accommodate a small dinner party, the bathroom was tiled in soothing shades of blue. Earlier, after tumbling down the hill, she'd found it a relaxing retreat from the bizarre events of the morning. But now, with Peter's body on the road behind her, retreat seemed impossible. Her shoulders bunched. Her blood hummed in her ears. And in spite of her wounds, which she still couldn't feel, she had the most bizarre desire to go for a run.

Brend shut the door behind Olli and Farren.

His voice was hushed. "Now tell me what you really saw this morning." 
Chapter 9

**S** he balanced on the edge of the tub, left leg in, washing the blood from her skin. Already re-bandaged, her right leg stung. Awakened to the pain by a fresh bout of antiseptic, her energy levels were draining faster than the pink rivulets of blood trickling down the tub.

"I didn't see anything," she insisted again. She didn't look at Brend, but she could feel him looking at her. Tension-master.

"Peter's dead," he said.

"I know he's dead. I saw him."

"You saw him?" Farren squeaked.

Olli pressed her lips together. Farren had been so quiet, kneeling on the bath mat, holding the first aid kit in her lap that Olli had momentarily forgotten her.

Brend squatted down to look at Farren. "Will you do me a favor?"

Farren scooted closer to Olli, like Brend might try to grab her and rip her away.

"I need you to go to my room," he said.

Farren's eyes widened. "You do?"

He nodded. "I need you to log on to my computer."

"You do?"

He nodded again, holding her gaze. "It's really important. I need you to check to see if I have any new email. But you'll need my password. Can you check it for me? If you can't, I'll understand."

As Farren stood up, Olli grabbed the first aid kit before the contents spilled everywhere.

"I can do it." Farren bounced on her toes.

"Okay. Come here, I'll whisper it to you, but it's a secret. You can't tell anyone else, swear?"

"I swear," Farren said.

Brend cupped his hand next to Farren's ear. A moment later, he pulled back. "Got it?"

She nodded.

"Go quick."

Farren rushed out the door without a backward glance. Her bare feet slapped on the tile.

Brend shut the door behind her. Olli ripped open a bandage and covered her left knee again. So he was a charming tension-master. She refused to turn to goop just because he was sweet to his sister. No matter how liquidy she felt.

"She's not supposed to be on the computer alone," she said.

"She'll be up all night playing games," he acknowledged, "but that's better than up all night having nightmares about Peter's corpse in our driveway."

He dropped onto the toilet seat lid. A few stray slashes of black hair slid free from his ponytail as his gaze settled on her.

She set aside the first aid kit and lifted her leg over the edge, grimacing. The adrenaline that had brought her here and dulled her pain was completely spent. All she wanted was to find a comfortable corner and curl up in it.

"I can't believe it was Peter," she said, stinging at the memory of his warm teddy bear eyes and mischievous smile and how he'd said she had a complexion like his browned butter frosting. She wished she'd a chance to taste that frosting. Like everything Peter had made, she was sure it would've been delicious. He'd been an artist, not just a chef. Tears burned her eyes. With a few deep breaths, she blinked them back.

She leaned forward, raking her fingers into her hair—a sweaty tangled mess. Was she doomed to look terrible every time she saw Brend? Was she doomed to care how she looked when she saw him? She wasn't used to caring about unimportant things at any time, let alone when someone who she'd known and cared about had just died.

"I know," she said to the floor.

"Know what?"

"What you meant about Speares protecting Gateses."

The swoops of his eyebrows rose. "Do you?"

"That's why I'm here, right?"

"You tell me."

"When I heard the sirens, when I saw the ambulance crossing the bridge"—she swallowed, in that moment, swallowing the whole freakish truth—"I knew I had to get here. I had to make sure you were okay." Hastily, she added, "That you were _all_ okay."

"You figured it out in"—he glanced down at his watch—"four hours? On your own?"

She shrugged. Chelle had left Olli with an apprehension about telling anyone that she knew the truth. Olli had barely been with Brend for five minutes, and she'd already spilled it. Probably because, even with all the weirdness and bouts of girl-feelings, she felt at ease around him, like she could tell him anything—like she wanted to. Still, she didn't bring up Chelle. Not after the way he'd reacted earlier when Roper had mentioned her.

But Brend's mind-reading skills seemed as sharp as ever. "Someone told you?"

"All that matters is that I know, okay? I inherited the mutant genes that compel me to protect your family. Big secret's out. But I still don't get how it works. And why your family?"

"Who told you?" he pressed.

"It's not important."

"It is important because they obviously didn't tell you everything, which means you really don't know anything." He searched her face. "It wasn't your grandparents. Or your cousin."

"Drop it, will you?"

"Why won't you tell me?"

She stood up. Pain shot from her knees to her fingers, but she ignored it. "Because it's none of your business. And it doesn't matter."

"It does matter. Someone else knows you're a Speare. Someone who has no respect for my family, clearly. Or yours. Which means that they could tell _her_ about you. And that, most definitely, is my business."

"Her?"

"The Dowager."

"So what?"

He turned his glare to the wall. She felt sorry for the wall.

"You know, for someone who demands the truth, you're not very forthcoming," she said.

"I told you I would—"

Her hand cut through the air between them. "I know. The promise. Everyone in this family seems to take their promises pretty seriously. Is that written into your DNA?" She massaged her temple, wishing she could knead the ache away.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Do I look okay?"

"You look great to me."

Goopification proceeding.

"What would be great," she said, clinging to her composure with what little might she still possessed, "is if I could get some clarification. You can't tell me why I'm programmed to protect you. And you can't tell me why you're so worried the Dowager will find out about my freakishness."

He continued to gaze up at her with those smoldering black eyes, not speaking. She had to avert her gaze to keep her thoughts from melting away.

"And you won't stop asking me what I saw this morning . . ."

In that instant, she felt spun around.

She was back on the road before dawn, teasing apart shadows, her ears keying in on the smallest of sounds. She'd even been able to hear Brend's heartbeat, though she hadn't realized it until this moment. At the time, all her focus had been on that distant susurration—that chilling whisper-whisper.

Pressure swelled in her chest, as it had that morning, but without the urgency, like her heart was trying to get her attention. She started to feel as though some part of her already knew the answers to her questions, if only she could learn its language. It had tried to speak to her this morning, when she'd seen . . .

"A shadow," she murmured.

The color drained from Brend's face. "What did you say?"

This time, her gaze made him look away.

"A shadow," she said. "That's all it was. That's all I saw."

She'd meant it to be reassuring. A shadow was nothing.

But he looked like she'd poured poison in his ear. His elbows dropped to his knees. His hands pressed together at his mouth. The surface of his eyes trembled like cold light on black water.

Her mouth dried up as she searched for something to say.

But his hands came away from his mouth first. "I knew it," he said, seemingly more to himself than to her. "I knew it would happen again."

"What?"

His lips formed a thin bloodless line.

"I wish you could tell me the truth," she said. "This is all so crazy—"

"I wish I could too. And I will, as much as I can, Olli. I promise."

"But you can't tell me why seeing a shadow, in a forest full of nothing but shadows, makes you look like . . ."

She'd been about to say, _like somebody died_. But somebody had died. Peter. He'd been funny and sweet and had cooked the best blackened salmon she'd ever tasted. And now he was gone. Her heart plummeted into the pits of her stomach.

"What did you feel this morning?" Brend asked.

Her face started to warm. "What do you mean?"

A smile appeared—"I mean,"—and then died—"when you saw whatever you saw. The shadow. What did you feel?"

She thought back again. But she hesitated when it came to putting the feelings into words. Yes, she'd felt the need to protect him, but it was more than that. Chelle was right. It felt like an instinct. How could she describe something so visceral? How does a person sinking beneath the waves describe the desperate need to breathe? Because that's where she'd felt it. In that deep-down, life-and-death place. She hadn't just wanted to protect him. She'd _needed_ to protect him. If there were words for that, she didn't know them.

She stood, paralyzed by the gravity of this revelation. Whatever this was that she felt—an instinct, a need, a compulsion driven by genetic mutation—it was awake now. And she knew, with Super-Glue certainty, it wasn't going away. Not ever.

Brend didn't wait for her to find the words though. Maybe he hadn't expected her to answer.

"You know you're a Speare now," he said, "so I can tell you this, I think." He licked his lips like he was testing the words to come for promise-breaking poison. "This morning, you wanted to protect me, ya?"

She nodded warily.

"It took you over. You changed. Your face, the tone of your voice, the color of your eyes—"

"My eyes?"

"It happened for a reason. A real one. Like you said, the forest was full of shadows. Ask the Speare in you, does it flinch every time it sees a shadow?"

"You're saying I saw something real. Not just a shadow."

Tremors disturbed the dark of his eyes again.

"What?" she asked.

His gaze fell to the floor between them. More answers off-limits.

"You know I'm beginning to think that promises aren't all they're cracked up to be," she said, crossing her arms. "If I tell everyone the truth, then the stupid promise won't—"

Brend stood up. She stepped back as he came close enough for her to taste his cologne: warm leather and dark chocolate and sweet iris. Stupid sexy. Why didn't he just club her over the head and drag her back to his castle?

"No," he said. "Don't."

"But this is ridiculous—"

"I agree, but you can't tell anyone that you're a Speare. Not even your family." He gripped her arms. Goose bumps broke out where he touched her and spread outwards, all over. "Please. We need you here."

"You're freaking me out," she breathed.

He released her and inched back, smiling in a way that she hated. No one should have such a bitter expression so readily available. "Don't you know? Speares aren't supposed to feel fear."

"And what about Gateses?"

A knock on the door made them both flinch.

"Olli?" Hope called. "Your grandfather is outside."
Chapter 10

**P** ap stood at the bottom of the step. Behind him, Daniel leaned against his truck, arms crossed, glower in full effect. The police cruiser was gone.

Hope stepped aside as they came onto the front stoop, Olli first, Brend close behind her. Booker lingered just inside the threshold. When Olli passed him, she could see her reflection in his unblinking eyes, but he didn't acknowledge her.

"You had us worried, Lil' Engine," Pap said when she appeared. He didn't sound angry, only tired.

"I told Daniel where I was going."

"Like hell," Daniel snapped.

"It's not my fault you weren't listening," she said.

Daniel pushed away from his truck. "You shouldn't be here in the first place. You're not—"

"Enough," Pap said to Daniel without turning around. Daniel's chest continued to expand, but his mouth slammed shut.

Pap held his hand out for Olli. She shuffled across the broad stoop and down the step to him. His hand rested on her shoulder. A light smile came to his eyes, but didn't reach his mouth.

"We'll leave you now, ma'am." Pap inclined his head towards Hope, and then his gaze slid over Brend and Booker. In that second, his face aged, the amber light in his eyes fading to gray.

"You've already left us," Brend grumbled.

Olli almost charged back and slugged him. But Pap's hand tightened on her shoulder, like he sensed what she wanted to do. Thanks to him, she stayed put. Otherwise, Handsome would've been a little less so. It was one thing for him to talk to his aunt like an ornery prince, but to use that tone with Pap was one nerve too far.

"Brend." Hope groped for his arm, but he jerked away from her.

"Peter's dead," he spat.

Thick silence followed this statement.

"That he is," Pap said softly.

"And what are we supposed to do?" Brend asked. "While you pull weeds and serve tea?"

"Watch it, you ungrateful piece—"

"Dan!" Pap's voice ripped through the damp night, silencing even the persistent little whip-poor-wills, who'd continued singing though the sun was long gone. Pap never looked away from Brend. His voice returned to its usual gentle tone. "We will all do what we must. As you too-well know, young sir. Too-well."

"Forgive my brother, Mr. Speare," Booker said, stepping out of the house. Under the unforgiving glare of the porch light, he appeared ashen—ghoulish. He continued to claw at the wing tattoo on his forearm, like he wanted to scrape it off. "We've all been . . . stressed, as of late. As you can imagine, Peter's death outside our door is quite . . . disturbing."

"No apology required," Pap said.

Booker's eyes strayed beyond them, seeming to absorb the darkness between the gentle beams of the landscaping lights. "I remember your sons, Mr. Speare. They were kind to me, to all of us." His gaze flicked over to Brend, who lowered his head then. "I remember that very well."

Pap shifted as though about to turn back to the truck, but Booker continued in his dreamy way, like he was talking to himself. Maybe he was on drugs. If so, she wasn't sure what kind. She'd seen all sorts of addicts during her meals at the shelters, but Booker didn't fit any of the usual patterns. Maybe it was some prescription cocktail.

"I've been reading my grandfather's journals," Booker said. "He mentions your brothers . . . and your sister."

Pap drew Olli closer. Her shoulder bumped his thick, solid chest. She gazed at Booker. This was the first she'd heard of Pap's siblings. Just how deep and dark was their family's closet of secrets?

Booker's eyes wavered, like he might cry. "Our families have carved enough names, wouldn't you say, Mr. Speare?"

"As I said, we do as we must," Pap replied, his voice stronger than when he'd spoken to Brend. "We always have and will keep on—we haven't forgotten either, young sir. No matter the current circumstances. You have my word on that."

Olli frowned. Pap spoke so formally. He didn't call Booker _sir_ with derision the way Daniel had when he called Brend _sir_. When Daniel did it, she assumed he was being sarcastic, but sarcasm from Pap? Unlikely. So why would Pap call a kid forty years his junior _sir_? Because of their freak gene?

A nightmare scenario spun out in her mind: her ancestors being created in some pseudo-scientific manner, à la _Frankenstein_ , to act as bodyguard slaves to the Gates family—subservient and expendable.

After all, her father had died protecting the Gateses, hadn't he? Protecting them from what though? Shadows? She wanted to laugh at the thought, but couldn't. Not the way the tension hung thicker than the humidity around them.

Hope picked at her cuticles, her forehead a worried clench. Booker, too preoccupied to notice he was a wasting ghost. And Brend . . . a barely capped geyser of too-muchness. And all around them, shadows. The lights that had struck her as bright and plentiful before, now seemed puny and insufficient.

This morning she'd fallen and she was still falling. She didn't know when she would land or where she would find herself once she did.

"We do as we must," Booker repeated, losing his hand in his shaggy tumble of hair. A weak smile appeared on his face. "Do you know what my father said to me before he left, Mr. Speare?"

The whole world seemed to go silent. Even the clashing fronts of Daniel and Brend lost strength and stalled out. Brend watched his brother with an intensity she'd thought reserved solely for her.

"No, sir, I don't." Pap's voice was soft and rough.

"Nothing," Booker said. "What could he say? 'We do as we must'? No, Mr. Speare. We don't. We do what we do because we don't have any other choice. Take my grandfather for instance. From reading his journals, it's quite clear to me that if he'd had a choice, he would've died that day, not your sister. But that's not what happened, is it?" Booker turned, like he was going back into the house, but then stopped. "If I had a choice, Mr. Speare, I would end this now, before anyone else is hurt. What about you?"

When she woke the next morning, empty-house silence greeted her. Even Nate was gone. The French doors stood open, his boy stink wafting into the living room.

The ride home had been awkward and silent. When they'd returned, Mam had gently nudged her towards her room with a hushed, "Goodnight."

Olli had tumbled into bed, head spinning and body limp. Sure that she'd be up all night, she hadn't bothered to change clothes, but the next thing she knew dusty morning light was settling on her face.

She rounded the kitchen island and plucked an orange from the fruit bowl.

The last two Saturdays she'd spent indulging in crap TV and a comfy couch. But at the moment, she couldn't imagine how she'd wasted her time like that. Of course, last Saturday she hadn't known she was a mutant bodyguard or that her father had died protecting the Gateses. She hadn't been tormented by the thought that there was still more she didn't know.

She peeled the orange slowly, pulling it apart wedge by wedge. Just when she'd decided it wasn't too early to call Chelle, the back door opened.

Nate shuffled in, hair a-muss, sweat-soaked tank sticking to his torso. His eyebrow crimped in that way that always struck her as devious. Thickly built, cheeks wide and nose flat, Nate really did look like their dad. No wonder everyone knew he was a Speare. Except all the photos of her father showed him smiling. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Nate really smile.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

"What do you care?" He pulled open the fridge and grabbed the jug of milk. The muscles of his arms flexed.

"Have you been working out?"

He filled a glass, gulped it, and then filled it again. He eyed her, licking the milk from his lip.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

She followed his gaze down to her knees. She'd peeled off the bandages after she'd woken up and changed. They'd already scabbed. She was a quick healer—maybe it was one of the benefits of being a freak.

She bit her lip and gazed at Nate, wondering. Did he know the truth already? The idea that Nate knew everything annoyed her. But if he didn't, then she wasn't sure she was ready to tell him, not until she knew more. First, she had to find out what he knew, if anything.

"Maybe there's some stuff we should talk about," she said.

"Like the dead body you saw last night?"

"How did you know about that?"

He set his glass into the sink behind him. "Dan told me."

"You've been hanging out with Daniel? You've been working out with him, haven't you?" She didn't want to feel jealous, but for some reason, she did. Whether Nate knew the truth or not, Daniel appeared to be taking him under his wing. Not that she wanted to go to the gym, but she couldn't help but wonder what Daniel would do if he'd known she was a Speare too—like him.

Nate's eyes glinted. "He also told me you have a boyfriend."

Her face warmed. "No, I don't."

"He said your boyfriend's lucky he's a Gates." Nate lowered his voice, dropping his brow, mimicking Daniel. "Else matters might prove different.'" Nate shook his head, dispelling the ghost of Daniel. "People around here talk so weird."

She nodded, but her mind strayed elsewhere. Why did Daniel hate Brend so much? Not that Brend seemed to be a fan of Daniel either. Maybe Brend could tell her. Just one more question to add to the growing mountain. The worst part was that no one would tell her the whole truth. Even Chelle had held back.

"You knew that dead guy, huh?" Nate asked.

"Not really." She didn't want to think about Peter. She didn't want to think about the hand she'd seen on the pavement, motionless, pale.

"What did he look like?"

"He was kind of tall, I guess . . ."

"I mean when he was dead."

She frowned. "Why are you asking that?"

Nate looked sheepish. "I've never seen a dead body."

"Be glad." She gathered up the orange rind scattered on the tiled counter.

"Were you scared?"

"No," she snapped. "What's to be scared of? He was dead."

"What was he like?"

She cupped the rinds in her palms and carried them to the garbage under the sink. "I told you, I didn't see him. It was dark."

He opened the cabinet door for her. "I meant when he was alive."

She dumped the rinds and stepped back from her brother. He stank like he hadn't showered in days. Without the lights on, the kitchen was dim, but now that she was closer, she could see the bruises on his face and arms.

"You're hurt," she said.

He stiffened. "No, I'm not."

She reached for him, but he took a step back. "You have bruises all over your arms."

"They don't hurt," he said, backing up into the hallway. "I'm going to take a shower."

"What kind of workouts are you doing anyway?"

"The kind that would snap wimpy sticks into little pieces," he retorted, heading towards the bathroom.

"I am not a wimp," she called after him. "What else did Daniel tell you?"

The bathroom door shut and clicked.

She cursed under her breath and went to her room. When she called Chelle, it went straight to voicemail. She wanted to call Brend, but didn't have his number. Besides, he'd smashed his phone. Farren had a phone, but she felt strange calling Farren in order to talk to Brend. Besides, Farren took gymnastics in Tupelo on Saturday mornings. She wouldn't be back until after lunch.

While she tried to decide what to do, she found herself again in the kitchen, stuffing her face with cold French toast that had been left in the fridge under a tent of plastic wrap. More than a few times over the last year, she'd gone without eating. Sometimes, she'd lied and said she planned to eat at a friend's house, just so her mom wouldn't worry about not having money for groceries. On those nights, she'd usually gone to the library.

There was an idea. The library.

Brend had not-so-subtly hinted that she should check out local history.

With a thick slice of egg-fried bread in hand, she started back towards her bedroom, meaning to put on her shoes and grab her backpack, but instead found herself lingering in the hall looking at the framed photos.

Most were of Daniel: school photos, football pics, even one of him and toddler Olli sitting on the front stoop. A couple showed Daniel's parents, who were complete strangers to her. Again she felt bad that she hadn't known his parents were dead—and then annoyed her family had hidden that from her too. But why?

She didn't fix on the pictures of her father. She'd spent plenty of time studying them already. A couple of the photos were of her grandparents, the wedding photo most prominent. And then she was at end of the wall where the hall turned towards the other bathroom and Daniel's room. No photos that way. She turned around and found herself in front of her grandparents' bedroom—dark double doors with curved brass handles.

Her fingers rested on one of the handles. She wasn't a snoop.

When her mom had made it clear that she didn't want to talk about their dad, Olli hadn't pressed the issue. As much as it hurt. When photos had started to disappear, she hadn't asked where they'd gone. But maybe she should have. Chelle claimed that Olli's mom probably didn't know the truth, but she sure seemed as tight-lipped as the rest of the family. Maybe her mom didn't know the truth, or maybe she did and like everyone else, she didn't want Olli to know it.

And again, Olli found herself asking, why?

She listened for Nate. A distant rush of water was the only sound in the house. He was notorious for taking marathon showers.

She turned the handle and pushed open the door. Heart thudding in her throat, her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

The antiseptic-burn of Pap's citrusy aftershave and Mam's rosewater and mentholated Aspercreme greeted her. Light crept around the edges of the long floral drapes. To her right, two nightstands, two lamps, one bed. Behind her, a dresser. To her left, the doors to the closet and the bathroom. In the corner between the curtains and the bathroom door loomed a hulking armoire.

She scanned the room more closely. No photos. Not even a knick-knack.

She shuffled around the bed. A folded newspaper and a pair of reading glasses sat on Pap's nightstand. She picked up the newspaper. Yesterday's headlines had been about the library's upcoming book festival. Today's headlines would be grimmer. Dropping the paper back on the table, her hand bumped the lamp.

She grabbed for it—too slow.

The lamp tumbled towards the floor.

She held her breath, hands clenching.

The lamp landed with a soft _thump_. Not broken.

She exhaled and bent over to retrieve it. When she picked it up, straightening the pleated shade, she noticed the extra felt pads added to the base to raise the height. She turned it over. Taped to the bottom was a key.

Turning, lamp still in hand, she searched the room again. Her gaze rested on the armoire.

With the tips of her fingers, she peeled off the key.

Stomach churning, she padded across the room. The key grew heavier in her hand with each step. What if she found something she didn't want to find? A dead body or dirty magazines, or worse?

She stopped in front of the armoire. Looming over her, the wood shone, so dark it was almost black. Even with the double doors, moving the massive closet into the room must've been difficult. It looked like it would take the whole town to lift it.

And it looked like a good place to hide something. Or to store last decade's fashion mistakes.

Another swell of guilt roiled the acid in her stomach. She hated to think how Mam and Pap—especially Pap—would react if they found her sneaking around in their room. The thought nearly stopped her.

Then that inner voice of hers spoke up. If they'd been honest with her, she wouldn't have to snoop. She could just tell them that she knew, but both Chelle and Brend had warned her against it. Brend had practically begged her not to tell anyone else. Why?

She was getting sick of asking that question. She needed answers.

Slipping the key past the diamond-shaped strike plate, it fit smooth and snug into the lock. A bit of brute strength was required to turn it, but she managed. The lock clunked and clicked as it turned over. The door popped open an inch.

She pulled them open the rest of the way, which also required some strength. Once the doors stood open before her, she saw why.
Chapter 11

**W** eapons.

She stepped back to take it all in.

Spears, swords, knives, even a shield, amongst others she couldn't name. No wonder the cabinet was locked. She imagined Nate finding a cache like this. He'd lose a hand in two seconds.

A pungent, oily scent overlaid aromas of wood and leather and what she guessed was metal. Not that she could recall ever smelling metal before. Not like this. The tang slid onto her tongue like blood, dull and warm.

Every weapon had a place. Most of the swords hung on pegs inside the door, sheathed in leather. Speares lined the interior. Knives slotted into the small spaces between. On the right door, a shield.

She moved closer. Three feet across, the warm-hued bronze was etched with intricate detail. Along the outer edge, a band of bizarre symbols circled, arrows and dots. A language of some kind? Below, muscular figures took various warrior poses, bearing shields and spears. Behind them, bodies lay open-mouthed and wide-eyed in contorted depictions of death.

Olli took a step closer, breathing in the musk of oil and metal.

At the center of the shield, a pair of wings.

She reached up to touch the shield's surface.

The voice inside her whispered, _Take it_.

Closing the doors and locking them, she taped the key back to the bottom of the lamp and rushed out of her grandparents' bedroom.

She ran to her room and shut the door.

She took a few deep breaths to calm her pulse, wiping her sweating palms on her shorts.

Pap's medieval arsenal didn't disturb her as much as her overwhelming urge to take the shield. Take it and keep it.

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she called Chelle. Again, no answer.

Stuffing the phone back into her pocket, she eased down onto the edge of her bed and attempted to clear the scrambled thoughts by finding something to focus on.

Her room still looked like a guest room. From the mint-green coverlet to the generic oil painting of a temperate seascape above her bed—the furnishings might've been salvaged from an old motel's going-out-of-business sale.

Most of her own knick-knacks had been sacrificed in the first move from the townhouse to the apartment, and whatever she couldn't fit in the two bags she'd brought to Horizon Creek was also gone.

She seized her teddy bear, the sole stuffed survivor from her childhood, and clutched him to her chest. He, a stack of worn paperbacks, and a few pieces of cheap jewelry already five years out-of-date were all she owned besides her clothes. Not even enough to fill the dresser. She didn't have any mementos from friends. Not that she'd ever had very many friends. Nate had always been the popular one, even after he'd started acting like a crazy jerk.

She wondered what he would say if she told him what she'd found.

If he knew the truth, he wasn't telling her, which meant he probably would rat her out if she told him. And if he didn't know the truth, he'd want to see the swords. Then he'd break something while swinging one of them around like an idiot, and they'd both get busted.

Besides, he'd never met Booker. He wouldn't know that the wings on the shield were the same as the ones on Booker's forearm. Not just similar, exact.

She held the tatty old teddy out before her. "What does it mean, Frodo?"

Frodo only gazed glumly up at her through plastic eyes so scratched they looked like they had cataracts. She plunked him down next to the pillow.

She peeked through the curtains. Heat-dulled light pressed against the glass and shone over the yard. Next door, the neighbor's ranch looked like a brick oven. The Paiges lived there. They were second cousins, or first cousins once removed, or something like that.

It wasn't going to get any cooler while she sat around. She would go to the library and see what she could find.

Backpack slung over her shoulder, she filled a water bottle in the kitchen. A pair of Daniel's oversized bad cop sunglasses (of which he seemed to have dozens) sat on the kitchen table. She borrowed them.

The walk into town wasn't terrible. A few passing clouds kept the sun from beating on her too much. She measured her steps so as not to break open the scabs on her knees. Her peach tank top and white cotton shorts, both too small and tight, were as well suited to the heat as anything. Still, she reconsidered Mam's offer to buy her some new clothes.

The sidewalks were deserted, the roads saw little traffic. The college was on summer break and the locals probably knew better than to take a stroll on a hot June day.

Situated around a tree-filled square, Old Town, as the locals called it, consisted of cozy brick storefronts and imposing granite municipal buildings. The largest building, the community hall, reminded her of the Board of Trade building back home, with its geometric deco influences. But in spite of the small town charm something about the tidy square was as uninspired as the rows of ranch houses in her grandparents' neighborhood and the motel art above her bed.

Sweat rolled over her, starting at her crown and slipping to her feet, leaving her socks soggy. Beads dripped off the end of her nose. Hair stuck to the back of her neck.

When she pulled open the library's glass door, cool air rushed over her face. She took her first deep breath since leaving her grandparents' house. But before her eyes could adjust, a plump woman with perfect glossy spirals of curls appeared.

"May I help you?"

Olli peered over the top of the woman's head to the deep stacks of shelves. "I wanted to look at some old newspapers."

"I'm sorry, Miss Speare, but you don't have a library card," the woman said.

Olli gazed down at the woman. "Mrs. Miller, right?"

Mrs. Miller smiled, lips closed. "That's right. You'll need one of your grandparents to come in with you to obtain a card."

"I don't want to check anything out—"

Mrs. Miller started shaking her head as soon as Olli began speaking.

"None of the library's resources are available to anyone without a card." She smiled that tight smile again. "I am sorry." She herded Olli back towards the door. "Come back with one of your grandparents, and we would be more than happy to help you."

"But—"

Mrs. Miller opened the door and gave Olli a little push on the small of her back, propelling her into the heat.

"Please, do come back!" Mrs. Miller chirped as the door closed between them.

Olli stood on the top step, fuming. Needing her grandparents' permission for a library card was one thing, but being shoved out like a rowdy drunk by a bouncer was another.

But that's not what this was about though, was it? Chelle had said that most of the town knew about her family's freakishness, which meant they also knew not to talk to her about it. A part of her was impressed by the loyalty. It was nice they protected their freaks, instead of ostracizing them, but mostly she was annoyed.

She wondered again why Chelle and Brend were so against telling her grandparents that she'd inherited the family weirdness. It seemed so much simpler than trekking all over town in the sweltering heat, getting pushed around by cheerful librarians.

Shuffling down the steps, she spied the coffee house across the square. Maybe Chelle was working.

She slugged across the street, through the brief respite of shady trees in the park and across First Street to the coffee shop.

Inside, the aroma of brewing coffee reminded her of Brend. In spite of the disrespect he'd shown Pap, and the fact that a promise his brother had made was more important to him than telling her the truth, she still felt like he was the only one she could talk to, besides Chelle.

The girl behind the counter informed Olli that Chelle worked at the dance studio on Saturdays.

Olli ordered an iced tea and then set off for the studio. About two steps outside the door, the ice in her tea had melted.

She crossed First Street again, this time towards the dance studio. The thump of bass greeted her outside. The shades were drawn up from the plate-glass windows, and she peered inside. Yet another reason she wouldn't be signing up for a class anytime soon. She didn't need the entire town bearing witness to her complete lack of rhythm.

A group of middle-aged women sweated and panted as Chelle guided them through an upbeat exercise. Chelle spotted Olli and waggled her fingers, smiling. Olli waved back. "When are you done?"

Chelle squinted at her, shaking her head, uncomprehending.

Olli held her hand up to her ear, telephone-style. "Call me."

Chelle smiled and nodded.

Olli considering going inside and waiting for Chelle to finish, but she wasn't sure she could sit still and didn't want to get wrangled into one of the Chelle's classes either.

Then she spied a couple of women slipping into Taylor's down the street. Even if all they had were old lady clothes, she might find something that didn't make her feel so exposed. Worth taking a look. If nothing else, she could wait in the air conditioning for Chelle to call.

A few seconds later, Taylor's bell jingled cheerfully as she entered.

"May I help you?" a soft voice asked.

She tensed. A slender man, barely taller than her shoulder, in rimless glasses smiled up at her. With hair as white as new sneakers, he looked older than her grandfather, but without the overwhelming presence. His eyes gleamed blacker than his polished wingtips.

"I'm just looking," she said, waiting for him to shove her back into the heat like Mrs. Miller had.

His smiled gently. "You're Violet's granddaughter. I'm Mr. Taylor. Speares are always welcome here."

She smiled back at him, relaxing. "Thanks."

"You've come to find a dress for Peter's funeral?" he asked.

Her mind blanked. She hadn't thought about Peter since she'd talked to Nate. It hadn't occurred to her that she might go to the funeral, or even that there would be one. That's when it hit her. He really was dead. And just like every other time death brushed by her, she was reminded of her father.

She remembered as much about his death as she did about his life, which was, sadly, very little. She did remember that after he'd died, she'd started sucking her thumb again, and one night she'd asked for him so many times that her mom had yelled at her, and then they'd both cried until she'd fallen asleep.

Every year since, she experienced the grief all over again. Each time the wound tore open and bled. The pain always fresh. At some point, she'd turned to the Tolkien books and reading them had become a ritual. Mostly she'd learned to accept the pain. Fighting only made it last longer and hurt more.

Now, thinking about Peter, she realized that he would be buried in the same cemetery as her father. She still hadn't been to her father's grave. She didn't even know where it was.

Tears blurred her vision.

Mr. Taylor touched her arm. "We all miss him. His kin have all gone on, but he was one of us. We won't forget," he said. "Follow me. I have something upstairs that I think will suit you."

She wiped her eyes and followed him.

In spite of his years, his back was straight and his step quick. They passed the sales counter where a middle-aged woman barely taller than Mr. Taylor, with the same wide jaw and deep-set eyes, smiled at them as they passed.

"Taking Miss Speare upstairs, Wren," he said. "My niece," he added to Olli over his shoulder.

In the back corner of the store rose a spiral staircase. Mr. Taylor led her up.

"It's so rare the young ones come by anymore," he said. "Not even for weddings or funerals like they once did." He paused, mid-flight, gazing down at the racks and the couple of older women browsing. "Most of what we sell now comes from such places . . . no telling where or who made it. But—" He raised a delicate hand as if to say, _Oh well_.

They continued up the stairs to the second floor.

The room was long, the wood floors gleaming. A few dress forms with half-finished clothes pinned to them dotted the room. Finished pieces hung on metal bars that ran along both walls. Dressing rooms interrupted the racks midway. In the center of the room sat a raised platform. At the far end, sinuous black sewing machines gleamed beneath floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Here." Mr. Taylor's shoes _shished_ as he led her to a section of the racks devoted to clothes each whiter than the last. He removed a long dress and held it out to her.

"It's white," she said.

Mr. Taylor placed the wooden hanger in her hands and ushered her towards one of the changing rooms. "Tradition means white for funerals and births, around here."

As soon as he said it, the memory came flooding back to her—a crowd in white. Her father's funeral.

"I remember," she said.

Mr. Taylor nodded as if he knew she did. He pulled the curtain closed behind her.

She changed out of her sweat-damp clothes and into the dress, preoccupied by this new memory of her father's funeral. Everyone had worn white, except her mom. There'd been a fight about it. Her mom had refused to wear white. But she'd let Mam dress Olli in white—that had been the compromise.

Olli had just looked in the mirror when Mr. Taylor gave a polite knock on the side of the changing room.

"Dressed?" he asked.

"Yeah . . ."

He peeked around the curtain. She turned towards him, holding the long sashes of sheer fabric that hung oddly from the waist, unsure what to do with them.

"Allow me," he said with a smile. He drew her out and then stepped behind her, quickly wrapping the fabric around her torso in a crisscross pattern. He knotted the sash at her hip and allowed the rest to drape into the folds of the skirt.

"Step up please," he said, gesturing to the platform.

At first, she was unsure of how to move in the dress. The fabric lay like silk against her skin but looked more like cotton and weighed next to nothing. It looked like it could be worn to a Sunday picnic, or a prom.

He set up a tri-fold mirror in front of the platform.

She blinked, refocusing.

"You're not me," she said to the girl in the mirror.

Mr. Taylor strolled around her. "Not a single alteration," he mused. "I knew it was for you."

Olli continued to stare at Mirror Girl. She stood tall, not awkward. She had curves, nothing like the stick that Olli was, and her complexion glowed deep gold. She gazed at Olli like she didn't recognize her either.

"Ooo." The top of Wren's head appeared just above the floor, between the bars of the staircase. She took another step up so her face could be seen. "So nice to see that dress finally find its match."

Mr. Taylor nodded, smiling. Then he frowned. "Who is minding the store?"

Wren pulled a "busted" face at Olli and then disappeared back down the stairs.

"That girl," Mr. Taylor muttered. He took Olli's hand as she stepped down from the platform, giving her another look over. "A proper dress for a Speare to wear to a funeral." He sighed. "More modest than what was once worn, you know, but my mother used to say traditions that don't alter with time are traditions that are dead." He pulled a pad of paper from inside his vest and started to write on it. "I'll have Wren deliver it this evening."

Olli lifted the skirt. The fabric slid against her fingers cool as water. "I wasn't planning—I mean the dress is beautiful, but . . . how much is it?"

He snorted and looked up at her over the top of his glasses as if he'd misheard her. Then his face smoothed over. "Oh, of course." He cleared his throat and returned to writing. "Allow me to reassure you, Miss Speare, that the cost is of no concern."

"I still think I should talk to my grandma first."

His eyes sparkled. "If you like," he said. "Believe me, though, I've known your grandmother her entire life. If you hadn't found your way here today, she would've been sending you to me tomorrow. The funeral is Monday, you know."

"It is? That seems really soon."

He gave a small shrug.

"Did they do an autopsy?"

He looked up at her again. She blushed, realizing how blunt she sounded.

"I only wondered because I hadn't heard . . . how he'd died," she said.

He pushed his glasses up and looked around the room like he was searching for an answer. Olli's stomach sank. Was it impolite to ask how a person had died?

"I believe they're saying he ingested an unhealthy amount of certain illegal substances," Mr. Taylor finally replied, lifting a wisp of an eyebrow at her.

She forgot her discomfort when she realized what he meant.

"Peter wasn't on drugs," she stated.

He smoothed the burgundy satin of his vest. "No? Well, that's only what was in the paper this morning." He ran a finger along his chin and peered at her from the corner of his eye. "A plausible enough story though, ya?"

Before she could think how to respond, he guided her back to the dressing room.

"Best change now, Miss Speare. I'll send Wren to the cleaners with your dress this afternoon."

She turned, wanting to ask him what he'd meant. Was he saying that he didn't think Peter had OD'd either? That the newspaper had made up the story?

But he pulled the curtain shut.

As she slipped out of the dress, coming up with a list of possibilities why the newspapers might lie about Peter's death, her phone rang. She hastily hung the dress on its hanger and scrambled to dig her phone out of her backpack. She answered without looking at the incoming number, thinking it must be Chelle.

"Hello?"

"What are you wearing?"

She glanced at Mirror Girl. Her underwear and bra stretched thin around her, the elastic fraying.

"Barely anything," she answered tartly.

"Does your phone have a camera?"

She propped her hand on her hip. "What do you want, Brend?"

"Just tell me where you are and don't do anything. I'll be there in a minute."

"Ha, ha. I'm hanging up now."

"Wait, wait," he said. "I'm supposed to pick you up."

"Supposed to?"

His tone shifted from playful to serious. "Farren's been asking for you all day. She convinced Hope to call your grandparents and ask them if you could stay with her tonight."

"You're not messing with me, are you?"

"She didn't sleep last night, Speare. She skipped the gymnastics thing too. She'd feel better if you were here. We all would."

She waited for one of the many obvious inappropriate comments, but he didn't make any. "Okay," she said. "I'm at Taylor's right now."

"Taylor's? Why?"

"I was looking for new clothes, but I guess I'm buying a dress for Peter's funeral instead. Did you know the paper said he OD'd?"

He was quiet for a moment. "I know what the paper said."

"You don't believe it either, do you?" she said.

"They write what they're told." In the background she could hear another voice—high and pestering. "We're going right now," he said to Farren. "We'll talk about this later, Speare. We'll be there to pick you up in a few minutes." His voice turned light. "Don't get dressed."
Chapter 12

**"W** here are we going?" she asked as Brend turned in the wrong direction, away from the river.

His brow lifted. "To the mall, you said you need new clothes."

In the backseat, Farren bounced. "Yay!"

"I wasn't planning on going right now. I don't have much cash on me," she said.

He smiled like she'd said something funny. Farren continued bouncing for a few minutes, chattering about which stores she wanted to go to and seeing a movie too— _pleeease?_ —and then she fell silent. Olli twisted in her seat. Farren's pink cheek lulled on her own tiny shoulder.

"I told you she hadn't slept," he said softly.

"We should take her home."

"Let her nap. If she sleeps too long now, she won't sleep later."

Olli sat back and eyed the confounding, smoldering boy beside her. His hair hung loose, tucked behind his ears. The shadow of a beard darkened his jaw. Heavy shadows smudged the thin skin around his eyes. For as flirtatious and ridiculous he could be, he also swung far too easily into somber and intense, like now.

"You don't look like you slept either," she said.

"I'm used to it."

"Tell me what really happened to Peter. He wasn't a drug addict."

He sidled a look at her. "How do you know?"

She picked at a loose thread on her shorts, debating whether or not to tell him the truth. Not that she was ashamed of her recent past, but she didn't like talking about it either. Everyone in Horizon Creek already seemed to have a negative opinion of her mom. She didn't want to contribute to that.

"I've known more than a few." Then she added more strongly, "Anyone with a serious habit is pretty easy to spot once you know the signs." Except for Booker. She still couldn't tell if he was using or not.

Brend shifted in his seat, angling his chest towards her. His eyes stayed on the road. "Maybe it wasn't a serious habit. Maybe it was a one-time thing."

"He'd just left the Dowager's. He'd stopped by your house to drop off dinner. A casual user wouldn't walk around all day with enough drugs in his pocket to kill himself or shoot up while he was working when he was almost done for the day, not unless he was a complete idiot. Peter was not an idiot. And you're not one to be coy, so spill it."

"I'm not? You've known me all of a day and you've already figured me out?"

"Has it only been a day? Feels like an eternity. Are you going to tell me why the newspaper lied about Peter? Or maybe you want to tell me why my grandpa has a sizable cache of medieval weapons in his closet?"

His eyebrows shot up. "You've been busy." He grinned. "Sneaking around Old Baer's personals—risky business. Doesn't sound like anything I want to be a party to."

Her cheeks burned. "If someone would tell me the truth, I wouldn't have to sneak."

"I agree. Don't get me wrong, Speare. I'm a proponent of full disclosure. If I had my way, you'd know everything, but then again"—his thumb thumped against the steering wheel—"there are things even I don't know. Maybe there's a good reason not to tell you everything."

She crossed her arms and glared out the window. Tidy green rows of cotton sprawled as far as she could see.

"Besides,"—his voice turned apologetic—"I can't tell you much of anything without breaking Booker's promise."

"So break it. I already know I'm a freak. I know my father died protecting your family. And by the way"—she punched him in the arm—"that's for being a jerk to my grandpa."

"Hey!" He rubbed his arm. "I thought you were supposed to protect me."

"Yeah, but protect you from what? Are there other genetic freaks in Horizon Creek? Opposite-Speares? People born with an instinct to kill members of your family? And if a Gates isn't handy, they'll settle for one of your employees? Is that how Peter died? Or was it a shadow that killed him?" She snorted at the absurdity, shaking her head.

Silence filled the cool, dark interior.

She twisted her ponytail. "You can laugh anytime."

He wasn't looking at her. She leaned forward until she caught his eye. She didn't like what she saw. She flopped back.

"I don't believe this," she said, pulse pushing into the next gear. "Which part was true? The killer freaks part or the shadow part?"

His voice was barely audible over the purr of the engine. "Do you really think that what you saw was a shadow, Speare?"

She didn't know what to think. Well, that wasn't entirely true. She knew what she thought—rational, sensible, thoughts. Then there was what she felt—bizarre, intense, inexplicable feelings. But she couldn't make the two come together.

"If it wasn't a shadow, then what was it?"

His lips pursed.

She swore under her breath. "Well, was what I saw in the woods, whatever it was, is _that_ what killed Peter?"

Again, he didn't answer. He didn't even emote. But she could still feel the shift in the air around him when she hit on something close to the truth—like now.

"What is it? A wild animal? Some genetic experiment gone wrong? Are we in _Island of Dr. Moreau_ territory here? Is that how I got stuck with the biological imperative to protect your sorry butt? Give me a hint, or something."

"I'm trying, Olli, but it's tricky."

"I like the fact that you take promises so seriously, really I do, but this is crazy. If you're in danger, I need to know."

"Don't you?" He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. "Know?"

Her heart started pounding out coded messages again. And again, she couldn't decipher them. But she felt like, maybe, she was starting to get the gist.

"You are in danger," she said, feeling it was true and also feeling helpless to do anything about it. "And Peter's death wasn't an accident, was it?"

Brend tapped the steering wheel again, frown deepening.

"I went to the library today, to check out the history section," she said.

He smiled a little.

"I barely got through the door before Mrs. Miller shoved me out again. Did the whole town promise to treat me like I'm from the other side of the river?" she asked.

His smile disappeared. "Other side of the river? Where'd you hear that? And who told you—"

"I'm asking the questions," she interjected. "Did everyone in town promise to keep me in the dark?"

He tilted his head, thoughtful. "You may have noticed that my family has a lot of influence."

"Influence. You mean, money?"

"No, Olli. I said what I meant. I usually do."

"Does this influence have something to do with Pap calling Booker 'sir'?"

"He probably didn't mean to do that," he said and then added, "in front of you."

"So we're not just bodyguards. We're servants."

"It's more complicated than that."

"Of course it is," she muttered.

"Do you know why people marry, Olli?"

She scowled at the redirect, but played along. "Love?"

"You can love a person without being married."

She shrugged. "Tradition?"

"When you get up in front of your community and make a promise"—he glanced at her—"you're not just telling them that you're in love, or that you're committed to each other. You're asking them to support you. And even if some people think you're making a huge mistake, if they care about you, they'll shut their mouths and try to help you keep your promise."

"So, you're saying Booker made a promise and everyone's helping him keep it. That's why Mrs. Miller kicked me out."

"People care about what my family does and what we say and the promises we make."

"And if your influence doesn't come from money, then where does it come from? What makes you so special?"

"My winning personality?"

She laughed. He took his eyes off the road for longer than a few seconds to look at her—too much.

She wiped the smile off her face. _Focus, Speare_.

"All right, so your family is, for some reason, so important that everybody kisses your collective butt. And also so important you have freak bodyguards to protect you, which has probably been going on for a long time because that shield"—her hand clenched, possessively—"was definitely old. But protect you from what? What killed Peter? What did I see? If it wasn't just a shadow?"

She leaned forward and fiddled with the vent. Cool air brushed across her cheeks like a whispery breath.

"I heard whispers," she said, thinking aloud. "I thought it was just the river, or a stream." She rested her chin on her shoulder, looking over at him. "But it wasn't, was it?"

She didn't expect him to answer. And he didn't.

But she knew, down in her gut, that the whispers and the shadow were connected.

She toyed with stereo controls, turning the radio on, staring blankly at the screen as she scrolled through stations, then turning it off again. He didn't say anything.

She put all her sensible, rational thoughts aside and focused only on what she'd seen. She tried to give the shadow definition. Too big to be a wolf or a deer. Too big to be a bear even. Too big.

Again, her heart knocked in her chest. Even if she understood what it was saying, she didn't want to hear it.

"I may read a lot of fantasy novels," she said softly, "but I don't believe in monsters."

"You know what's funny about monsters?" he asked, eyes on the road.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Her heart hurt from beating so hard. "You want me to believe in monsters now?"

"You want to know what I want? Really?"

Fire ignited under her skin again. "Please don't mess with me right now."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"I think Peter's dead—"

"I know Peter's dead," he cut in. "Do you know what I've learned from death?"

She crossed her arms.

"Life is short," he said. "Do you think I want to waste my time messing around?" He sank back into his own seat, glowering at the road. "Or looking for a way out?"

Her phone rang. She scrambled to pull it out of her backpack. The name on the screen read: Chelle. Silencing the ringer, she looked over her shoulder. Farren remained burrowed in the cushy leather, mouth hanging open.

"Who was that?" he asked.

She put the phone away. She could talk to Chelle later when Brend wasn't there, warping the world around him with tension and too-muchness.

"No one."

"The same no one who told you what it means to be a Speare?"

"Do you want to know what I've learned from death?" She matched his flat tone. "It sucks. And there's no getting around it or changing it or fighting it. That's just how it is."

She rested her head against the window, attempting to smooth the crease from between her eyebrows. And failing.

Everything she knew, half-knew, and thought-possible sloshed around in her head like flotsam. But she couldn't grab hold of any of it. She kept sinking down into the depths, where she couldn't breathe, nothing was clear, and a shadow lurked, whisper-whispering like the keeper of a thousand souls trapped in its darkness.

No matter how hard she struggled to return to the surface, where things made sense, where life was reasonable and logical, she only seemed to sink more.

"You're not going crazy, if that's what you're thinking."

The mind reader strikes again. His voice was too kind and gentle. She didn't want to be comforted. She wanted to be annoyed and angry. Those were emotions she could work with. All his soothing sweetness did was turn her into melty custard.

She let her head drop back against the seat. "I don't know what to think anymore. I feel like I'm falling down the rabbit hole."

"And who does that make me? The White Rabbit?"

"I was thinking the Cheshire Cat. I keep asking questions, and you keep giving me answers that make no sense."

He grinned. "They make sense if you're mad."

"I thought you said I wasn't going crazy."

"You can't go crazy when you're already mad."

"Am I mad?"

"You must be, or you wouldn't be here with me."

The car stopped. She blinked, disoriented by the disappearance of the dozy fields and long stands of pine. A group of girls passed behind the car, their laughter sounded distant, like something out of a dream.

Brend rested his arm on the console and took her hand. "I have an idea, Alice, let's leave Wonderland behind and pretend to be sane, normal teenagers. While we still can."

He kissed her hand. A light, quick brush of his lips across her skin.

Sticky, melted custard.
Chapter 13

**F** arren skipped beside Olli. "Then I want to go to the movies. Can we go to the movies?"

"Maybe," Olli said, trying to find her bearings.

The spinning carousel and all the people hustling by made her dizzy. The clash of scents, from the fried haze hanging over the food court to the synthetic fruit cocktail oozing out of the lotion shop, caused her stomach to do a twisting pirouette. Screeching and shouting kids in the play area added to the sensory assault. Having grown up in the city, she should've been immune to the barrage of too many people in too small of a space. But maybe she'd already become accustomed to the languid lifestyle in Horizon Creek, because the urge to run back to the car and hide threatened to overwhelm her.

Even though Farren still had purple circles under her eyes, she bounced on her toes. She'd already listed a dozen stores she wanted to go to and a hundred things she NEEDED. Brend walked beside them in his own personal bubble. Olli couldn't help but notice that every girl of a certain age tried to catch his eye, but he didn't seem to see anyone but Farren and her.

Stepping out of the flow of traffic, between a pillar and what appeared to be an actual living tree, she dug in her backpack until she found her wallet. Less than thirty dollars. That wasn't going to buy her very much, but she could pick up a few essentials. She frowned at the nearest clothing shop, where mannequins struck flirty poses. It would have been better if they'd gone to a big box store. Her money would've gone a lot further.

Brend leaned against the pillar. "Here." He pulled out a clipped bunch of bills from his pocket, unfolded about half of them and put them in her hand. "Spend it."

Farren insinuated herself between them, not that there was much room for her to squeeze into. "Can I get some new nail polish and new shoes? The ones with the—"

"This is for you," he said, handing her a hundred dollar bill. "The rest is Olli's. Make sure she spends it."

Olli thumbed apart the bills—seven, all hundreds. She pushed them back at him. "I can't take this."

"If you don't take it and buy what you need, I'm going to take it and buy what I'd like to see you in. Then I'll send it to your house care of dear cousin Danny. I wonder how he'll feel about my clothing choices for his innocent little cousin."

"Are you evil? Is that it?"

His grin confirmed that he was.

She fixed him with a look she hoped he'd take seriously. "I don't need it." She pressed it against his chest.

He closed his hand around hers.

"Speare, two things. One, don't lie to me. And two, it's your biological imperative to protect my sorry butt, right?"

She could sense some Cheshire Cat-style logic coming on, but didn't know how to avoid it. "So?"

"So it's my biological imperative to clothe yours." He started to back away, leaving her with the money and Farren. "Spend it."

"She will!" Farren said, grabbing Olli's arm and pulling her in the opposite direction.

"Where are you going?" she called after him.

He smiled and half-shrugged. A flow of shoppers filled the space between them until he vanished.

Farren dragged her towards the beat-filled flirty-clothing shop, pointing and "ooo-ing" at everything.

As resistant as she was to spending the money Brend had given her, Farren dogged her. Her own thirty dollars disappeared in a flash. She told herself she'd only spend what she knew she could pay back, but after two hours most of the money was gone. Farren was mostly to blame. She did a store-by-store check of the remaining cash and kept reminding Olli of what Brend had threatened to do if the money wasn't spent. Olli didn't doubt that Brend was mad enough to do it. And the animosity between Daniel and Brend was bad enough.

At the department store, she bored Farren by loading up on not-pink, not-lacy underwear. But she allowed the seven-year-old to dress her up a little at some of the other shops, although most of the time she didn't buy what Farren picked.

"Where would I wear that?" she asked when Farren pushed a sparkling purple tank-top at her.

"Wherever you wanted."

"I don't see the people in Horizon Creek wearing that many sequins. If I stood in the sunlight, I'd blind people." But she took the top from Farren anyway. It was cute. Was there a possibility that she might have an occasion to wear it, like on a date, maybe?

"Brend would like it."

Olli rolled her eyes, but didn't put the top back on the rack. "What do I care if Brend likes it?"

"Because . . ." Farren's cheeks went pink and she covered her mouth, giggling.

"What's so funny?"

Farren opened up her hands, cupping them around her mouth and whispering, "He likes you."

In spite of herself, Olli could feel her skin warming. "Oh, you think so?"

"He wants to kiss you." Farren started giggling so much she got the hiccups.

She handed Farren her cup. Farren had allowed them a break from shopping for smoothies and pretzels, but Olli's stomach continued to growl. All the shopping had worn her out.

Farren sucked down the last of the strawberry smoothie, still hiccupping. Olli took a couple of shirts, including the sequined purple tank, to the register. She flashed Farren the last of the bills, two twenties and a few singles. Farren nodded approvingly. After they'd paid, the girl behind the register started handing her the dozen or so shopping bags they'd left there on the way in.

"Oops, one more," the girl said, handing Olli the last bag. Her bright blue eyes tracked from Olli to Farren. "Are y'all from Horizon Creek?"

"Yes, we are," Farren declared.

The girl nodded. "I visited the college up there last spring. Do y'all like it?"

"We love it," Farren said between hiccups.

"How did you know we were from Horizon Creek?" Olli asked.

"Oh, I could just tell." The girl waved her hand, fingernails decorated with glittering starbursts. "You have that Horizon Creek accent."

"I do?" Olli said, dubious. But the girl nodded.

"My grandma said it's because y'all immigrated here together and then kept to yourselves. She said people used to think y'all were gypsies or something. Until you built the college and the hospital and all that. Where are your people from? I didn't hear nothing about that on the tour and I forgot to ask."

"Someplace nobody's ever heard of." Farren seized Olli's hand and pulled her away. "We have to go now."

"Thanks!" Olli called to the girl.

She waved, smiling.

"Farren, where did the people in Horizon Creek immigrate from?" she asked as Farren dragged her out of the store. She knew her mom's side of the family was a mutt mix, but she'd never asked about her father's side of the family. They didn't quite look like anyone she'd seen anywhere, let alone Mississippi. Maybe some kind of Asian or Arabic or possibly Polynesian or Creole mash-up? She had no clue.

Farren's eyes widened. "Um . . . Can we eat now?"

Olli nodded and Farren led her to the food court.

Another question off limits.

They purchased burgers and fries. Farren carried the tray to the table. Olli dumped the bags and dropped into the chair with a grateful sigh.

"How did I do?" Olli asked, referring to the shopping.

"Good," Farren said. Hiccup. French fry. Hiccup. Burger bite.

"Glad I met with your approval."

"Brend will be happy you bought the purple shirt." Farren grinned.

"That's nice," she said, "but I didn't buy it for him. I bought it because I liked it."

Hiccup. "So . . .?"

"So what?"

Farren snickered. "Do you like him back?"

Olli wiped her greasy fingers on her napkin. Her gaze swept the food court. No sign of Brend. "Did he tell you to ask me that?"

"No."

"Then why are you so curious?"

Farren drowned her fry in a puddle of ketchup. "Because I'm your friend. You tell your friends when you like a boy."

"Oh, is that right?"

Farren nodded as she licked the ketchup off the fry before dunking it again.

"But he's not just a boy, he's your brother. Wouldn't it be weird if I liked him?"

"No." Hiccup. "Do you?"

Olli played with her straw. Obviously she had stupid girl feelings for Brend. But with everything else going on, she'd been able to avoid thinking about them—too much.

"I don't know," she said. "I just met him. You should tell me about him. Why should I like him?"

"Because he's smart and handsome, and he's a really good brother. He reads to me at night," Farren said.

The image of Brend reading Farren a bedtime story tugged hard on her heartstrings, but she stilled them. "Those are all good reasons but, since you're my friend, you should tell me what's bad about him too. So I can make an informed decision."

Farren screwed up her face in exaggeration of thought. "He doesn't let me play on the computer as much as I want to."

"That's not his fault."

Farren picked the seeds off her hamburger bun, one at a time. "Sometimes he stays out all night. And he fights with Booker a lot. Hope says he shouldn't and then they fight too."

Olli leaned towards her. "I'm sorry. Families fight sometimes. My brother and I fight all the time."

"Sometimes he says things to Roper that are mean, but Roper won't fight with him. That makes Brend mad. Hope says he's just dis . . . displating?"

"Displating?" Olli propped her chin in her hand, thinking. "You mean, displacing?"

"Right, displacing. That's it." Farren's nose scrunched. "What's that mean?"

"Um . . . I think it means that he's mad about something, but he's taking it out on Roper and Booker, even though it's not their fault. He takes the anger that should go one place and places it somewhere it doesn't belong."

"Oh." Farren slumped back in her chair, hiccups gone. "That makes sense."

"Does it?"

"He's been different since he came back, since Mom and Dad aren't home." Farren hugged her knees to chest. "I wish they'd come back."

Sensing tears coming, Olli moved over to Farren's side of the table, wrapping an arm around her tiny charge. "I'm sure they'll be back as soon as they can."

Farren whimpered.

"What do they say when you talk to them?" Olli asked gently.

Farren sniffled. "I haven't. They can't call. Hope says phones don't work over there."

Olli frowned and pulled Farren closer. Olli had assumed that Farren's parents called later, when Olli wasn't there. Hope said they were away, but she hadn't been specific about how long they would be gone, or even where they had gone.

"But they email, right?"

Farren shook her head, tears running down her cheeks.

Olli stroked Farren's glossy hair. Where in the world could Farren's parents have gone that they didn't have phone or email? Even astronauts could video chat from space. And what kind of business could be done in a place so remote that phones and email weren't available?

"Do you know where they are?" Olli asked softly.

Farren buried her face in Olli's side. "Far away," she said, her voice a muffled sob.

Well, this wasn't good. Olli scrambled to think of a way to make things better.

"I have a secret to tell you." She bent her head down next to Farren's, taking a page out of Brend's playbook.

Farren pulled back an inch. "What is it?"

"You have to swear not to tell. Pinky swear." She held out her finger.

Farren hooked her pinky around Olli's. Olli put her mouth close to Farren's ear.

"I do like your brother."

The tears dried up in an instant. Olli wished her thoughts could be so easily diverted.

"Are you going to tell him?" Farren asked.

The suggestion was horrifying, but she had to focus on picking Farren's spirits up and not her own mortification. "Do you think I should?"

Farren nodded, vehemently, sitting up straighter. "If you told him you liked him, maybe he wouldn't be so mad and would stop fighting with everybody all the time."

Well, that was an idea. She recalled Mam saying something similar at dinner, about how a girlfriend might help Brend take his mind off things. She wondered why everyone seemed to think that teenage romance would make Brend less moody. In her experience—and she'd had a couple of casual boyfriends in the past—dating only led to more drama, not less.

"Anyway"—Farren's legs began to swing back and forth—"he already asked me if it was okay if he kissed you." Her cheeks flared pink again.

"When did he ask you that?"

"Today, before we picked you up at Taylor's."

Olli's own face felt like a hot plate. She pinched Farren's side playfully. "And what did you say?"

Farren giggled as Olli tickled her. "I said yes!" She squirmed away.

"And when was he going to ask me if I wanted to be kissed?"

His voice was right next to her ear. "How about right now?"
Chapter 14

**S** he hadn't died of embarrassment, but if it were possible for such a thing to happen, she would have.

She diverted attention from herself by prompting Farren to relate every detail of their shopping spree to him. That worked well enough for the time it took for them to leave the mall and return to the car.

They'd spent more time shopping than she'd realized. The sun quickly ran towards the horizon, sapping the heat just a little.

When he popped the trunk, she dropped the few bags he'd allowed her to carry. Charming jerk.

"What the—?"

He lifted a brow, pretending to be offended. "Language, Speare."

She reached into the trunk and picked up the sheathed sword. She held it up to him. "What is this?"

"It's a sword," Farren said matter-of-factly.

"Thank you," she said. "I mean, what are you doing with a sword?" Her eyes locked onto the other item in the trunk. "And a shield?"

He took the sword from her, but she hardly noticed. The shield was almost identical to the one in Pap's armoire—the size, the shape, the sheen, even the wings engraved in the center. And again, she experienced a deep down urge to pick it up.

Brend slid the sword back into the trunk and piled the shopping bags on top.

"Explain," she demanded.

"Brend—" Farren said in that you-promised-not-to-say-anything voice.

"Later, Speare." If the circles under his eyes weren't so dark, she might've argued. He shut the trunk. "Let's go home, ya?"

She bit her tongue, for the moment. They piled back into the car. A few minutes later, after they'd exited onto the highway, Farren was asleep again. Brend looked like he might not be far behind her.

"Are you sure you're okay to drive?" she asked.

"Do you have a permit?"

"No," she admitted. She'd transferred schools after the semester had started and missed out on driver's ed. Her sixteenth birthday had come and gone, but other than moving the van they'd been living in from one block to another, she hadn't even practiced driving. She'd lived in the city; driving really hadn't been necessary.

"I'm fine," he said.

Soon, the city lights faded behind them. Once they turned off the main highway, the road became narrow and lonely. Sunlight died around them.

"What did you do while we were shopping?" she asked.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a new phone. He held it out to her. "Put your number in it."

"Ever heard the word please?" she said, taking the phone from him.

"It has a vaguely familiar ring to it."

She entered her number, thinking about his parents. Hope had said they'd left three months ago. Three months without calling or emailing? Olli noticed that Brend had already entered Hope, Roper, Booker, and Farren's number. Two other names appeared as well, Mom and Dad.

Olli's mom had called every day the first couple of weeks, but then she'd started taking two intensive math and science classes. She'd only been accepted on the condition that she pass the courses before the start of the radiologist program in September. She also worked part-time at the hospital's coffee shop, mostly weekend nights. Still, she called every Monday and Thursday night, along with random texts throughout the day. Olli tried to imagine some circumstance that would prevent her mom from communicating for three months.

Only one word came to mind.

_Death._

She shook the thought away. They couldn't be dead. If they were, why hide it? Clearly, Farren thought her parents were alive. Why would anyone lie to Farren? But she couldn't help feeling like this family had one too many secrets and not just the ones they kept from her.

She started to hand the phone back to him when she noticed the image on the protective case—two glowing green cat eyes and one big unsettling Cheshire grin.

She held it up to him. "Cute."

"I thought you'd like that," he said, taking the phone from her. "You never answered."

"Answered what?"

"Whether or not it's okay if I kiss you."

Death by embarrassment in five, four, three . . .

"You really do say everything you think, don't you?"

"Not everything. There are things I'd like to say, but I'm afraid you might run away if I did."

She chose to ignore his suggestive tone, or the countdown might resume. "Things like where your parents are?"

She knew it would kill the flirtatious tension crackling around them and that was part of the reason she'd asked. But when the mood in the car turned darker than the leather, she found she missed the pin-prickles and fluttery skipping of her pulse. And his smile.

"Why can't they call? Or email?" The level of unease should have made her back off, but for some reason it only made her want the answer more. The tightness in her chest began to build again. "Are they in trouble?" The moment the words came out of her mouth, a switch flipped. Awkward, unsure Olli disappeared, and genetic freak, bred-to-protect Olli took over.

All her senses sharpened. The purr of the engine grew into a deafening roar, the sun seemed to reverse course and grow brighter—the world lit as clear as midday. Pressure built within her, like her inner fizz was being shaken by a paint-mixer. "They are, aren't they?"

"Stand down, Speare," he said, straddling tense and sad. "My parents are . . . beyond your help." A weak smile returned to his face. "But I appreciate the sentiment, really."

"How am I supposed to do anything if I don't know what's going on?"

He sank deeper into his seat. "Maybe you're not supposed to. Maybe you can't. Maybe none of us can."

The engine's roar went up a pitch as he accelerated.

Her eyes snapped open. She shot upright. "Where are we?"

Brend flinched. "Guards, Speare. You want me to drive off the road?"

She twisted around in her seat. Farren snoozed away in the back. Everything outside was black. She couldn't believe she'd dozed off. She'd only meant to close her eyes for a second.

Now, the weariness was gone and her "Speareness" was back into high gear. Sight and hearing, super. Heartbeat, more like heart-thrum. And that pressure in her chest, building.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She didn't know. Scanning out the windows, she could see well beyond the reach of the headlights into darkness that she had no business being able to see into. But Speare Olli wasn't asking questions about how and why, she only had one question.

_Where? Where is it?_

Because she could tell, in the woods closing around them, that there was something out there.

"We're almost home," he said. "We just crossed the bridge."

She turned to look out the back window. The bridge was out-of-sight, the town's streetlights obscured behind the trees. Shadows oozed across the road behind them like an oil spill. Then a flash appeared, as though a massive camera light had flared in the darkness.

Her body clenched.

"Drive faster." Her voice had a disembodied quality to it, cool, but commanding.

Her arms felt light—floaty. Her hands curled and uncurled.

"What is it?" He glanced over his shoulder. She could hear his pulse jump and race.

She rested her hand on his arm. "Just drive. Fast."

He accelerated, but the hills and curves didn't allow him to go much faster than he'd already been driving.

Not fast enough.

Brend cursed. Under his breath he said, "After dark. So stupid."

She searched the blurs of darkness, trying to catch another glimpse.

She hit the sunroof button. Hot wind filled the car and billowed her hair. She gripped the roof and peered out into the shadows beyond the taillights. She closed her eyes and listened.

Above the panther growl of the engine and the white-noise of the wind, she heard . . . _thump thump-thump-thump_ and the softest crunch of leaves. Something was running through the woods to their right, not far behind. She continued to listen. No breathing, no panting, but a softer sound, like water rushing over rocks, like whispers.

She opened her eyes in time to see it again. White flashed over the surface of the creature, the monster, like its skin had blinked. A huge hunched figure, the size of an elephant, but with the gait of a dog, chased after them.

The car swerved and came to a stop. She tumbled, smacking her head on the edge of the sunroof. She landed butt in the wheel well, back to the dash, bracing herself on the door. Pain shot back to front in her head like a table tennis ball.

Brend swore, pressing the button of the receiver clipped to his visor to open the gates.

"What's going—" Farren's voice was sleep-slurred.

"Pop the trunk." Olli shoved her door open and stumbled out. The gates whined softly as they opened—so very slowly.

"What are you—?"

"Do it!" She slammed the door in his face and then raced to the back of the car.

_Thump thump-thump-thump. Thump—_

The trunk popped. She tore the shield free from the heaps of bags and turned, sliding her arm through the cuff at the center, grasping the braided rope at the edge.

Silence. Stillness.

She squinted, pushing her super-vision to its maximum, dissecting the shadows.

The swelling pressure in her chest was near exploding.

Brend opened his door. "Olli—"

"Drive."

"But—"

"Now!" She slammed the rim of the shield down on the pavement.

A sharp tug pulled at her chest, like someone had reached in and torn her heart out. The ground undulated under her feet. A deep _whoom_ filled the air. Her eardrums trembled.

A shrill scream issued from the darkness—a thousand screams. The shriek pierced her ears like a spear through her skull.

And then it was silent.

She fell, almost dropping her shield. Her knees smashed against the pavement. She leaned against the shield, panting. The scream echoed in her ears. She peered over the shield, searching the darkness. Nothing.

Whatever it was. It was gone. For now.

A hand touched her shoulder. She shot up, spun, and shoved Brend. He stumbled into the back of his car.

"I told you to drive."

Farren opened her door, peeking out. "Olli?"

"It's all right," she said, scanning the trees again. "Everything's fine."

Except for the monster. Everything was just . . . fine.
Chapter 15

**B** rend returned to the kitchen. "Farren's asleep." He joined Booker on the opposite side of the counter.

Olli set the scissors down. She'd cut all the tags off her new clothes. She needed to wash some for tomorrow, since they hadn't stopped to pick her up anything from home.

Brend's voice was soft. "She didn't really understand—"

Booker held up his hand, silencing Brend. He stepped forward and rested his hands on the counter. "Olli?"

She looked back at him coolly. Her legs still trembled, and she was one wrong word away from really losing it.

"What happened"—Booker bowed his head, seeming to search the granite for his next words—"isn't something we should tell anyone about."

Her temper flared. "Then I'd better cancel the town meeting I called."

She found it hard to stay mad at Booker though. He was too thin and ashen. And his gentle demeanor didn't help. "I know you're scared—"

"I am not scared," she stated, which was true.

She wasn't afraid of what she'd seen, or even of what had happened. She was confused and angry that she didn't understand, and that no one was helping her to understand. And she worried that she was actually losing her mind.

Brend came around to her side of the counter. She gritted her teeth. She couldn't shake her lingering anger at him. "Olli, listen—"

"No, you listen." She pushed away from the island and off of the stool. "The next time I tell you to do something, you do it. And if you aren't about to explain everything, and I mean everything, then I don't want to hear anything that either of you have to say."

Brend looked at Booker like he was asking for permission. Booker pursed his lips and looked away.

Olli scooped up her clothes and charged to the laundry room.

As she stuffed the clothes into the front-loading washing machine, she took a deep breath for the first time since she'd woken up in full Speare-mode. This didn't help keep the tears back. She dropped back onto her heels, hanging onto the washer's door for support.

She replayed the evening from the moment her instinct had woken her. It had taken her over. That girl in the mirror—she'd taken over. She'd known what to do while Olli had been clueless, like split personalities. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was mad, just like Brend had said. She had another personality. Her other half suffered delusions of grandeur. She thought she was a superhero. She imagined she could see in the dark and hear heartbeats. That was it. Mirror Girl was mad as a hatter. She thought she saw monsters.

A monster with no head, whose skin blinked like a massive eye. Whose scream was still ringing in Olli's ears.

Fingers brushed hers. She snapped upright. Her cheeks were wet and her vision blurred. Brend squatted on the other side of the washer's glass-fronted door. At least he looked apologetic.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you," he said. "I didn't want to leave you behind."

She closed the door and stood up, wiping her face with the backs of her hands. "Just tell me that you saw it."

He stood slowly, a deep furrow in his brow, hands sliding into his jean pockets. He shook his head.

"Great." She punched the buttons of the machine, starting it. The soft _whoosh_ of water filled the laundry room, which was about as big as her bedroom.

"But I heard it," he said, catching her eye. "I heard it when you . . ." His voice lowered. "What did you do?"

"Tell me what you heard," she said, holding her tears down in her throat.

He looked chary for a moment, like he might not be able to answer, either because of some stupid mysterious promise or because he'd been lying about hearing something in the first place. If he didn't answer her, she was prepared to call her grandparents, or Daniel if she had to, and beg them to come pick her up and take her straight to a doctor.

But then he spoke.

"A scream. Or more like a million screams, all in one. I can still hear it."

Her breath hitched. He _had_ heard.

"And you did something too," he said. "I felt it,"—he touched his chest—"here. Like . . . a sub-bass vibration. The ground shook."

Tears trembled on the rims of her eyes.

"You swear? Promise me that you're not lying. You really did hear it?"

"I heard it. I swear."

She took a deep breath and then another. So, either they were both mad, or the blinking-skin monster really did exist. She didn't know which was worse.

"Farren heard it too," he said, looking miserable. "I had to tell her she dreamt it."

"Why couldn't you just tell me it was a dream?"

"Because I promised I would tell you the truth. There is no waking up from this nightmare, Alice. Welcome to Wonderland."

"You know what it is, don't you? You suspected right away, the other morning. What is it?"

His eyes lowered. "You're bleeding again."

She glanced down at the scabs that had torn open. Blood smeared the white tile where she'd knelt.

"Stupid fragile body." Now she needed to wash up again. Then she remembered she'd left her clothes from yesterday in the dryer. Had that only been yesterday?

She opened the dryer and took the clothes out. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Need comp—"

She held up her finger at him. "Not now, cat."

As big as the house was, Olli knew she was alone when she opened the bathroom door. Or, at least, that no one else was awake.

She stopped in the laundry room to move her clothes into the dryer and start the next load, then walked up the hall to the family room. Gentle wavering light flowed off the pool through the glass doors. On the other side of the turquoise glow, the lights in the guesthouse burned.

When she stepped out onto the patio, damp air coiled around her. Her attention turned towards the fence. As she'd showered, she reasoned with her unreasonable alter-ego. They had to try to work together.

Now, she could feel her attention being directed to the fence. It was a strange feeling. It still felt separate from her. An alien instinct. But as she breathed deeply and put her own logical thoughts aside, Mirror Girl's intuitions seemed to coalesce, from murky feelings into almost thoughts.

The fence kept them safe.

She didn't know how or why, but she knew it was true.

A raised voice preceded the guest house door opening. She slipped into the shadows between the lounge chairs and the garage.

Brend stormed out. Booker appeared, a thin silhouette in the doorway.

"You can't walk away from me," Booker called, voiced strained.

Brend turned, holding his arms open in a provocative posture, still moving. "What am I doing? Looks like I'm walking away. What are you going to do? Let me guess. The same thing as always. Nothing!"

"I'm not doing nothing!" Booker took a few steps out of the house and then stopped, half-turning like he wanted to go back. "I'm trying to—"

The edge of Brend's hand slammed down against his palm. "You're wasting your time! There's nothing in those books. Don't you think someone would've found it already?"

Olli cringed. It had only been two days, yet she felt like she'd heard all of Brend's ugliest tones. The worst part was that she could tell they stemmed from some kind of pain. She wished she knew what it was. Not that she could protect him, but maybe she could do something.

"What would you know about it?" Booker said, finally showing some teeth. "You won't listen. You haven't studied. You think I'm going to be here forever?"

Even from the shadows, she could see the looks of pain on their faces. Booker especially looked stricken, as if he might shatter at the slightest touch. He lifted his hand towards Brend like he hoped Brend would take it.

"You'll have time—"

Brend crossed his arms tight, closing up. "Time for what? How long will Dad last? And I don't see you running off to make yourself an heir. How long will you last? I know what kind of time I have. I don't need a book to tell me that. You want to do something? Why don't you do something for Mom?"

"Brend"—Booker rubbed the bridge of his nose—"Mom chose to go."

"So instead of trying to find a way to save yourself, why don't you try to find a way to save her?"

Olli tensed again, just as she had in the car when Brend had pretty much admitted that his parents were in trouble. She'd never met them, but apparently, her freak instinct applied to them as well.

"There is no way—"

"According to your books. But what about _her_? If there's a way, she'll know—"

"No." Booker's voice changed so quickly, from weak and raspy to commanding and final, that Olli flinched. Booker didn't seem to notice, but Brend glanced in her direction.

Booker charged over to his brother and seized his shoulders.

"You may be able to defy me about everything else. But not about this. Do not go to her. She cannot help. Even if she could, what would you have to give up in exchange? Everything, Brend, and more. Mom wouldn't want that. Besides, Mom had her own plan. That's why she left."

"What plan?"

"I don't know, but I forbid you to ask that woman for anything. She's poison. Remember what she did. Remember why we're here. She can't help you."

Brend lowered his head in apparent submission. Booker clapped his brother on the shoulder and then turned back towards the guest house, bare feet softly scraping across the concrete. The door shut.

Brend lifted his head, looking in Olli's direction.

She stepped out of the shadows, lost for words.

After a moment, he turned towards the house. She followed him inside. He plopped down on the couch. She sat beside him. Neither of them spoke.

He grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, and sank into the pillows. Olli tucked her feet up, hugging a pillow to her chest.

"Are you really not afraid?" He didn't look at her. The light from the TV washed all the color from his face, leaving him gray, bloodless.

She searched herself, reaching into the depths where Mirror Girl lived. She shuddered as she felt her other half reach back, so familiar, yet so alien—and so ready, always ready.

_I don't get to be afraid_ , was Mirror Girl's answer. _That's not why I'm here._

She reached over and took his hand. His hand turned in hers. Their fingers threaded together.
Chapter 16

**"O** lli, wake up! Guess what?"

She woke to Farren tugging on her arm, dislodging her from between the couch and Brend. He threw his arm over his eyes.

"Come back later," he muttered.

"I'm going on a ship!" Farren announced, not seeming to find Olli and Brend tangled on the couch together in the least bit interesting. She bounced and performed a ballet pose, arms outstretched, leg up behind her. "It's a princess ship."

Olli pushed upright. Brend rolled over, pinning her leg under his and wrapping his arm around her waist. She pushed her hair back and rubbed her eyes as Farren continued to pirouette around the coffee table. Hope came in, hair wet, eyes bleary, carrying her laptop.

Olli's first instinct was to pronounce that nothing had happened. Instead she cleared her throat and asked, "What about a ship?"

She and Brend had stayed up late talking—he'd told her about the rigors and absurdities of boarding school, his love of yachting, some of the dumb pranks his old friends had played, and she'd told him about losing her dad, growing up in the city, and even about being homeless—and then they'd just fallen asleep. She didn't want Hope to think . . . well, Brend hadn't even tried anything. She might've been a bit disappointed, though she'd enjoyed talking to him—really. It had been so easy and kind of a relief. She hadn't realized how much she'd wanted to talk about everything that had happened to her over the last year. He'd just listened without any hint of judgment. She'd needed that. And after all the guessing games, it was nice to have a conversation sans mystery.

But Hope looked about as interested in Olli's love life as Farren.

The doctor slid her laptop onto the island. She blinked at Olli, trying to focus, eyes blood shot. Did anyone in this family sleep?

"A two week cruise," Hope said. "She's going with a good friend of mine and her daughter. I booked it this morning."

Olli understood both the tone and the look on Hope's face. A weight lifted off of her chest.

Farren continued to prance, cooing, "Princess cruise."

"Good," Olli said. "When does it leave?"

"Not until next week." Hope filled the coffee pot with water and gave Olli another significant look. "Hopefully, we can survive until then."

"I'm going to pack!" Farren declared and bounded off, out-of-sight.

Olli pushed at Brend until he rolled off of her.

"What?" he said, grumpily.

She climbed over him and joined Hope at the kitchen island. "You know what happened?" she asked Hope.

Hope nodded. "Booker called me last night."

Olli rested her hands on the counter, feeling that she and Mirror Girl were both on the same wavelength, for once. "You should go too."

"I wish I could, but there's no one to cover. We're understaffed as it is."

"Then what about him?" She notched her thumb back at Brend. "And Roper? Where is Roper?"

"He went to a concert in Jackson last night," Brend said, standing up. "And I'm not going anywhere."

The doorbell chimed. Hope hit the brew button on the coffee maker and then went to answer the door.

Olli turned to face Brend, stuffing all the girl-feelings into a box and sitting on the lid. "You should leave too."

He stretched and yawned. "Nope."

She leaned her hands on back of the couch. "After what happened last night, I think you would all be better off someplace else. Far away."

He leaned across the couch too, his hands covering hers. "Sure, Speare. I'll head for the hills . . . if you come with me. Do you think your grandparents would let you take a two week cruise with me? What do you think cousin Daniel would say about that?"

She slid her hands away. "Don't be—"

"Don't be what? Honest? I'm not going anywhere. And here's another completely unpromise-related factoid: even if you could convince Hope and Roper and me to go, there is nothing you could say that would make Booker leave his fortress of solitude. Nothing. So let me ask you this, Speare. Can you leave town without Booker?"

Before she could think about it, Hope called out from the hall.

"Olli! Your brother is here."

She frowned and glanced at the microwave clock. Then she hurried to the door. Whatever had gotten Nate out of bed at this hour had to be urgent.

But when she reached the door, she found Nate looking bored, and battered. Both of his eyes were black. His arms under his rumpled T-shirt looked even worse than they had the day before. At least he smelled like he'd showered—and then been attacked by body spray. She wished someone would teach him how to moderate. In the driveway, Daniel's truck rumbled, his music blared. He stared straight ahead like he had blinders on.

Hope lingered inside the doorway, two large dishes in her arms, one stacked on top of the other. Olli knew Mam's work when she saw it. No doubt Mam thought all the Gateses were starving without Peter.

"What happened to you?" she asked Nate.

Nate held out the garment bag by its hanger. "Here. Mam didn't know if you were staying another night, so she sent this."

She took the dress.

He turned. "Later."

"Wait." She stepped onto the stoop. The sun still hid behind the trees, but the air already sweltered. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You have two black eyes."

Nate touched his face like he'd forgotten. "Oh, yeah. It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"How did it happen?"

Nate waved her off and started to walk back towards the truck.

"Where are you going?" she called after him.

Nate turned, still walking. "To the mall. I have to buy some nice white clothes." He made a face. "Whoever heard of wearing white to a funeral? Anyway, I don't know why I have to go. I didn't know the guy." He reached the truck and opened the door, but didn't get in. His gaze strayed past Olli.

She glanced back. Brend leaned against the threshold.

Nate smirked. "Babysitting, huh?"

He jumped into the truck. The engine revved deafeningly and then roared around the looping driveway back towards the gate.

She could feel Brend move closer to her without even turning around. "Your brother looks like a Speare."

Around noon, Roper returned.

When he opened the patio door, hair an adorable mess, eyes alight, grinning, she didn't understand why he was so happy until she saw the beautiful young woman behind him.

Farren scrambled out of the water and onto the edge of the diving board. "Chelle! Chelle! Hi! Watch this!" She struck a ballet pose.

"Excellent, Farren! _C'est bien_!" Chelle called.

Farren bowed and then jumped into the pool.

Olli put her phone aside and stood up. She'd been making a list of questions, meaning to call Chelle the first free moment she had. But Farren had been stuck to her side all morning, almost as much as Brend had, though not quite as literally.

When Farren had dragged them outside, Brend had hooked Olli around the waist and pulled her onto the double lounger in the shade. She made it clear that no more cuddling would occur until they'd had a serious talk. _Not when Farren's around_ , he'd said. Then lowered his sunglasses and leaned back. She understood his reluctance, appreciated it even, but she was sick with questions. Even if he couldn't answer them, she was willing to play the Cheshire Cat's game to get even a little closer to some answers. But the cat wasn't playing. Except with the ends of her hair, which she pretended wasn't filling her with flutters. In spite of the heat, he'd insinuated his leg under hers as she sat cross-legged mulling over her list of questions. She had to stay focused. No matter how unfocused he tried to make her.

When Chelle appeared, it was like an angel had been sent from heaven. Olli smiled at them as they strolled over, both looking far too good considering their casual attire.

Brend propped himself up on his elbows. "What is she doing here?"

Olli's hand whipped against his chest, but his scowl only deepened.

Chelle looked on coolly. Roper continued to smile. Olli remembered how Farren had said that Roper refused to fight with Brend. But considering that Olli had been avoiding mentioning Chelle's name, because she knew it would set him off, it seemed like Roper's choice of a visitor was, if not provocative, then definitely passive-aggressive.

"I invited her here for lunch," Roper said. "We ran into each other at the concert. She gave me a ride home."

"What happened to your car?" Olli asked.

"He doesn't have one. He crashed it last spring," Brend said, his voice falling quickly into their depths.

"Right after I got it." Roper said with a grin. He gestured to a chair on the opposite side of the umbrella. "Please, Chelle, sit. Can I get you a drink? Iced tea?"

"Guards," Brend muttered. "You're acting like a Paige."

"Ignore my brother," Roper said, ushering Chelle into the seat. "He's suffering a particularly acute case of crass narcissism."

"Better than denial and delusion," Brend said, pushing up from the lounger. "Let's have a chat, Brother."

"I'll be right back," Roper said to Chelle. He headed back towards the house.

Brend followed.

"That was awkward," Olli said after Brend had slammed the door behind him.

Chelle smiled with a shrug. "I know I shouldn't have come. But . . . Roper is quite sweet." She said this in such a way that she might've been talking about a puppy. She set her purse down and crossed her long legs. "You never called me back yesterday." She glanced over at the patio doors, through which Brend and Roper could be seen facing off. "It would be nice if they were fighting over me and not about me."

Olli frowned. She would've preferred not to see Brend fight at all, about anything. She'd already seen him fight too much.

"But it looks as though Brend has already found himself _une amante_. Kudos, Olli. You made quick work of that one. I never would have pegged you for a seductress."

Olli stiffened. "I didn't—we're not—"

Chelle's smile only made Olli tenser. "Really now, Olli. I thought we were friends."

So had Olli, but she didn't really know Chelle any better than anyone else in town, did she? Again, she wondered why Brend disliked Chelle so much. Maybe he had a good reason.

"So," Chelle said, leaning towards Olli, "have you had time to think about our last conversation? I'm certain you must have many questions."

Olli let out a breath, smiling a little. "I have a list." She held her phone up for Chelle to see.

Chelle nodded. "I'll do my best."

"But first,"—she took a drink from her water bottle—"I have to tell you about what I saw last night."

Chelle's legs slid back so her toes pointed to the ground. "You saw something?"

Olli told her, about her instinct waking her, the blinking monster, and what she'd done to it.

Chelle's eyes widened as Olli described pulling the shield out of the trunk and releasing her sub-bass blast at Blinky.

"It was like my chest exploded—"

"Of course, I should've known," Chelle said, flopping back in her chair.

"Known what?"

Chelle's gaze was distant, but full, like her thoughts were scrolling in front of her on fast-forward.

"Chelle? What should you have known?"

Chelle started and then refocused on Olli, her expression hard to read, but something in it unsettled Olli, like it would be better if she got up and walked away from Chelle as fast as possible.

Chelle glanced towards the twins (still arguing) and Farren (still splashing), and then she leaned in towards Olli, reaching across the table like she wanted to take Olli's hand. Olli stayed where she was.

"You're not a Speare. You're a Shield. It's been so long since there's been one, it didn't occur to me. And I would never have guessed that a half-breed . . . well, that you would be capable of such things."

Olli frowned. "What do you mean? My last name isn't—"

"It's not about your surname, Olli. Well, it is, but let's not confuse matters more. Shield was also a surname of your ancestors. Long ago, Speares and Shields took their names not from their fathers or mothers, but from what they were. What they could do."

"You mean what I did last night, my mega-bass blast, that makes me a Shield?"

"Correct."

"But you said I had a freak gene, an instinct, not superpowers."

"Not every Shield has the ability to do what you did last evening. Not even the ones in the old world." Chelle leaned down so her eyes leveled with Olli's. Her chin almost touched the table between them. "It's special, Olli. Very, very special."

But Olli didn't feel special, she felt queasy. She looked down at her list of questions, trying to make the words come into focus.

"Okay," she said, after a moment, "So I'm a superhuman freak. What was that thing I saw last night? What is Blinky?"

But before Chelle could answer, Roper opened the door, carrying Chelle's iced tea. Brend trailed behind him, glowering at Chelle.

"Thank you, Roper," Chelle said, taking the glass from him.

"Speare." Brend notched his head back towards the house.

She shook her head. "Chelle and I are talking."

"Wonderful," he said, sounding not-at-all pleased. "A word?"

Olli didn't want to go. She hadn't had any of her questions answered yet. But Roper gave her a please-get-my-brother-out-of-here look. She slid off the lounger and followed Brend back inside. He closed the door behind her.

She rounded on him. "I can't believe you are so rude—"

"You can't trust her," he said, turning so he could keep one eye on Chelle and Roper.

"Can't trust her? Why not? Why do you hate her so much?"

"I don't want you talking to her."

She stared at him. "You're telling me who I can talk to?"

"You have to trust me—"

"Trust you? Why? Because you've been so forthcoming? You're worse than Daniel. I'll talk to whoever I want to talk to—"

He shook his head. "That's not what this is about. I'm not trying to control you, Olli. I'm trying to warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

"That—" He pointed towards Chelle, who smiled a truly seductive smile at Roper. "She may seem harmless, Olli, but she's not. My brother wants to pretend the past doesn't matter. Maybe the rest of the town can be complacent, but if she finds out what you are—"

"You mean if she finds out I'm a Shield?"

He tilted his head like he hadn't heard her right. Then he turned towards her fully.

"What did you say?"

"Shield. That's what I am."

"How—"

"She told me. She's the only one who's told me anything that's helped me make any sense of this. And you should be glad. If it weren't for her I'd probably be on a bus to Atlanta right now, or in a mental ward, because I feel like I've been going crazy. So don't tell me not to trust her when she's the only one who's been telling me the truth."

Brend brought his hand to his head, staring at her like she'd told him she'd murdered someone.

"You told her."

"She told me, Brend. She told me what it means to be a Speare, or I guess, a Shield. What's wrong with that?"

He gazed back out towards Chelle and Roper. "You told her the first day we met?"

"Yeah, before Peter died. So? Are you going to tell me—?"

"If she'd given you up, we'd know already," he murmured, seemingly to himself. "Probably."

"Given me up? What does that mean?"

"She has to promise," he said more strongly. "That's the only way to be sure she won't tell."

"Won't tell? You mean you want me to make her promise not to tell the truth, like the rest of you? No way."

"No, Olli." He grasped her upper arms. "You have to make her promise not to tell the Dowager that you're a Shield. You have to do it today, before she leaves . . ."

The subtle tremble in his eyes vanished, replaced by a hard faceting.

"Or," he murmured, releasing her, his tone far too grave, breaking her out in goose bumps, "I'll do it."

He strode around to the other side of the counter and kicked the cabinet.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He bent down. When he stood up again, he held a sword.

"What the—are you crazy? Where did you get that?"

He tossed the sheath onto the counter and stormed outside, blade flashing at his side.

She ran after him. By the time she'd scrambled out the door, he'd already shoved Roper into the pool. Farren rushed to Olli, intercepting her.

Brend grabbed Chelle and shoved her back, pressing her up against the garage. He brought the sword edge to her throat. Chelle maintained a cool expression, almost like she'd been expecting to be attacked with a sword.

"Farren, go to your room," he said, his back to them.

Farren clung to Olli. Olli pulled her free.

"Go inside," she said.

Farren shook her head, eyes wide as a frightened rabbit's.

Olli nodded. "Yes." She guided Farren back towards the door. "It's okay, I promise. I'll be right in." She bent and cupped Farren's face in her hands. "I won't let anything happen. Okay? Believe me?"

After a second, Farren nodded. Now if only Olli could believe it.

Olli gave her a nudge inside and then closed the door. She watched Farren pad uncertainly through the living room and then into the hall. She guessed Farren wouldn't get far from peeking distance, but she had other things to worry about, like keeping Brend from committing murder.

She moved towards Brend and Chelle, but didn't come too close, afraid she might bump him and accidently cause him to cut Chelle's throat. Roper had pulled himself from the water, but he didn't move. He stood at the edge of the pool, dripping wet, chest heaving, watching. So much for back-up.

"Brend, let her go," Olli said.

"Just as soon as she promises to keep her mouth shut," he said.

Chelle was admirably nonplussed considering the few thin layers of skin between the sword and her artery. "You know a promise made under duress is the weakest of vows."

"Not if I draw blood."

Chelle's eyebrows arched. "Is it such, and so quickly?" Her large almond-shaped eyes combed his face. "I see," she said with a smile. "I admire your passion, young sire. It reminds me of your great-great-grandfather. _Il était très passionné_."

Brend stepped back.

Olli reached for him, not sure what he was going to do. Maybe plunge the sword into Chelle's stomach. She caught his arm, just as he slashed the blade across his own palm. She stared at the red gash, stunned. He tore his arm free from her and slapped Chelle across the face, leaving a smear of crimson over her cheek and mouth.

He lifted the sword again, this time at Chelle's chest.

"Say it."

Chelle's tongue touched the blood on her lip. "And what if I don't? You can't kill me."

"That's what they say. But maybe they didn't try very hard."

"Believe me, they tried."

Olli looked at Roper again, but he just stood there. Why didn't he do something, or say something?

"Brend, please, stop." She started out in the softest, calmest voice she could manage considering she was shaking. All she wanted to do was rip the sword out of his hand before he did any more harm with it. "This is crazy."

"Listen to _votre_ _amour_ , Your Highness. She is only here to protect you."

"You know what's out there," he said, still pointing the sword at her.

Chelle's face turned gray.

"I wonder what would happen if I tied you up and left you on the other side of the fence after dark?"

"You're making a mistake," Chelle said. "I never had any ill-intent towards Olli. I quite like her, in fact. She may be a Shield, but she is not like the rest of you. And I have no love for Lady Gates."

"No one does," he spat. "Now say it."

Chelle held up her hands, as if in surrender

"I vow not to divulge the Shield's presence to Her Dowager Highness. May the word be sealed by the blood of the constant heart. And the word is . . .?"

"Shield," he growled.

"Shield," Chelle repeated.

A long moment passed, and then slowly, Brend lowered the sword. 
Chapter 17

**"N** ow leave," he said.

Blood dripped from his fingertips. It pained Olli to see it, even though he'd done it to himself, or maybe because of that.

Chelle straightened up, brushing a few wisps of burgundy-hued hair from her high forehead. She smiled at Olli. "You look rather confused, dear Olli."

"Don't talk to her," Brend said in a soft threatening tone.

"Oh, but you don't wish me to explain?" Chelle said, taking a step away from the garage. "Perhaps you'd prefer to do so . . . Oh, but you can't, can you?"

The point of the sword lifted a few inches and then lowered again. Brend's face was stone.

Olli touched her sweat-slick forehead. "What is happening?"

Chelle continued to move forward cautiously. Brend stepped back, allowing her enough room to reach her purse.

"I've made a promise, Olli. Do you remember the woman we saw at Creamers? The one with the scars?"

Olli nodded.

"If I break the vow I made, something quite similar will happen to me."

Olli's head ached, not sure she understood what Chelle was saying. "You mean someone will hurt you, like—"

Chelle bent over and picked up her purse, smiling at Brend coldly. "She really doesn't understand anything at all. How frustrating for you." Then she turned to Olli. "I will tell you this much Olli, because I liked you. No one will hurt me if I break my vow. They won't have to _do_ anything. The broken promise will exact its own punishment. Should I speak of your true nature to the old witch queen, in that very moment, I will suffer."

Olli felt like the concrete beneath her had turned to liquid. "You mean, like . . . magic?"

"Not _like_ magic, Olli. Very much magic." She walked towards Olli. Unlike Brend, Olli didn't move at her approach. "And I will tell you something more. The word Shield, if the Dowager should speak it to me, then the power of the promise is broken. And in that unlikely event, I may speak freely of you and fear no retribution. It is the word. Every promise has one. As every lock has a key. The promise Booker made has one. If you can discover it, then their promise to treat you as an outsider will be broken."

She glanced back at Brend, smiling daggers. "And then he will be able to tell you _everything_. I can only imagine what a great relief that would be for him, to be able to share with you all he thinks and fears and feels. I suppose I could venture a guess at what the word might be, but . . ."—her tongue touched the blood still on her lip—"I don't think I will."

The back of her fingers brushed Olli's cheek—even in the heat, they were cool. "I am sorry that we can no longer be friends." She leaned in, whispering, "If I were you, I'd worry less about protecting them and more about protecting yourself."

Then she turned and left.

Olli watched her go.

"I guess I'll . . . go check on Farren," Roper muttered. His soaked shoes squished as he walked by her, not meeting her eye.

Once Roper was gone, Olli gazed at Brend waiting for him to say something. But he didn't. He stood there, staring at the ground, bleeding.

She threw her hands up in the air and stormed back inside. She was halfway across the kitchen when Brend opened the door.

"Speare, wait."

She stopped, barely able to breathe. She was spinning, disappearing down the vortex, and she was starting to feel like he was the one who'd pulled the plug on her.

"I had to do it." He set the sword down on the counter and turned on the faucet. He stuck his injured hand under the water, wincing. He hadn't even flinched when he'd sliced himself open.

"You're all nuts," she said. "You're completely out-of-your-minds, and if you think I believe any of it, then—" She shook her head. No, this was it. This was where she drew the line.

And then, he rolled his eyes.

A silent explosion rocked through her. For a second, her vision went black, like she was about to pass out from the swell of rage. Her bones quaked. Bile burned her throat.

"We're not getting anywhere—" he said, leaning on the edge of the sink as the water continued to pour over his hand.

"You're right, we're not," she said. "You're a psychopath. Stay away from me. I don't want to talk to you, ever again."

"You don't mean that." Gaze fixed on his wound.

"Don't tell me what I mean—"

"You're just scared."

"I am not scared. I'm done. I'm finished." She started to walk away, but found her anger stalling her. "You pulled a sword on someone! That is not something a normal person does!"

"And you faced a monster last night, Olli. Do you think that's normal?" He turned off the water, grabbing a dishtowel to staunch the bleeding. "Do you think you can just say you're finished and it'll all go away? If that were possible, don't you think I would've done it a long time ago? Do you think I like this?" He picked up the sword and then threw it down again. Metal clattered against stone, setting her teeth on edge. "This is what we have to do. This is who we are. But I don't blame you for wanting out. I want out too. More than you know."

Inside, she grappled with Mirror Girl, who responded to everything that had happened and everything he'd said with cool acceptance. Meanwhile, Olli fought back with all her fire against the encroaching insanity of it all. Monsters and superpowers and now magic promises?

The burning wellspring of tears surged up from her chest, fountaining into her throat, and threatening to spill over the rims of her eyes.

"I can't do this." She held up her hands, feeling like she needed to push him away, even though he stood across the room. "It's too much."

He bowed over the counter, resting his forehead on his fists for a moment.

Her desire to go to him when she still burned with anger stupefied her. She couldn't even tell which part of herself was furious and which wanted to comfort him. With all the confusion she was already experiencing, she didn't know how to handle any more.

When he stood up, the expression on his face was as cold and removed as a sword behind glass. "You're right. It is too much. I don't know why I expected—" He stopped himself. When he started again, the emotion was wiped from his voice. "You don't belong here." He picked up the sword and strode towards the hall, pausing at her side for a moment. "Why don't you go home to your mother?"

She clutched her phone, staring down at her mom's number.

_If it doesn't work, Olli-girl_ , her mom had said just before putting Olli and Nate on the bus, _you tell me. I don't know what we'll do, but we'll find a way_.

She wanted to call her mom and tell her that she couldn't stay here, not even a second longer. But somewhere in the back of her mind, Mirror Girl muttered about being a quitter.

Olli had never been a quitter.

She slid the phone into her pocket and rapped lightly on Farren's door.

After a second, she opened it and peeked inside. Farren sat on her bed, huddled against Roper's side, both of them had towels draped over their backs. He looked at Olli with a pleading expression.

Olli cleared her throat. "Do you need anything?"

"Where's Brend?" Farren asked. "I want Brend."

Olli didn't know where Brend was, she assumed in his room, wherever that was. She'd never been down the stairs farther than Farren's room.

"Brend is . . ." She didn't know how to finish the sentence. Insane? Infuriating? Infectious? She was sure if she went through enough _in-_ words she'd find the one that covered all the conflicting emotions she felt even saying his name.

"Where's Chelle?" Farren asked.

"She went home," Olli said.

_And maybe I should too._

Then, seeing the look on Farren's face, she added, "She's fine."

"See, I told you," Roper said, disengaging from Farren. "No big deal."

He edged away, through the purple princess fantasy of Farren's room. Olli frowned at him as he passed by.

He gave her a shrug and left.

"Nice," she said with a sigh. She went to Farren, who hugged her doll to her chest. Olli ran her hand over Farren's cold wet hair. "Why don't you take a warm bath and get dressed?"

Farren shook her head, but Olli guided her off the bed and across the room to the bathroom—also purple. Purple fish, purple mermaids, purple bubbles.

Olli started the bath, holding her fingers under the rush of water until she got it to the right temperature.

Farren looked up at Olli, clutching the towel around her. The depth in her eyes made her look much older. "Roper said Brend did it to protect you."

Olli focused on the water gushing into the tub. "I don't know—"

Farren grabbed Olli's arm. "He _did_ do it to protect you, from _her_. You don't know what she's like, Olli. She's not nice. If she knew about you, you would have to work for her, just like the rest of your family."

"You mean . . . the Dowager?"

Farren nodded, her cherub's face grave. "She's mean, and scary. You wouldn't want to work for her, Olli. And if you did, then you couldn't be here with us. You want to be here with us, don't you?"

Olli rubbed her eyes. "I don't know what I want right now, Farren."

Farren came so close she bumped into Olli's knee.

"There was a monster last night, wasn't there?" she asked in a whisper.

Olli's mouth fumbled for the lie.

"Brend said it was a dream, but it wasn't a dream. There was a monster and you made it go away, didn't you?"

Olli gazed at Farren, biting her lip. After a moment, she nodded.

"Were you scared?" Farren asked.

She shook her head.

"Not even a little?"

Olli shook her head again, hardly believing it was true. But feeling it, deep down.

"I was scared," Farren said. "Brend was scared too."

Olli took a handful of lavender-scented bath beads and tossed them into the water, watching them bob and swirl. She wanted to ask why they were all so scared of the Dowager. And why had Chelle called her "the old witch queen"? If she'd meant it metaphorically, or if she'd meant something else . . . something Olli still couldn't wrap her mind around. But when she thought about asking Farren any questions, she remembered the woman at Creamers. The thought of harm coming to Farren, of any kind, was unacceptable, regardless of whether or not she believed a broken promise could burn someone like that.

"Get undressed," Olli said, turning off the water.

Farren handed her towel to Olli and peeled off her bathing suit. Olli took that too. Farren climbed into the tub.

"You're not mad at him, are you?"

Olli tossed the chlorine-scented clothes into the hamper and pulled a fluffy purple towel from the cabinet. She wasn't mad, she was in-mad. And she couldn't quite pull herself out, no matter how much she wanted to.

Farren continued to stare at Olli with her overlarge, sad eyes. "Don't stay mad at him, okay?"

"Farren—"

Farren gripped the edge of the tub. Water sloshed up against the side. "He was happy today, Olli. He's never like that anymore. When you find out . . ." Farren bit her lip. "When you find out the truth, you'll understand why he did it. I know it was mean, but . . ."

Olli could tell that Farren was searching for some way to defend Brend without breaking the promise.

She reached over and snagged Farren's scrubby and soap from the ledge. "Don't worry about it, Farren, okay?" She knelt by the tub, squirted some soap onto the scrubby and handed it to Farren. "All you need to think about is what you're going to take on your trip."

"Chelle's not like us, Olli," Farren said in a quiet voice.

Warning bells went off inside of Olli. "Farren, stop talking, all right?"

"But—"

Olli stood up. "I mean it. You don't have to worry about this. I'm going to—"

Going to what? Run away? Stick her fingers in her ears and sing, _there's no such thing as monsters or magic_ , until it was true again? But it would never be true again. It had never been true in the first place. Hadn't it always been her policy to accept the things she couldn't change and move on? Did she think being mad at Brend or running away to Atlanta would change anything? Other than making her more miserable than she already was?

Her knees gave out. Luckily, the lid on the toilet seat was shut. She sat down hard, sucking deep breaths.

_There are monsters. There is magic._

See? Was that so hard?

"Olli? Are you okay?" Farren asked. "Are you going to puke?"

"No." Then again, maybe . . . She took another deep breath, a steadier one. "No, I'm not going to puke."

She glanced at the girl in the mirror. She looked older than the last time Olli had noticed her, only the day before. And she looked stronger. Olli could believe that the girl in the mirror wasn't afraid of monsters. Something in her eyes was dangerous, powerful . . . deadly.

Olli shot up. "I'm going to make lunch," she said. "Are you okay?"

Farren looked uncertain for a moment. "I'm okay if you say you're not mad at Brend."

Olli folded her arms. "I am mad at him."

"But—"

"It's not because of what he did to Chelle, okay? Do not try to explain."

"Did he do something wrong?"

"Yes, he did something wrong."

"What?"

_He was a jerk. He rolled his eyes at me and then told me go home, like I was a little kid._

"Don't worry about it, okay?" She started towards the door.

"My mom always says that if you're mad at somebody, you should try to talk them and explain why your feelings are hurt." Farren's voice rose as Olli continued to walk away. "Because if you don't then things just get worse and then you risk losing a friend!"

Olli shut the door behind her.

She appreciated Farren's concern, but the truth was (since she was facing so much of it at the moment), she wasn't so much mad at Brend for what he'd done and said.

She was scared.

She was scared of how deeply he'd been able to hurt her. She wasn't scared of monsters. But she was scared of that.
Chapter 18

**S** he put Mam's lasagna into the oven. There really wasn't much food in the refrigerator. Vaguely, she wondered who would do the shopping now that Peter was gone.

She debated whether or not to call her grandparents and ask them to come pick her up. She was surprised they hadn't checked up on her. But then, they were always so busy at the Dowager's house.

Olli wandered over to the patio doors. Outside, the light glared. Heat pounded against the glass. Brend's blood splattered the concrete. Underfoot, spots of it had dried dark on the white tiles.

_May the word be sealed by the blood of the constant heart_ , Chelle had said. Olli gazed at the blood like the stains might reveal a hidden message. Did the blood have something to do with the magic?

_Not like magic_ , Chelle had said. _Very much magic_.

A part of Olli remained resistant to the idea, but that part grew weak. After everything she'd seen and experienced, why was the existence of magic such a shock? When she considered it, magic explained the situation much better than anything else. But did that mean her Shield power was magic too?

She stared down at her hands like she might see some trace of magic, sparkling fairy-dust fashion, on her palms. She didn't. Magic made sense though. More sense than some freakish bodyguard breeding program. When she let herself use magic as the explanation, for her power, the Blinky monster, and everyone taking their promises so seriously, it all seemed much less frustrating.

But if magic wasn't _the_ big secret, then what was? What had Booker promised to keep from her?

The word was the key that could unlock the promise.

She gazed across the courtyard at the guest house. Booker had made the promise. He knew the word. Maybe he couldn't tell her, but maybe it was time she discussed it with him.

Moments later, she was knocking on the guest house door.

After a time, the door opened a crack.

Booker blinked, like he couldn't focus.

"Olli." He opened the door wider, looking around, tense. "Is something wrong?"

"No . . . um, yes. Brend forced Chelle to promise not to tell the Dowager that I'm a Shield."

Booker blinked again, this time finally seeming to see her. "Chelle told you that you're a Shield?"

Olli cocked her head. "You knew?"

Booker wetted his lips and then stepped back from the door. "Why don't you come inside, please?"

Entering the guest house was a completely different experience from entering the main house. The foyer was small, painted burnt gold, and dimly lit by frosted-glass sconces. A closed-in mustiness hung in the air—dust and Booker's unwashed musk. And everywhere, there was stuff. Books and boxes mostly. It looked more like a forgotten storage unit than a guest house. After the way Brend had treated Chelle, it was little wonder the Gateses didn't entertain many guests.

Booker led her through the hall. She walked stiffly, afraid to brush up against one of the precarious stacks and start the whole place dominoing.

At the end of the hall, they came to what might've once been a living room, but was so packed with books it looked more like a hoarder's library. A small kitchen adjoined the area, more books stacked on its counters. A few appeared to be in the sink.

Though there was plenty of furniture, all of it was occupied by books, except for one leather chair behind a cluttered desk. The desk sat askew in the middle of the room, like it had been dragged from elsewhere.

Booker shuffled to the desk and stared down at a tome of yellowed pages and what looked like handwritten text. She peeked over his shoulder—more arrows and dots. Just like on the shield.

"We're fortunate to have you, Olli," Booker said. "I apologize for the situation we've put you in. Believe me, if I'd known you were a Shield, I never would have made such a promise." Dark phantoms haunted his eyes. "Your grandfather told me you weren't a Speare. As I'm sure you can probably understand, it's customary for us to keep certain truths from outsiders."

"I don't understand as much as I'd like to," she said.

He dropped into the chair. "I'm afraid your ignorance might become a liability to all of us. Especially now." He picked up a pen from the desk and twirled it through his fingers. "But this matter with Chelle is interesting." His gaze turned hazy again as he stared at his desk.

"Brend threatened her with a sword and then cut himself and smeared his blood on her face," Olli said. "Interesting seems like an understatement."

"Did he?" Booker looked surprised, but not angry, which would've seemed a more appropriate reaction. Instead, he stared at her, making her shift and look away, her face warming.

He cleared his throat. "Well, that must have been very upsetting for you, I'm sorry."

When she looked back at him, he smiled a little. It was the first time she'd seen him smile at all.

"But if it makes you feel better, he had good reason," Booker said, now tapping the pen against the desk, his smile gone.

"I know, to protect me from the Dowager," she said, unconvinced.

"Yes. Did Chelle tell you that too?"

"Not exactly." She let out a long breath. "Why did she tell me so much when no one else in town will?"

Booker slumped in his chair, staring down at his hands.

"Can't answer that one, huh?"

"Not precisely, Olli. No. I'm sorry. But the fact that Chelle was willing to tell you anything makes me think that there might be another way to help you find the answers you need." He frowned into one of the hulking stacks of boxes and crates in the corner.

She wondered if they were all filled with books, or something else. More weapons maybe, like in Pap's armoire. She wished Booker's text was in English. Whatever was in it would probably answer more of her questions than a year of guessing games with Brend.

"But everybody in town didn't make the promise. They won't get burned if they tell me, will they?"

Booker gazed at her again. "I'm impressed, Olli. You've come a long a way in a short time. No, the rest of the town didn't make the promise. Only I did."

"Then why does it affect the rest of your family?"

Gaunt shadows darkened his face. "Because I'm the head of the family, Olli."

"What about your parents?"

Booker touched the book next to him lightly, not answering her question. "My brother doesn't think these books are useful, but the answer is here, Olli."

"Answer to what?"

"All of it. You tell him, when the time comes, ya? Maybe he'll listen to you. Which reminds me." He bent over and shuffled through a pile of books under the desk. When he sat up he was holding a slender text bound in green leather. "Give that to him too, will you?"

Olli took it. The cover was all arrows and dots.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Something he might actually be interested in reading," Booker said, but already his mind seemed elsewhere.

He rubbed at his forearm again. Thin scabs flaked off from where he'd scratched at it before. The wings remained dark and bold as ever. She wanted to ask him how it was all connected, but she didn't have to ask to know the answer was off-limits.

"My brother used his blood to seal Chelle's promise? To keep the truth about you a secret from the Dowager?"

She nodded. "I don't suppose you can tell me why."

"Even if I could, I think it would be better if he told you, when he's able." He smiled weakly again. "Brend's always been . . . intense. Mom used to say he wore his heart on his sleeve, but lately he's been keeping all of us out. Me, especially." Booker chewed at his lip, studying her face again. "There's something I want to tell you, Olli. When the time is right, will you tell Brend?"

Olli leaned away, not sure she wanted to be passing information between the brothers, whatever it was.

"I won't make you promise not to tell him now, but I would prefer if you wait until . . . well, maybe you won't need to tell him at all. Maybe I'll get up the courage myself before it's too late. But if I don't, then he needs to understand and I think he'll take it better from you than from Hope."

Her stomach twisted. More secrets? "I'm not sure—"

"My father's ill. And he's not going to recover."

She stammered. "You want _me_ to tell Brend that?"

"There's more," he said gravely. "I'll have to leave soon, Olli."

She should have been relieved, as she had been when she'd learned Farren was leaving. Instead, she had trouble breathing. Mirror Girl was drowning her again, trying to pour the truth into her. But it wasn't working. Olli didn't know what her other half was trying to say.

"Once I'm gone, I want you to tell him that Dad was sick, not weak. He was ill before he left. You have to make Brend believe that. He won't want to, but it's the truth. Tell him to use the time he has to find the answer. I thought I would find it myself, but"—his gaze tracked around the stacks of books—"I'm afraid I won't. I feel like I'm so close, I just need . . ."

While Booker lost himself in his thoughts, Olli shook off her shock.

"Why do you want me to tell him? Can't Hope—"

A wilted ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "She'll try. Mom wanted to tell them when we found out Dad was sick, but he refused to let her. When my parents left, Hope wanted to tell the twins, but they were away and we thought it was better to wait until they came home. Now they're here, and Brend's so angry he hardly speaks to either of us. When he does, he just explodes. Roper's worse in some ways. He wants to pretend nothing's changed. And, to be honest, Olli, Hope's scared of what Brend might do when he finds out the truth."

"She thinks he might hurt himself?"

"Not exactly. She's afraid he'll go to the Dowager for help. So am I. In some ways, that might be worse than suicide. She's not the answer. Whatever she gives, she takes back a thousand-fold. Whatever you do, Olli, don't let him go to her. I know he's been thinking about it—for Mom's sake. We've all thought about it, for one reason or another. Even Mom talked about it, but Dad put an end to that talk. He was right to do it."

Olli touched her cheeks, feeling feverish. She'd suspected this family had more secrets than they knew what to do with and now Booker was foisting one of them on her. And she didn't want it. She wished she could give it back. She didn't want to tell Brend that his father was dying. After the fight they'd had, she was sure she was the last person he wanted to talk to—about anything. Let alone . . .

"I think you should tell him yourself," she said.

Booker started to scratch at his tattoo again, drawing blood. "We'll see. Whatever happens,"—he looked up at her, his eyes almost pleading—"don't let him give up, Olli. There is a way to end this, I know it. Don't let him give up."

Hope called soon after. She needed to work overnight. She asked Olli to stay.

Olli agreed, but only for Farren's sake. Her brothers didn't seem capable of taking care of themselves, let alone a seven-year-old. Besides, she didn't want Hope driving home alone after dark.

This time Olli did as much as she could to keep Farren distracted. Every time there was a lull, Farren gave her anxious looks and asked if she was going to talk to Brend soon. In truth, Olli needed to keep busy too. Anytime she let her mind drift from the paper doll-making, or the princess dress-up party, all she could think about was how Farren's dad was dying and Farren had no idea.

As the light seeped from the sky, Olli sent Farren down to get ready for bed. But when she went to Farren's room, it was empty.

She sighed and trudged to the stairs, gazing down the long flight. She knew that wherever Brend was, that's where she'd find his sister.

She didn't have to be lured to him. She could just go upstairs and watch TV. Let him put Farren to bed.

If she saw him, how could she keep from telling him the truth? And how would he react?

Booker and Hope had been wrong to keep it from him—from all of them. Yet, when faced with the prospect of telling them herself, she could understand why Booker was reluctant. Who would want to be the bearer of that pain-filled message?

Then she remembered the book. She went back to the guest room and retrieved it.

She started down the steps. Every nine steps led to another landing, off of which branched a hall in both directions. Distantly she could hear the low rumble. She followed the sound down, past halls that looked unused and lonely, one with big double doors at the end, and another that featured the only vase Olli had ever seen in the house—a squat gray metal sentry guarding a hall that didn't appear to have any doors. Another hall appeared to be Roper's. The mess of clothes and shoes lay strewn outside the door with a carelessness she couldn't imagine of Brend.

Down and down towards the flickering light.

At the bottom was a large circular room of windows, all dark, filled with a huge couch and an even larger television. Farren hopped from foot-to-foot, a plastic steering wheel in her hands, using her whole body to control the video game princess on the motorcycle. Brend and Roper sat about as far from each other as they could on the semi-circular sofa. Roper leaned forward on the edge. Brend slouched on the far side, left hand wrapped in gauze. Overhead, the lights were dim, leaving the TV to illuminate the room in its flickering half-light.

"Hi, Olli!" Farren said. "I'm kicking butt!"

"Your butt's kicking me," Roper said, giving her a push as she bumped into him.

Olli found herself scanning the pitch outside the curved wall of windows. To the left she could just make out the shadows of the tennis court. The fence, and the forest, weren't far. Even though she couldn't see them, Mirror Girl grumbled within her.

"It's time for bed." Her voice sounded faint even to herself.

She knew the fence kept them safe, but since she didn't know why, or how, she was anxious. Or maybe she would've been anxious anyway. The last time she'd faced the darkness, a monster had appeared.

"I want Roper to put me to bed," Farren said, still wiggling as her character zoomed along the edge of an elevated road.

"You're seven, put yourself to bed," Roper said.

Farren whacked at his controller. His character flew over the edge and out of the race. In the process, her own character careened off the road as well.

"Game over," Farren said as Brend's character passed the finish line. "Time for stories." She grabbed Roper's arm and yanked until he stood up. "You'd better do all the voices too."

"Why doesn't the babysitter do it?" Roper said, shuffling behind his sister.

"It's her turn to play," Farren said, putting her own controller into Olli's hand. She flashed an evil sprite smile and gave Roper's arm another tug. "Come on."

"All right already, don't take my arm off," Roper said, trailing Farren up the stairs. "It's not going to work, you know," he said more loudly than he needed to. "Our brother is biologically predisposed against doing anything that might actually make him feel good."

Olli gripped the little plastic steering wheel. She couldn't do it. She couldn't speak. If she spoke, she might tell him about his father. And why should she? Booker had said he still might do it, before he left.

Brend tossed his controller onto the padded ottoman/table and pushed himself up from the couch. He turned the TV off. The shadows poured in from outside. He headed towards a dark hallway on the other side of the TV.

"I talked to Booker," she said, feeling like she had to say something. "He wanted you to have this." She put the book down on the coffee table and the controller as well.

Brend stopped and half-turned, but didn't look at her.

"Did you know he's planning on leaving?" she asked.

Brend's gaze turned towards the ceiling, like he was waiting for her to be done so he could go.

Her back teeth clenched.

_Deep-breath, Olli. You can do this_.

"I'm sorry I freaked out on you," she said in one breath. "It's been a rough couple of days and just when I think I'm starting to understand, something happens and everything changes again. Everyone's made it very clear that you did what you did for a good reason." She took a breath. "I only wish I understood it."

She tucked her hair behind her ear. Her gaze snagged on the darkened windows again.

"What do you see out there, Shield?" he asked in a less than reconciliatory tone.

Her hackles rose. Why couldn't he accept her apology so they could move on?

"Monsters?" he asked, looking fully at her now. "Because that's what's out there. You don't understand? Let's review. You, Shield, protect me, Gates. Right?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"From what?" he went on in the same aggravating tone. "Monsters? Right? So your father, he didn't die the way you thought. How do you think he died?"

Her fists curled at her sides.

"And your uncle and your aunt? And let's see, what about those siblings of your grandfather's? I don't know anything about them. But I know they were Speares. So . . . let's extrapolate. Speares protect Gateses from monsters. Ergo, dead Speares."

She looked away. If she looked at him a second longer, she might do something she'd regret, like kill him, or start crying.

"Still feel like apologizing?" he asked.

She bit her lips together, glaring at the blackness on the other side of the glass.

"Why are you still here?" he said. "Booker's leaving?" He turned back towards the hallway again. "Well, so am I."

"I know why Speares protect Gateses." In the corner of her eyes, she saw him stop. "There are monsters out there? My family has died fighting them? I'm not scared. Not of monsters. Not even of dying. But I know something and nobody had to tell me. You're scared. You're so scared you can't even sleep at night, can you? So order me to leave, act like a huge jerk, ignore me, walk away. You do whatever you need to do. But don't think any of it is going to stop me from doing what I need to do."

She charged up the stairs, leaving Tall and Handsome to his darkness.
Chapter 19

**S** he sighed and groaned through a sleepless night in the guest room. By dawn, she had come to a decision. She would tell Pap everything. To hell with the consequences.

Hope returned home shortly after sunrise. Olli made coffee while Hope showered. Then Olli changed for Peter's funeral. She returned to the kitchen, attempting to wrap the sash around her waist the way Mr. Taylor had. Hope was already dressed and sat at the island, coffee in hand.

"Wear your hair down," she said in a weary voice. "It's traditional." She set her coffee cup down. "Let me help you with that."

Hope wound the silky sash around Olli's waist and tied it off at her hip the same way Mr. Taylor had. Olli pulled her damp hair free from the braid she'd put it in and teased it loose.

Olli hung back as the family gathered in the kitchen, the lack of sleep heavy around them. Farren drifted from one family member to the next, hanging onto each of their hands in turn. Her cascade of shiny black hair and long white dress made her look like a flower girl. The boys all wore similar white clothes—no collars, sleeves long, the fit loose. They didn't look anything like the funeral clothes she was used to seeing. In her dress, she felt like she should be going to a dance, not to Peter's funeral.

Besides Farren and Olli, Brend was the only other one with long hair. He let it hang over his face as he leaned against the wall. She didn't try to talk to him, or even catch his eye.

Most of the night she'd spent lying in bed, debating whether or not she should go back downstairs and try to talk to him again. But she couldn't bring herself to swallow back any more of her pride. So he'd flirted with her, it's not like anything had really happened. They'd never even kissed. If he wanted her to leave him alone, she could do that. She wasn't the one who'd instigated all the flutter-inducing touching and smoldering looks. And if he was done or bored, or too moody to know what he wanted, that was fine with her. Completely. Fine.

In a way it was a relief. If she wasn't around him all the time, no one could expect her to tell him about his father. Booker would have to do it. Or Hope. They should've done it in the first place.

Besides, she had a monster to worry about. She couldn't be up all night thinking about boys, or even just one really maddening boy.

The quiche her grandma had sent over was picked at until finally Booker said, "We should go."

They piled into Hope's SUV. Farren maneuvered the twins, forcing Brend to sit in the third row with Olli. The evil sprite smile returned, but Olli knew Farren's efforts were in vain. Brend emitted enough gloom to blot out the sun. She wondered if he didn't already know about his father's illness, or at least suspect. He'd obviously been struggling with something, and she wasn't egotistical enough to think his current brood was all about her.

Cemetery Hill marked the edge of Old Town. The tree-lined creek running along its back edge acted like a fence between the locals and the college community.

Cars parked along both sides of Cemetery Road. People, all in white, flowed towards the gate. Women carried parasols and fans. As early as the funeral had been scheduled, the heat had arrived even earlier. Hope drove past the cars and crowds right through the gate and up the hill. Pedestrians stepped aside to let the car pass. Every resident of Horizon Creek must have been there. She hadn't known there were so many people in town.

More than halfway up the hill, they parked, passing more than one elderly person and a fair few others who looked like they shouldn't have been walking in the heat. Olli chafed. Why were they driving right up to the grave when everyone else had to walk? But none of the sweat-dappled faces she saw showed any signs of irritation as Hope drove by them.

As Olli climbed out, a few people turned to glance at her. But when Booker exited the car, everyone looked.

She shifted back from the gawking eyes. Brend shut the door next to her. For the first time since the night before, he met her gaze. He looked grim. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, other than feeling certain they weren't happy thoughts. But they were at a funeral after all.

He looked about to say something, but then Roper flicked his arm and made an after-you gesture to his brother.

Booker led the way, followed by Brend, then Roper, then Hope and Farren, and finally, Olli. The crowd stepped back as Booker passed by, inclining their heads. Some bowed full at the waist. When they lifted their eyes, it was always in time to meet hers.

What did they think when they saw her? Even in her white dress, hair rippling free almost to her waist, (and sticking heavily to the back of her neck) she could see the question in their eyes. _What are you doing here?_

She was not who they expected.

They expected a Speare.

Mirror Girl reared up, indignant and muttering about how she was a Speare, or a Shield, and everyone should know it and how ridiculous it was that they were all lying to her. Olli agreed, but it would have to wait until after the funeral. The first chance she got to talk to Pap, she would tell him the truth.

Booker greeted a short, broad-chested woman who stood near the wreath. She, too, bowed to him, like he was royalty.

Olli stopped behind the Gateses, stunned by the scintillating burst of epiphany.

_Not like royalty. Very much royalty._

That's why they had super-powered bodyguards. That's why Daniel and Pap had called Booker "sir." That's why everyone bowed. The swords, the influence, the wealth. It all made sense. She couldn't believe it had taken her so long to work it out. Brend had said his family had influence, but he hadn't said why. Now she knew. He was nobility.

She looked back down the hill. Her breath caught. Brilliant white, dotted with black heads, the hillside was like a swaying field of anemones. Around the Gateses was a gap, an unmarked barrier between them and everyone else. She was the only one who stood in that thin strip of green.

She turned back to the Gateses, who had formed a line in front of the wreath. The short woman with silver-streaked hair pulled a wooden box closer to the wreath.

Olli glared at the back of Brend's head. What was he? A lord? A duke? A prince? Her stomach rolled. Had she been flirting with a prince for the last three days? She wanted to slip into the crowd and disappear. But then, she started to burn and not because of the heat.

If he really was a prince or something like that, what was he doing flirting with her? Weren't there rules about that sort of thing? Princes usually married princesses, didn't they? Not Shields.

Not that she had been anticipating a proposal after three days, but it did seem unfair, and unkind, to make her care about him at all. Not that she cared. Not after the way he'd been acting. In light of this revelation though, all the hand-kissing and cuddling and hair-petting seemed callous and self-serving.

She undertook the project of convincing herself that it was good they'd fought. She was glad he wasn't speaking to her. He was sparing her a lot of drama and potential heartbreak. He'd never really been interested in her. He'd only wanted to use her and throw her away like a spoiled little prince who smashes perfectly good phones for no reason. No doubt she was one of many girls he'd used his peculiar brand of charm on.

She crossed her arms, attempting to wipe away the lingering fluttery feelings with the mantra: _one of many, one of many, one of many_.

She wanted to think she was succeeding, but Mirror Girl was the one who truly offered the distraction. Olli's super-senses whirred to life. Pin pricks ran over her skin, her chest tightened and expanded all at once. She grimaced as the volume of the world around her ratcheted up. Murmurs of a thousand people became like shouts, distant birds and the crick-and-burble of the creek on the far side of the hill blared in her ears. Closer, the rumble of an engine.

But Blinky couldn't be here, could it? She'd felt fairly certain that it didn't come out during daylight, and at the moment, it was about as hot and bright as daylight could get. So why was her inner Shield on edge?

The short woman stepped onto the box and opened her mouth to speak, but then stopped. Her eyes widened as she gazed over the heads of the attendees.

Olli turned, as others were doing.

A black car rolled up the narrow road. The sinuous lines and long stretch reminded Olli of old mobster movies. On each running board, a figure in white stood, hanging onto the door through the open front window. She focused in on their faces. Daniel and . . . Nate.

The car pulled around Hope's SUV and parked in front of it.

As soon as the car stopped, Daniel jumped down.

The crowd had fallen incredibly, completely silent. Olli didn't know if she'd ever heard such a loud silence.

Daniel stood by the back door, glittering eyes surveying the crowd. The self-important tilt of his lips made her want to smack him. If being a Speare meant wearing such an arrogant expression, she was glad to be a Shield.

It seemed to take a long time for her grandpa to open the driver's door. He paused to dab his forehead with a handkerchief. When he shut the door, he didn't spare the crowd a glance, arrogant or otherwise. Mam came into view, fanning herself as she walked around the front of the car. Nate appeared too, pushing a wicker wheel chair that looked like it had been designed a hundred years ago, though the plush maroon upholstery appeared unworn. The dark wood gleamed.

As Daniel reached for the door handle, Mirror Girl seized hold of Olli—a coiling pressure around her chest like a boa constrictor. But her instincts weren't clear. What was the danger?

Daniel opened the door. Pap reached out. A spidery thin hand grasped his.

Olli twisted her sash around her palm. Everyone watched the car, everyone except Brend. He was watching her. When she focused on him, the background noise disappeared and all she could hear was his heart thundering and his breath, short and tense. His lips parted. The words barely escaped his lips, but she heard them.

"Stand down, Shield."

To her surprise, her instincts dulled to a hum, like a streetlight on a dark night. She still tingled, but she couldn't tell if it was because of her freak-powers or because of the handsome jerk.

An old woman emerged from the car. She wore white, like everyone. The loose folds of fabric were near translucent, but so bright in the sun she was impossible to look at for too long. Bone-white hair hung long over her shoulders in loose coils. Once this woman had been stunning, Olli knew. Even in advanced age, she was beautiful. Her gaze swept over the crowd. For a second they seemed to stop on Olli. Onyx black and deep as a well, Olli felt like she could see her reflection in those eyes, distant as they were, and for once, she and Mirror Girl were the same person.

Then Brend shifted, partially obscuring the woman from view.

Olli blinked. Brend shot a quick glance at her over his shoulder—a warning shot.

Olli rubbed her arms, chilled even as she baked under the sun. So this was the Dowager. The one Chelle had called the old witch queen.

The pressure inside her shrank, retreating deeper, hiding. If magic was real, if the Gateses were royalty, then maybe Chelle had meant what she said literally. And maybe Farren and Booker had been right. Maybe Brend had been right. Maybe Olli did need to be protected from this woman.

As Pap pushed Lady Gates towards the wreath, Olli continued to shift, keeping herself behind Brend and out of view of the old woman. Pap stopped directly across from the Gateses. The rest of the Speare family lined up next to him, looking down on the grave and the whole of Horizon Creek. Nate stood next to Daniel. Olli saw why everyone recognized Nate for a Speare. They could've been brothers. He wore the same flint expression and stood in the same relaxed, confident manner as Daniel, shoulders back, chest lifted. The bruises on his face were worn like medals. Even she was a little intimidated.

The woman on the box, the pastor, Olli guessed, inclined her head towards the place where the old woman sat. Then she turned back to the crowd. For a small woman, she had a big voice. Her words projected through the heat-heavy air, carrying on the faint breeze.

While the pastor spoke, Olli watched Pap in the gap between Brend and Booker. He didn't meet her gaze. This morning she'd been certain she'd tell him the truth as soon as she could. But now she remembered how Chelle had suggested that Olli not tell her family. And Brend had flat out told her not to. They were afraid. Not of the monster, but of the old woman.

The old woman sparked Olli's Shield instincts, which meant she was some kind of threat to the other Gateses. If the rest of Olli's family experienced the same gut reactions to danger that she did, then how could they choose to work for the old woman? Because they were Speares, not Shields? Did their instincts tell them to protect the old woman instead? Or was it magic? Had the old woman used magic to force them to work for her?

Olli shrank deeper into Brend's shadow, grinding her teeth. Altering her world view to accommodate magic would've been a lot easier with some guidance. All this blind guessing was giving her a headache.

She caught Nate's eye. His eyebrow quirked in its signature obnoxious way. Her shoulders tensed. Was he conspiring with the rest of them to keep her in the dark? She wanted to put him in a headlock and force him to tell her everything he knew. He was her brother. How could he keep a secret like this from her?

But then, she guessed she hadn't exactly been honest with him either. Seeing him standing with the rest of her family on the other side of Peter's grave, she wasn't so sure she could trust him. Or any of them. Her chest ached, but not from her Shield powers.

"Perhaps," the pastor said, "you feel you are alone, in this time of grief and pain, of uncertainty and anxiety. When darkness falls and fear comes whispering its thousand whispers—do not be enticed by its calls. Do not stand paralyzed before it. Do not allow it to take from you all that is good and light and leave you hollowed. Be deaf to fear. Turn to your neighbors, cross the water into our arms and leave fear behind you. Find courage. Remember it is not immortal. Stand with your spear against it and fear will fall silent."

The pastor wasn't giving a eulogy, she was giving instructions. She was telling them what to do if they met the monster.

"As always, one day and again, our time of grief will come to an end," the pastor said. "Now let us sing our songs for Peter and speak our memories, and from this moment until dusk, let our breath be his, let our hearts beat for him, let him live a day one more in us."

The pastor bowed her head and then stepped down from her box. The crowd began to shift and depart. Olli turned to watch them.

They all knew. They knew Peter hadn't died of a drug overdose. They knew the monster had killed him. And the subtlety? Was that for Olli's benefit, or the others in the crowd who were considered outsiders?

The sea of white retreated. A few people lingered in small groups. One broke from the rest and stepped towards her, his hair as white as his silky clothes. "Sad day, Miss Speare," Mr. Taylor said.

She nodded.

"Quite strange for her to join us," Mr. Taylor said in a low voice. Olli turned to see just what her family and the Dowager were doing, but Mr. Taylor caught her arm. "Do not look, Miss Speare."

She gazed down at Mr. Taylor's gentle face. "Why not?"

He smiled. "Did you know that there are nine kinds of venomous snakes in this beautiful state, Miss Speare?"

"No . . ."

"Oh yes, they're quite deadly. You should never look a snake too closely in the eye, you know. It might see you as a threat and strike."

"So what do you do if you meet one?"

"Better to stay clear of them altogether, I would think." His eyes followed the sleek black car as it slid down the road past them. Olli watched too. The lingering tension in her chest receded.

"But if you were to be so unfortunate as to encounter one," Mr. Taylor went on, "I would suggest making yourself appear small and insignificant. Snakes are only interested in two things: prey and predators. If a snake believes you are neither of those things, you should be quite safe. I should hope."

"Small and insignificant," she repeated.

"Another word might be ordinary. This world is full of ordinary people, Miss Speare. So painfully ordinary that those who are not tend to stand out, even when they aren't trying. How old are you, may I ask?"

"Sixteen."

Mr. Taylor smiled. "I have a niece about your age." He gestured towards a pretty, cat-eyed girl chatting with a tall, almost-blond boy of about the same age. They stood next to Chief Reeve and Hope, who were in tight conference. Chief Reeve touched Hope's arm familiarly. She smiled and leaned into his side.

"Amber spends most of her time on her phone with her friends talking about young men like Locke Reeve, there. Don't mistake me, she's an excellent student and can stitch a plaited braid that would have made her grandmother weep with pride. I have no doubt she'll prove a master seamstress in time. But at the moment, she is young. When you are young, you act young. That is as it should be."

Olli glanced over her shoulder to where Brend stood with Booker and the pastor. Farren hung on his arm. She tried to imagine calling up one of her old friends and telling them about him . . . but she couldn't. What could she say? _I met a boy who might be a prince, but mostly he's just a jerk. Oh and by the way, he's being hunted by monsters and it's my job to protect him._

"I think it unfortunate when a young person is forced to grow up too quickly," Mr. Taylor said with a sigh. "Age comes whether we hurry towards it or not. Much better to enjoy our youth while we have it. When you first came into my shop, I could see you were extraordinary in that respect and perhaps in others."

Olli held his gaze. Could he tell she was a Shield? How? And if he could tell, had the old woman seen it too?

"You remind me of your great-aunt Annora." He notched his chin towards the top of the hill. At the crest was a glass-domed mausoleum. Olli didn't need to ask to whom it belonged.

"She, too, was much older than her years, but then," —he laced his fingers together— "she was granted so few of them. I hope that is not the case for you, Miss Speare."

_You and me both._

"Olli," Booker's voice was almost as soft as Mr. Taylor's, but from weariness, not gentility. "Sad day, Mr. Taylor."

"Most sad, sir." Mr. Taylor bowed his head.

Olli glanced past Roper to Brend, who was still keeping his distance. Farren was at his side, clutching his hand. Roper wandered over to Amber, who smiled much more broadly at him than she had at the blondish boy.

"May the next be far from this," Mr. Taylor was saying.

"And the next farther still," Roper replied.

"Pardon me, sir, I must stand at the stone and speak my mother's name, per tradition." Mr. Taylor bowed his head again and took a step back. "Lovely speaking with you, Miss Speare. Please be mindful of what I said, about the snakes."

She nodded.

His eyes sparkled behind his glasses. "And thank you for showing these young people how white should be worn. I know, after seeing you, my business will improve."

Mr. Taylor left them.

"Snakes?" Booker asked.

"It's nothing," she said. "Are we leaving?"

"Not yet. Walk with me, Olli, there's something I want to show you."
Chapter 20

**H** e led her up towards the mausoleum. Arrows of sunlight glinted off the glass dome. A few rows from the top, he stopped.

At their feet, a flat stone carved with her father's name: Archer Speare.

She stared at the stone, waiting for . . . something. But nothing happened. She didn't feel anything. It was just a stone with a name on it.

Beside his stone were two others, closer together, Daniel's parents. For them, for Daniel, her heart hurt.

"Your grandfather's siblings are there." Booker pointed to three more stones one row up.

"Annora."

Booker nodded, squinting up towards the mausoleum. "She died when she was fifteen. Her brothers were only a few years older. Your grandfather was the youngest of them and the only one to survive, that time."

All the bile Brend had spewed at her the night before, all that stuff about her family dying, finally hit her, stinging. She looked back down the hill. The last remnants of the crowd had dispersed. The rest of the family had retreated into the A/C of the SUV. Only Brend remained outside. He seemed to be watching a utility cart driving up the road towards them.

A man in blue coveralls and a baseball cap stopped the cart in front of Hope's car and slid out. He loped over to the wreath, looping it over his shoulder. Hauling it to the cart, he tossed it into the back.

"That's Ballard," Booker said. "He's the cemetery caretaker. Once he was in debt to the Dowager, but he settled it. That's almost unheard of. He even threatened to kill her if she ever spoke to him again."

"Your grandma knows how to make friends, huh?"

Booker smiled wanly. "He lives down there." He pointed to the stand of trees edging the far side of the hill. "Most people in town avoid him. He's . . . eccentric. But he's been around for a long time, as long as anyone. If someone had the courage to talk to him, they could probably learn a lot."

The utility cart puttered to life, backed up, and swung around.

Olli watched him go. When she'd seen her grandpa with the old woman, she'd realized that she couldn't tell him what she was—too risky. She almost heartened again, except something Booker had said nagged at her.

"Why would someone need courage to talk to him?" she asked. "Is he dangerous?"

"I'll be honest, Olli. I really don't know."

"Hey, sis." Nate plunked his overloaded paper plate onto the table and plopped down next to her. He promptly began devouring everything in front of him.

For the last hour, she'd sat among strangers in the town meeting hall. Long tables filled the gymnasium-style room. At one end, a stage. On it, the Gates family. At the moment, only Brend and Booker remained, watching the rest of the community eat, chat, and quickly become inebriated. Olli hadn't been allowed to sit with them—not that she wanted to. None of them looked comfortable set above and apart from everyone else.

She'd been surrounded by polite older people, who'd excused themselves from her presence about as quickly as Farren had wriggled out of her seat. Olli occupied herself by keeping track of all the Gateses as they mingled. Farren chased her friends around, squealing. Hope was in a serious-looking discussion with a group of people Olli recognized as the town council members. Roper lounged with some teenagers, including Amber, who batted her big cat eyes at him every chance she got.

When Nate appeared next to her, she was stuck between wanting to hug him and wanting to strangle him. She settled on glaring. She still wasn't sure what he knew, or if she could trust him. It made the little bit of potato salad she'd eaten turn sour in her gut.

"Since when do you work for Lady Gates?" she asked.

"Who says I am?"

"What were you doing this morning?"

"Catching a ride," he said through a half-chewed bit of sandwich. He grinned and resumed chewing.

"What's with all bruises?"

"Training," he said, wiping his mouth with a wadded napkin. "Dan's getting me fit." He flexed his arm. "Feel that."

"No, thanks."

He shrugged again. She eyed her brother, wishing she could read his mind. Even though she and Nate had never been very close, they had been through a lot together. The thought that he might hide such a big secret from her made her nails bite into her palms. She was on the verge of asking if he was a superhuman freak too, when two boys sat down across from them.

One was bulky and dark, like Nate, probably the same age too. He hid behind a thick swath of bangs. The other was the tall, blondish boy from the cemetery, Locke Reeve. He looked about her age, maybe a couple of years older. His smile was so disarming that she momentarily forgot she was Alice in Monsterland.

"Hey, Nate," Locke said. "Is this your sister?"

Nate grunted, still shoveling.

"Hi." He held out his hand. His skin was warm and dry. "I'm Locke, this is Fisher."

"Hey," Fisher muttered, his braces flashing.

"Hi," she said, settling back. "You're friends of my brother's?"

"We met at the gym," Nate said.

"Gym?"

"Boxing," Locke said, still smiling. His eyes were hazel, like hers, but more gold than green.

"Is that how you got those black eyes?" she asked Nate.

"That's nothing," Locke said, before Nate could respond. "He's just too anxious to attack. He leaves himself open all over the place. Gloves up, elbows in." He demonstrated, throwing a few mock punches across the table at Nate.

Nate grinned sheepishly.

Locke dropped his forearms back to the table and looked at her again. "I hear you work at the Gateses'."

"She's just a babysitter," Nate said, mouth full again.

"I know. My dad's Chief Reeve. He's pretty into Dr. Gates."

"I didn't know he had a son. I mean, he's never really talked to me about . . . anything," she said, not wanting to open up any awkwardness concerning the chief dating Hope, if there was any. But Locke seemed immune to awkwardness.

"He's an all-business kind of guy," Locke said. "My mom died a while back. It took him like five years to get up the courage to ask Dr. Gates on a date. If he had waited one day longer, I would've done it for him."

She smiled. Locke's smile widened.

Fisher finally spoke up. "I'm surprised Old Baer lets you across the bridge."

"She's fine," Nate said. "Dan says Pap's okay with it because she and her boyfriend probably just sit on the couch and make out all day anyway."

Her face ignited. She smacked his arm. Her fingers came away stinging. He really had been working out. "He does not say that. And I do _not_ have a boyfriend."

"Oh, yeah? Then why's your _not_ boyfriend trying to incinerate Locke's shorts via pyrokinesis?" Nate gestured with his fork towards the stage. They all glanced at Brend. He was, indeed, glowering at them. They all looked away.

"You're dating Brend Gates?" Locke squirmed like he could feel the heat.

"No, I'm not," she repeated. "I watch his sister during the day. That. Is. All." She shot Brend a hard look, but if he noticed, he was undeterred. "Brend just . . . always looks like that." Not entirely true. Sometimes he kept the fire down to a smolder.

Locke glanced at Brend again and then turned his back to him, lifting one leg over the bench like he was ready to bolt if he felt burning in any delicate areas.

His face turned serious. If she had been a normal girl, like Amber, she might have thought that Locke was pretty cute, in an even-keel, boy-next-door, no-secrets-or-maddening-Cheshire-Cat-games way. Just the kind of boy her pre-Shield self might have been interested in. Too bad that girl didn't exist anymore.

"You up for tonight, Speare?" he asked Nate.

Nate fixed his gaze on Locke. "Are you up for it?"

"Absolutely. My dad's outside talking to Old Baer right now. I'm surprised they're letting you go."

Nate smiled in a way she'd never seen before—it reminded her of Daniel. "I'm a fast learner."

"You better hope so," Locke said. "Later, ya." He spared Olli one last look and a small smile. He tossed a harried glance back at Brend. A second later, he and Fisher disappeared into the crowd.

Nate stood up, his plate empty.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Outside," he said.

"No, I mean tonight."

"Oh." His gaze lost focus. She knew the look. He was trying to come up with an answer that wouldn't get him in trouble. She'd seen it a thousand times before. "Hunting."

Her heart stopped. "At night?"

"Got to," he said, stepping over the bench. "Later, sis."

"Nate, wait!" she called to his back, but he slipped away.

She slammed her hand down on the table, drawing the attention of those around her. She ignored them. She would have gone after Nate, but what for? If she told him what she knew and he was working for the old woman, then she risked exposing herself. If she tried to get him to tell her more of the truth and he was in on the secret, then he wasn't about to tell her anything. Over the last year, he'd almost stopped talking to her completely.

Hunting?

Mirror Girl knew exactly what he was going to be hunting.

About two minutes after they left the town hall, Farren was asleep against Brend's side.

Dusk crept into the sky.

When they crossed the bridge, Shield Girl loaded up. Her eyes roved the darkness, but her super-vision wasn't turned on, so all she saw were shadows and trees and more shadows.

"I saw you talking to Locke and Fisher," Roper said conversationally from beside her.

"Uh-huh." She turned in her seat and looked past Roper, more trees, more shadows.

"Was that your brother with you?" he asked.

"Uh-huh." Front window. Headlights, bugs. Lots of bugs. They hit the windshield and splattered.

_Blech._

"He looks like a Speare," Roper said.

She twisted around, sparing him an annoyed look. "So I'm told." Her eyes, which should have been scanning out the back window, locked onto Brend's.

"What did you talk about?" he asked.

A furious heat swelled up inside her, searing across her skin. "Nothing," she said, turning her back to him. "Locke and Fisher are going hunting with my brother tonight."

Silence filled the SUV.

Softly, Hope said, "Bill didn't tell me Locke was going with him. And your brother is very . . . young."

"Why shouldn't Nate go? He's a Speare, right? I'm sure whatever's out there he can handle it." Olli couldn't hold back Mirror Girl's bitterness. "Wonder what superpowers he has."

That voice behind her, the one that made her both prickle and chafe, spoke up. "You sound like you want to go with them."

She spun around in her seat again. "I should be out there, shouldn't I? I'm the one who's seen it. I'm the one who faced it. I'm the one who should be hunting it down." Mirror Girl's vehemence startled Olli. She'd never felt what she was feeling now. The only word she could think of to describe it was bloodlust. She wanted that monster to die. She wanted to be the one to kill it. She wasn't scared. She was lit up and thirsting.

Brend's gaze was as intense as ever, but she couldn't tell what he was really feeling.

Still, her face flushed. "You won't be safe until it's dead." She turned around again. "None of you will."

"We know, Olli," Hope said.

When they pulled up to the front of the house, Olli was surprised to see her grandparents' white whale of a Buick. Hope parked behind it.

As Olli got out, her grandma did the same.

"Mam," she said, approaching her grandma cautiously, "what are you doing here?"

"I came to take you home," Mam said. "Are you ready? Gather up your belongings."

The Gateses made their way into the house. Brend carried Farren inside. Hope stayed to greet Olli's grandma.

"Thank you for letting Olli stay. Farren's been so upset since Peter's death," Hope said.

"My pleasure, ma'am. Anything we can do, as ever."

Hope gave her a tight smile and a nod. "Have a good evening."

"And you, ma'am."

Hope followed the rest of the family inside. Olli stood there, stranded. She couldn't leave the Gateses, could she? But none of them offered to let her stay. A part of her had forgotten that she didn't belong there—the Shield part.

"Now then," Mam said, turning brisk. "Hurry it up."
Chapter 21

**O** lli worried the night away. She rose before dawn, as soon as she heard Mam's bathroom faucet squeak and the rush of water.

She hovered near the kitchen window which overlooked the driveway, waiting, Mam shooing her every five seconds. The house filled with coffee and baking aromas as the sky lightened from black to blue.

Finally, the three Speares shuffled in, covered in grime and sweat, leaves and twigs stuck to their clothes and in their hair. They dropped down at the table, none of them speaking.

Olli stood next to her grandma, choking on a scream.

"No luck?" Mam said, setting a basket of biscuits on the table.

Pap shook his head and ran a hand over his face. Mam brought over the breakfast skillet and began piling sausages onto their plates. Pap peeled off his long-sleeved plaid shirt. Underneath, his white T-shirt clung to his barrel chest. His fingers troubled over the ring on his necklace. Nate's face was nearly flat on the table, held up only by the inside of his wrist. Daniel's eyes appeared stuck open.

Olli hovered over the table, her anxiety ebbing. Maybe they hadn't found it, but no one was dead either. She slid into the chair next to Nate. A soft snore issued from his gaping mouth.

Mam set the platter of potatoes and eggs down in the middle of the table. Olli was the only one who reached for it.

The next three days passed without incident. Twice more the Speares went out with a group of other men, including Chief Reeve and Locke. But their "hunting parties" always came back empty-handed.

Farren spent the week working herself into hyper-excitement about her trip. By the end, she practically fluttered off the ground like a hummingbird. Every once in a while she would lapse into tears and cuddle against Olli, wanting to know why Peter had to die. But Olli couldn't answer that question. After an hour or so, Farren would return to daydreaming about her impending cruise.

Relief wasn't a strong enough word for how Olli felt about Farren leaving. It was as though she'd been juggling for the last week and was finally able to let one of the balls drop. But as glad as she felt that Farren would be far away and hopefully, safe, she was also anxious.

Once Farren was gone, Olli wouldn't have an excuse to come to the Gateses' every day. Even if she hadn't been spending the night, she was still up before dawn, waiting impatiently for the sun to rise so Mam could drive her across the bridge and she could be certain everyone had survived another night.

The rest of the family had lapsed into their normal routines. Booker, hiding in the guest house. Hope at the hospital, or on the treadmill. As for the twins, she hardly saw either of them.

Every day, Olli came to the house thinking, _today's the day I'll talk to him_. But Brend was always gone before she arrived and always came home just before she left. She couldn't tell if she was grinding her teeth over being avoided, or because he was always cutting his return so close to sunset. She'd been staying late because Hope worked all of the time. She said she needed to so she could take time off that weekend to fly with Farren to Florida, but Olli thought maybe Hope just didn't know what else to do with herself.

Friday morning, as Mam pulled the Buick out of the driveway, she turned the car in the wrong direction, away from the bridge.

"Where are we going?" Olli asked.

Mam didn't answer. She drove a block or so down and into the driveway of another brown brick ranch. Aside from the brass numbers bolted next to the front doors, Olli didn't know how anyone could tell the houses apart.

"There's a dish behind you, take it up to the chief. Go around back."

Olli pushed open the door and retrieved the foil baking pan that weighed about as much as Farren. She carted it up the driveway and around to the back of the house. Chief Reeve's police SUV was parked outside. Pale light eked into the sky around her, leaving everything grayish.

As she debated whether or not to just leave the dish on the stoop or to knock, the door opened. Locke started back, blinking. He looked as tired as everyone else she'd seen lately. Purple half-moons hung under his eyes. Smears of dirt marked his face and arms. Still, he smiled.

He pushed open the screen door and dropped a pair of muddy boots on the step.

"Olli, hi," he said. "I forgot to take these off,"—he gestured to the boots—"if my dad could keep his eyes open to see the mess, he would be pissed. Total neat freak."

She smiled back. "My grandma made this," she said, holding out the foil pan.

He took the pan from her. "Tell her thanks."

"I will," she said, turning away.

"Hey," he said, stopping her. "Do you want to hang out sometime?"

Her mouth opened. A sound like _uh-gg_ trickled out.

"Not tonight, or tomorrow, probably, but I don't know, sometime?"

Olli thought back to the conversation she'd had with her mom the night before. The one where she'd had nothing to say and her mom kept asking if something was going on, if there was a boy, maybe? Olli had denied it up and down, because at the moment it was true—there wasn't a boy. _The_ boy pretended like she didn't exist. He didn't look at her. He didn't talk to her. He just . . . didn't. She had no reason not to accept Locke's offer.

And yet, she couldn't.

"If you don't want to, it's cool," he said.

"It's not that I don't want to, I just . . ."

Just what? Just can't get the Handsome Jerk out of her head? Can't go to sleep without thinking about him, can't wake up not thinking about him? Can't stop replaying every word he ever said, every look, every touch? Can't imagine ever being interested in anyone else . . . ever?

"Don't worry about it," Locke said, opening up the screen door. He looked back at her. "Open offer."

"Are you going back out tonight?" she asked before he stepped inside. "Not because I want to . . . I'm just curious. I didn't get to ask my family. They sort of came in asleep."

Locke's expression straightened, but he always seemed to be smiling a little bit. She wondered what that felt like, to smile all the time.

"Yeah, we'll go again tonight."

She nodded. Her inner Shield flexed. Lately she'd started to feel it even when she wasn't in Shield-mode, realizing that it was never really gone. "Be careful, okay?"

"Okay," he said, smile returning. Then he went back inside.

She shuffled down the driveway, heart in her throat. Had she really turned Locke down? Because of Brend? Hadn't Brend's artic shoulder been enough to show her that he really wasn't interested? What more did he have to do to quash these feelings? Move to the other side of the world?

But even if he did, she had a terrible feeling, that even then, she'd turn Locke down. She'd turn Locke down every time. Because of Brend.

She slid back into Mam's car without a word.

Mam put the car in reverse. "Something the matter? You're off color."

Olli managed to shake her head. No, nothing was the matter.

She was just in love.

That morning, Farren repacked her bags a record ten times. She and Hope would leave that afternoon, fly out that night. Hope would stay with her until the ship set sail Sunday afternoon. The cruise lasted only a week, but Farren and her traveling companions would disembark at St. Maarten and stay there another week.

While making sure Farren had everything she actually needed, Olli avoided seeing anyone else besides Hope. For once, she didn't care if Brend was home or not. She didn't sneak out to check if his car was in the garage like she had the last three days.

As she folded and refolded Farren's things, she argued with herself. She wasn't in love. She was mistaking her stupid girl-feelings for love, that was all. How could she be in love with someone she'd only known a week? Half of that time, they'd been fighting and the other half he'd been ignoring her. And those few moments in between, when she'd been tingling melty goo, that had all been part of his plan to use her. She'd been fooled.

She reasoned out the case again and again—it was all so obvious—but the feelings didn't hear her, or didn't care. They remained, stubborn, aching, and raw.

So at noon, when Farren's bags were finally loaded into Hope's SUV and Brend emerged from the house to say goodbye, she wasn't prepared to see him. She wasn't prepared for how much it hurt. She wasn't prepared to realize how much she'd been hurting.

She stayed back from the family, twisting knots in her hair and watching from the corner of her eyes as everyone said goodbye.

"Don't get kidnapped by pirates," Roper said after giving Farren a quick hug.

Her nose wrinkled. "There's no such thing," she said, then glanced at Hope. "Is there?"

"Thanks a lot," Hope said to Roper.

"Hey, don't worry," Roper said. "If you get kidnapped, we'll send the Shield to rescue you."

Farren looked to Olli.

"You're not going to be kidnapped by pirates," she said, giving Roper the are-you-stupid look. Farren didn't look convinced. Olli put a hand on her shoulder, bending down to look her in the eye. "If you get kidnapped, I will rescue you."

"Promise?"

"Farren, Olli doesn't need to—" Hope started.

"I promise," Olli said and she meant it. She just hoped she didn't have to prove it. She seemed to be pre-programed to battle monsters, but pirates? Probably not.

The worry line between Farren's eyebrows smoothed, and she smiled again.

Booker stepped forward and gave Farren a crushing hug. It seemed to surprise everyone. His wrists looked thinner than Farren's. Even though Mam had been sending over enough food to feed thirty people, Booker didn't seem to be eating any of it. The circles around his eyes had turned blackish and sickly.

"Be safe, little sister," was all he said when he finally released her.

The worry line reappeared. Olli crossed her arms. This was going well. Roper had no tact and Booker acted like he might never see Farren again.

Brend crouched down and held out his arms. Farren hugged him.

"I'll call you tonight," he said, pushing her hair back from her face. "You can call me whenever you need to."

"Even on the ocean?"

"Even on the ocean."

"Don't break your phone again, okay?"

He smiled a little. "Okay."

Farren leaned towards him. "I have a secret to tell you." She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered something in his ear. For the briefest of seconds, his gaze touched Olli's, and then flicked quickly away.

Ouch.

Whatever Farren was saying brought one of the darkest clouds yet over his face.

"Don't tell," she said, stepping back.

"I won't," he said.

"For me, okay?"

Brend didn't answer.

"Please?"

"Don't worry about it," Brend said. Before Farren could say anything more, he said, "Send me a picture of the dolphins."

Farren's face lit up, but even that didn't dispel the shadow on Brend's face. "I'm going to swim with them," she said.

He picked her up. "Not if you miss your flight." He kissed her on the cheek and carried her to the car. Olli stepped back as he plopped Farren into her seat. "Remember you have to come out of the water sometimes."

"There are five pools, but I'm only allowed in three of them, and there's a waterslide, that's like a water coaster."

"You're scared of roller coasters," he said.

"Not anymore," she said. "I'm not scared of anything."

"You're not, huh?"

"Nope." She folded her arms. "I'm just like Olli. Nothing scares her."

Everyone looked at her, even Brend—for another pain-filled second.

"Lucky her," Brend muttered. "Sit back." He shut the door. Farren's window rolled down.

"I know the monster was real," she said, giving her family a scolding look. Surprise spread from face to face. "I know you said it was a dream, but I heard it. It was real. But I'm not scared of it and you don't have to be either."

Hope stepped in. "Farren, let's talk about this on the way to the—"

"You don't have to be scared because Olli's going to find it and make it go away, forever. Aren't you, Olli?"

They were looking at her again. All except Brend.

Why was she obsessing over him? She had so many other important things to do. Like find a monster. And kill that monster.

For the first time, she called up her Shield to protect herself. From him.

"Just as soon as I get the chance." She went to the passenger side door and got inside.

Ten minutes later, she stood in her grandparents' driveway, watching Hope's SUV round the corner and disappear from view.

She let out a deep breath.

Farren would be safe. And Hope, too, for a couple of days.

She itched at the flaking scabs on her knees. They'd healed in record time. Shield powers? It seemed almost certain.

She glanced back at the house. The boys would be asleep. As much as she'd tried not to resent her exclusion, Mirror Girl was sore. She didn't like seeing them come home every morning, shaking their heads. Mirror Girl agreed with Farren. Olli was the one meant to find Blinky and make him disappear forever.

But first, time to get some answers.

She adjusted her backpack on her shoulders and started walking. A strong breeze cut through the humidity, diminishing the totalitarian oppression of the heat.

Half an hour later, she stood in front of Annora's gravestone. Mr. Taylor had said it was tradition to speak the names of the dead.

"Annora Speare," she said, like she could call up the spirit of the girl and find out what had happened to her. She'd faced a monster and lost. Olli wanted to know why. She needed to know.

"Stand there much longer and I'll be carving you a stone like the rest," a voice said from behind her. "Carved them all with these two hands, ya."

She turned. Ballard squinted up at her, dressed in the same grubby coveralls and tatty cap as before. Brown and deeply-lined, his face was like an old baseball mitt, caved in as if it had been punched in the middle more than a few times—his nose flat as the tombstones. Once he might've been tall, but his back now bowed. Slits marked his eyes.

"Crushing the flowers too." He pointed a bent finger at her feet.

She lifted a foot from the thick green-covered ground. "I don't see any flowers."

"Can't see what's there, that's why. Hill's covered in them." His accent was the thickest she'd heard yet, nothing like a Southern accent. Words like there and them sounded more like deer and dim. His voice burbled deep in his throat.

He strode up next to her with striking fluidity. She'd never seen someone so stooped move as quick and smooth. The aroma of dirt and motor oil clung to him.

"Look about you." His _o_ sounds came out long and low. "Don't see what you think you ought, see what is. That's why you come here. _I_ see. I see what is. Flowers."

She looked more closely at the ground. What she'd assumed was grass, on closer inspection, proved to be a thick carpet of deep green plants, fuzzy and curled, more like moss.

"Don't flower like they should. Not in this too-hot world. Back home, they bloomed white. I remember. She didn't take that from me. I remember. I see." The thin slits of his eyes turned to her. "I see what you want, Shield."

"How do you know I'm a Shield?"

"Listen. I told you. I see. Some see what they're told to see, some see what they want to see, some don't see at all. The rest of us, see what is. Not many of that sort in this world. What sort are you, Shield?"

Before she could answer, he made a grunting noise, like he'd made the decision for himself. He turned and started away, loping down the hill.

She went after him, almost running to keep up. "I'm sorry about the plants, sir!"

The old man let out a laugh like a light bulb bursting. "Shield calls Ballard, 'sir.' Now that's a thing."

"Why's it a thing?"

"Haven't taught you proper disrespect, have they, Shield?" He stopped mid-stride, and she had to back up a few paces. She huffed a little.

"Your kind and mine," he said, "we are not friends."

"Your kind?"

Ballard's smile was pointed and tinged yellow. "What do you want, Shield? Speak quick before I decide to bite."

"I want the truth."

"Truth? Who's truth?"

"The truth about this town. Who are we? Where do we come from? Why are we here? And what killed Peter? And how do I kill it?"

"Why don't you ask your grandfather?"

"Because he works for _her_ and she can't know what I am."

Ballard's pointed smile widened as he leaned towards her. She leaned away.

"But she will. She sees too. Soon enough she will see you. But now I think,"—he drew back, tapping his temple—"I think and remember. A Shield. She requires a Shield, ya. I remember. And I see. I see . . . you, Shield." The nail of his crooked finger was gnarled, dirt-stained, and needed trimming. "The Shield comes to me. If she cannot have you, then she will not be happy. When she is not happy, Ballard is very happy."

"So . . . you'll help me?"

"I will help you, Shield. I will help you see what is and not what _she_ would want you to see. But hurry, my patience for your kind is a sliver."

He led her down the hill, into the woods.
Chapter 22

**"T** ea?" Ballard set a steaming kettle down on the rusty table between two rusty chairs, both spotted with blood-red paint. Olli sat near the edge of the creaking porch, coiling a strand of hair around her finger.

"Hot tea?" She wrinkled her nose. "No, thanks."

"Hot makes you sweat," he said, pouring the brown liquid into a heavy-looking ceramic mug. The tea wafted bitter and pungent, curling the hairs inside her nose. "Sweat makes you cool."

She picked a wet strand of hair off her forehead. "I think I've reached maximum coolness."

Nestled in a thicket of scrubby trees, at least Ballard's shack was shaded from the sun and sight of the nearby road. Every so often an unseen engine would hum by, but that was the only evidence that they were still in town.

Both he and his chair groaned as he leaned back. "Now questions. Now answers."

She took a deep breath. A breathless buzz made her feel like she floated off her chair. Finally, answers—she hoped. "I'm not sure where to start."

"Begin at the beginning and when you come to the end, stop."

Where had she heard that before?

"Okay, the beginning. It began with the monster—no, it began with Brend. I felt like I needed to protect him. Why does he need to be protected? Why am I programmed to be his bodyguard? Is he royalty? And what kind and from where?"

The old man sipped his tea, squinting straight ahead at the bone-thin trees that made up his front yard.

"Speares and Shields stand behind the Keeper. The Keeper holds the Guardian. The Guardian bars the gate. Or so it was, before _her_ and _him_."

"Her and him? The Dowager?" Olli swallowed a dry lump in her throat. "Is she a witch?"

"Too many questions!" He clunked his mug down. Tea splashed over the rim. "At the beginning I said. Does not listen either. Shield knows nothing. Her mouth flows over"—his tongue shot out, long and grayish, over and over like he was vomiting—"worse than damned birds here. Always chat-chat-chattering and what about? Nothing! Birds in this too-hot world have nothing to say."

Booker had said Ballard was eccentric, but she was starting to think he'd passed eccentric a long time ago. The crazy meter swung all over the place.

After a moment, he seemed to settle down again. "Start at the beginning," he grumbled. "Why does the Keeper's son need protecting? So he can do his duty. Or maybe you mean, why does the Preserver hunt the Keepers?" He held up his finger. It trembled ever so slightly. "That is a question worth consideration, if you care. As punishment for what was done to the Iron Gate? Could be. Or perhaps their souls have a certain flavor the Preservers prefer. Perhaps if they eat enough of them, they'll take the magic for themselves and be able to open the Iron Gate at will." A hissing snicker passed through his teeth.

"Preserver?"

"The thing you call monster."

"Why do you call it a Preserver?"

"I do not call it that. That is what it calls itself."

She decided not to ask him how he knew what Blinky called itself. "And when you say Keeper, you mean . . ."

"The Keeper is the father, his children are the heirs. But you jump again!" He slammed his fist down on the old chair's armrest, shaking loose a rain of rust. Some settled in his tea. She didn't point it out to him as he lifted the cup and took another sip. "Next question is, why are you programmed to be bodyguard? Wrong words. Not programmed. Not bodyguard. You are born with this power. Fearless, your ancestors, mighty warriors, free-peoples who served none. But when the gates were forged and locked, it was feared the Keepers would fail in their duty. Your ancestors were called upon to hold them in their place. Into the Keepers' blood, the key to Guardian. Into the Shields' blood, the chains that held the Keeper at the gate."

Before she could ask him what any of that meant, he went on,

"Next question. Royalty? Over time, the Keepers grew in power. People feared the gates opening again and so they paid homage to the Keepers. The Keepers named themselves rulers and used the Speares and Shields as their warriors. But they are not kings, nor princes. She is not a queen. They are servants to the gates, slaves."

Olli rubbed her forehead. She didn't want to aggravate Ballard more than she already had, but she could only understand about half of what he said. The Keepers seemed to be the Gates family. And they were in charge of this Iron Gate, whatever that was. Before she could get herself in trouble by asking any more follow-up questions, Ballard continued with his grumpy lecturing.

"From where? Fifthold was the kingdom. The kingdom of the Fifth Gate. The Iron Gate. The Iron Gate is the true king. Without it, there is no kingdom. And that brings us to the witch and her husband. Or should I say the Keeper and his witch? That is the problem with slaves. If you don't keep them in their place, they rise up and try to become the master. That is what the Keeper did. That is what my kind helped him to do. And so now, we are here, exiled in this too-hot world, forced to answer questions for Speare half-breeds. That is our punishment."

"Fifthold," she repeated, ignoring the half-breed remark. "Is that where Brend's father went and his mother? Back to Fifthold?"

His eyes slid over to her. They almost looked red. But her Shield remained inert. She hoped it would kick in to protect her too, if necessary, and not just the Gateses.

"Called to his duty, ya. Back home, through the door. Once it expelled us all here. Now it only swings one way, for the Keeper to return to his servitude. To pay the price for his grandfather's transgression."

"Servitude to . . . the Iron Gate?"

"Now she listens."

"And the reason we're all here, is because Brend's grandfather—"

"Great-great-grandfather," Ballard interjected. "The witch's husband."

Her nose wrinkled. "Great-great? So . . . you mean that the Dowager is also his two greats grandmother? And she's still alive? How old is she?"

"Not so old," Ballard said.

Olli doubted that was true, but in a world of magic and monsters it was the least of her concerns.

"So what did she and her husband do, exactly?"

Ballard began to rock. The chair cried out with each movement as if in pain. "We gave him the power to do it. Fools, all of us. We believed their lies. We gave them pieces of our souls and the Keeper and his witch used the power to kill the Guardian and open the Iron Gate. When the Keeper vanished, the Preservers flooded through, and there was no Guardian to stop them. Hundreds of your brethren died that day. I remember. I remember."

Olli picked at her scabs, trying to piece everything together. They were from a place called Fifthold. Brend's great-great-grandfather had killed the Guardian, whoever that was, and had caused a bunch of trouble when he opened the Iron Gate. Now Brend's father was back in Fifthold at the gate, doing his duty, whatever that meant. And she was descended from some warriors who had magic that was supposed to keep Brend's family on duty at the gate.

"So this Preserver,"—she still preferred Blinky—"it came through the Iron Gate too?"

Ballard began to draw his claws over the metal armrest. She grimaced at the shrill _skreeping_ of it.

"Through the door."

"The door . . .?"

"You do not listen!" He shouted out, towards the trees, but she flinched back. "I told you, the door only swings one way. But often, a Preserver slips through. It is not of flesh, not of blood. It does not take form sometimes for weeks, or months. You want to kill it? Find its pulse. That is where it dies."

"Pulse? You mean its heart?"

"If I meant heart, I would have said heart!"

She grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder, and stomped off the porch. "No one is forcing you to answer my questions. You wanted to, remember?"

His smile grew, far too wide it seemed. "I remember. I remember. She needs a Shield."

Olli strangled the strap of her backpack. She couldn't tell if she'd learned anything worthwhile or not. Her head was too busy throbbing to decide.

"Why do you keep saying that? Why does she need a Shield?"

"With a spear and shield, you can conquer the world. _A_ world. Not that you would want to conquer this one." He sat back, obscured in the shade. "Too hot, for one thing. She would not be interested in this world. She is yearning to find him. He is not here."

"This world? What other world is there?"

Another explosion-of-glass laugh. "More and many. Ours for one. It is much cooler there, ya."

She didn't know how long she stood there before she started to tackle his meaning. "You're saying we're from another planet? Like we're aliens?"

He tilted his hat back to gaze at her like she was an idiot. "Look there." He pointed to a sapling nearby.

Not sure why she didn't just turn and leave, she did as she was told. The tree was small and scraggly, not much taller than her.

"Take hold of that branch," he instructed.

She grasped the nearest branch, more like a twig than a branch.

"How many leaves on it?"

She scanned the branch's leaves. "I don't know. A lot. So?"

"Touch one, only one."

She took a leaf between her fingers. The surface felt cool and smooth.

"Now look at the one next to it."

She did.

"Do they look different?"

"Not really," she said, growing weary. Both leaves looked the same—little spearheads. "Except that one has a hole in it."

"A hole . . . ya. The first leaf you touched is this world. Not just the world. The entirety of it. Stars and emptiness and this too-hot earth. All of it, in that one little leaf."

"The universe?"

" _This_ universe. Now the one next to it. That one with the hole. That is _our_ universe, Shield. Our world, our stars, and our hole too. The hole, that is the Iron Gate, only there are nine holes, each with Guardians, with Keepers and Speares, but you, half-breed that you are, still are a Shield and you, like your would-be prince boy, belong to Fifthold. Your gate is of iron. The Guardian barred the Iron Gate. The Keepers held the Guardian in its place. Speares and Shields kept the Keepers at their duty. Once, the Iron Gate was locked, sealed up."

She released the branch. "And now it's not?"

He nodded. "Now it's not."

"And so?"

"So the Guardian is gone. The Iron Gate is broken. The Keepers are all that bar the way. And you, Shield, behind them."

"Bar the way? The way to what?"

"Look at the tree again. See all the leaves."

She frowned up at the tree. Afternoon sunlight limned their ragged edges and poured down on her. Her head spun as she gazed upwards. Tired and overheated, she couldn't decide if she believed what he said—if it all made so much sense as to be true—or if he was just a crazy old man. The leaves rustled in the breeze, like a thousand whispers. In spite of the heat, she went cold.

"What about the leaves?" she asked.

"They're the other worlds, other universes."

"Others?"

"More than you or I can imagine. That is what is beyond the Iron Gate, Shield. Others."
Chapter 23

**T** he day dwindled as she walked back to her grandparents' house. Hazy orange light flowed over the drowsy streets like magma. Her feet scraped as she plodded into the center of town.

_Another world. Another universe._

She couldn't even pretend to doubt it. She and Mirror Girl were too much one now for her to play the crazy card. Not a hallucination. Not a dream. Maybe she'd fallen down the rabbit hole, but Wonderland was real. Magic and monsters were real. Shield powers and other worlds, real too.

She couldn't change it, so she had to deal with it and move on.

But how?

As she shuffled into the center of town, she decided to stop at the coffee shop and fill herself with something cold, caffeinated, and chocolate-flavored. Surely sugar and coffee would jumpstart her drained brain.

A cold rush of air washed over her as she pulled open the door—and stopped dead. Behind the counter, Chelle smiled her seductive smile at some middle-aged patron. Her porcelain doll face, uncracked. Apparently, she hadn't broken her promise. And she hadn't yet noticed Olli.

Olli hurried to flee when Locke appeared.

"Hi, Olli." In one hand, he carried a thermos and in the other, an iced coffee.

"Um, hi." She peeked around him and recoiled. Chelle met her eye. If any friendship had existed between them, Olli could see it was now gone. Stupid Brend and his stupid witch of a great-great-grandma.

Locke glanced back at Chelle, who gave Olli the same threatening dagger look she'd given Brend last weekend.

"Problem?" Locke said to Chelle in a voice reminiscent of his father's.

Chelle smiled coolly and turned her attention to wiping up the counter.

Olli sighed. So much for coffee.

She swept her arm towards the door for Locke. "Can I get this for you?"

"Around here, it's usually the men who hold the door open for the ladies." He stepped through. She followed, back into the oven. Ballard might have been crazy, but he was right. This world was too hot.

"I'll remember that," she said.

"Making enemies, already?" He cocked his head back towards the coffee shop.

"Brend's making enemies for me," she grumbled.

"Ah," he said, raising an eyebrow.

She knew Locke was waiting for her to elaborate, but instead she gestured to the thermos. "Long night ahead, I guess."

_If I was out there hunting, this whole thing would be over already_ , Mirror Girl added.

Olli ignored her as best she could.

"Iced coffee. I try to make it at home, but it's not the same."

"Yeah, my mom used to say the coffee shops added crack to keep you coming—"

The world spun and tipped upside down. When it righted, she was in Shield-mode, heart racing, chest over-filled, every small hair straight as a pin.

"Are you okay?" Locke asked. His voice thundered in her ears.

She grimaced. With concentration, she turned the volume down.

"Something's wrong," she murmured, turning in a slow circle. The pressure in her chest directed her like a compass needle. She stopped, facing west. Of course. Towards the river. Towards the Gateses'.

"What'd you say?" he asked.

She turned back to him, blinking to adjust her Shield-vision so she wasn't staring into the tiniest of his pores.

"Do you have a car?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said uncertainly. "Do you need a ride?"

"Yeah. But we need to hurry."

"O-kay," he said. "This way."

He led her to a blue pick-up. She bit her lip, resisting the urge to shout at him to hurry up. He set his coffee down on the hood and unlocked the doors and then opened his door and retrieved his coffee. As soon as the locks clicked, she ripped open the door and leapt inside. Her legs bounced as he fastened his seat belt and started the engine.

Slowly, he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street.

"Can you drive any faster?" she asked.

"What's the rush?"

She caught his gaze. He stared back at her, driving straight through a stop sign. They nearly collided with a long silver Cadillac. Locke slammed on the brakes. The other driver laid on his horn. Locke rolled down his window in time to hear the man shout,

"Watch the road, not the girl, Reeve!"

"Sorry!" he called back. He turned back towards her, his eyes roving over her face. "Guards, you're a Speare."

"I need to get across the bridge. Now." She unfastened her seat belt and shoved open the door. "If you can't take me, I'll run."

"Wait." He reached across her as if to grab the door handle. "I'll take you."

She closed the door again.

He steered the truck towards Bridge Street.

"I can't believe this. Old Baer said you weren't."

"He doesn't know. No one knows. Is this the fastest you can go?"

"I am the Chief of Police's son," he reminded her.

"You can't tell anyone," she said.

"No one knows?"

"The Gateses know, but not the old lady. I need to keep it that way."

They approached the bridge. Finally.

"I won't tell anyone, Olli."

"Should I make you promise?"

Locke's eyebrows shot up. "You know about that too, huh? I thought the Gateses promised not to tell you anything."

"They did," she said.

"Then how do you—"

Across the bridge. Green girders. Green water.

"I've been piecing it together. Chelle helped, or was helping, until Brend attacked her with a sword."

"He did what?"

"He made her promise not to tell the old lady about me. That's why Chelle and I aren't friends anymore."

Locke frowned. "He made her promise?"

"Yeah, he smeared blood all over her face too. What's that about?"

Locke's eyes widened. "Oh."

"Oh, what?"

"That's why you turned me down this morning, because of him. He _is_ your boyfriend."

"No. He's not. He hasn't even talked to me for the last week."

Past the blackened brick ruins of the old mill, trees closing in. Her legs continued to jog, her throat dry as dead pine needles. Her fingers dug into her thighs.

Locke smiled. "Have a fight?"

She scowled at him. "So?"

Locke held up his hand in surrender. "I promise not to tell anyone you're Speare—a real one, that is. No blood required."

"Why did you think he was my boyfriend? What does it matter that he was the one who made her promise?"

Locke sped up. Up a hill, around a curve.

"That's not really my . . ."

"Locke, I have spent the last week trying to convince myself that I'm not insane. And no one has been able to help me because no one can give me a straight answer. I'm so desperate I spent the afternoon with a freaky old man who files his nails on his patio furniture. Please, please, please, just answer my question."

"It's not that I don't want to tell you the truth, Olli. It's just that, it's not really my place to tell you,"—he held out a quelling hand before she could explode—"about Brend's promise. But ask me anything else. What do you need to know?"

She dragged her hands over her face.

Almost to the house.

"Are we from another universe?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You answered that really fast."

"You said you were desperate."

She could've hugged him. "How did we get here?"

"There's a door."

"The Iron Gate?"

"No. The Iron Gate's back in the old world. The door was created just to bring us to this world and to allow the Keepers to go back to the old one."

"Brend's parents are the Keepers."

"His dad is. I don't know why his mom went."

"She didn't have to?"

He stopped the truck in front of the gate. "We're here."

She looked out at the gate. But her inner compass tugged her elsewhere, farther down the road.

"Keep going."

He didn't move.

"Drive!"

He put the truck back in gear and drove on. "You're different when you're all Speared out."

"You don't even know."

"You must've been pretty freaked, huh?"

"Understatement."

"We're headed towards _her_ house, you know that, right?"

She grasped the door pull and peered out at the forest. Bronze light cut through the trees, intense and bright even as the sun fell. "I thought it didn't come out during the day."

"It? You mean the Whisperer?"

"I thought it was called a Preserver."

"I've never heard it called that before."

"That's what it calls itself."

"Who told you that?"

"A Mad Hatter," she muttered. "I still like Blinky anyway."

"Blinky?" The truck slowed to a crawl. "You've seen it?"

"I faced it last weekend."

He stopped the truck in the middle of the road.

"You really need to drive," she said.

When he twisted towards her, wearing such a serious expression, she held back her desire to jump out of the car and sprint the rest of the way to wherever her inner Shield was directing her.

"Olli, this is important. When you faced it, what happened? Did you kill it?"

"I don't know." She thought back to that night—her Shield explosion, the screams. Had she killed it? "No," she said with sudden certainty. "I didn't."

"But you fought it."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Did you disperse it? Hit it with water? Force it into the daylight?"

"Disperse it?"

"A Whisperer doesn't have a stable form. In the rain, or in the daylight, if it doesn't take shelter, it can be dispersed. It can take a while for it to reform."

"No, I didn't do either of those things."

_But I did hit it with a Shield Burst._

Did her sub-bass wave have the power to disperse Blinky?

"I thought I just scared it away."

Locke sat back, thoughtful.

"Locke, I have to go. I can't sit here. Someone"—Brend—"is in danger, right now."

"If someone is in danger, it's not from the Whisperer. It won't come out with this much light. Maybe at dusk, but there'd have to be more shadows than sunlight. We're a good hour from then."

"Well, something is wrong."

"Olli, up that hill and around the bend is a big house and a very dangerous woman. Maybe you faced the Whisperer,"—he let out a puff of breath like he didn't believe it—"but she is something totally different. And if Brend made a blood promise to keep you hidden from her, then I don't think you should go any farther."

"I have to," she said. "I am not important."

Locke stared at her. "That's not what Brend thinks."

She unlocked the door.

"Olli, listen," he said, grasping her wrist lightly. "I'll take you up there, because I was going there anyway. That's where we meet before the hunt. But you need to turn it off."

"Turn it off?"

"The Speare-thing. You don't know what you look like. You're glowing. Your eyes look like . . . green fire. If you go up there like this, she'll know what you are for sure."

She remembered then, Brend at the funeral, telling her to stand down.

"Turn it off," she said. "Okay." She closed her eyes, repeating the words: _turn it off, turn it off._

"I get it now," he murmured as she tried to shut down her Shield-powers. "You're a full-on Speare, old world. Even though your mom's from this world. Nobody expected that. Especially not the Dowager. If she knew what you were, she'd snap you up in a second."

She opened her eyes, still in super-mode. She cursed. "How? Everyone's so worried she'll find out about me. What will she do? Put a spell on me or something?"

"My grandma used to tell me stories. I don't know how many of them are true. But most of the time, the Dowager makes deals. She makes an offer and you accept it, and then she sweetens the deal and you accept that too, and the next thing you know, you owe her your life."

"So, I have to accept. She can't force me? She's not going to kidnap me or something?"

All traces of his smile evaporated. "She'll use magic to make you think you want to accept the offer."

Her stomach churned. "I can't sit here anymore. I have to go."

He released her wrist. "One of them is up there, with her?"

She nodded.

"Brend?"

She nodded again.

"He's of her blood. She can't use magic to trick him. If he makes a deal with her, he's doing it consciously."

"I don't go super-Olli for nothing, Locke. He may be conscious, but he's not thinking."

His fist twisted in his palm. "I might be able to help you ward off some of her magic. But my magic isn't anything like hers. If she senses it, she'll destroy it—"

"You have magic?"

"Some. My grandma taught me before she died." His hazel-gold eyes flicked over to her. "But you still need to turn it off."

"I tried, I can't."

"Try again."

Squeezing her eyes shut she fought with Mirror Girl, trying to shove her back into the depths. She remembered Brend again at the cemetery, but every time she thought of him, Mirror Girl started to scream and struggle again. They were wasting time. Brend was going to make a deal with the witch. She didn't know what that meant exactly, but she knew it would end up hurting him. She had to stop him. If that old woman did anything to him . . .

A specter of the Dowager appeared in Olli's mind. Her fragile aged beauty, her bone white hair, her onyx black eyes.

_Be ordinary_ , Mr. Taylor had said. _Small and insignificant_. Like everyone else in this world.

All she had to do was stop Brend from doing whatever stupid thing he was about to do. She didn't have to be a Shield to do that. She could be an ordinary teenaged girl. Like Amber.

A plan started to form in her mind.

She opened her eyes again. Her heart slowed. The pressure in her chest ebbed. She inhaled slowly.

After a moment, she looked at Locke. "Well?"

He studied her. "Better."

She nodded, reassuring Mirror Girl that they could help Brend without Shield-powers. For once, Mirror Girl seemed to listen. The strain in her chest shrank to a tight little knot around her heart.

"Okay," he said. "There are lots of ways to use magic. And she knows them all. Ground rules: don't eat or drink anything. Don't take anything she offers you, but be cool. Don't make her suspicious. Watch out for smells too, perfume, incense, all of it can be laced with magic."

He looked downright grim.

"Do you have a plan?" he asked.

She nodded. "I think so."

"It better be a quick one. If she's seriously hitting you with magic, then my protection spell isn't going to last long. It won't last long anyway." He straightened up. "Give me your hand."

She held out her left hand. He placed his hand under hers. He whispered some words she couldn't understand, and then he spit in her palm and closed her fingers.

"Ew. You could've warned me."

His smile returned. "Keep it closed."

She studied her hand. Still no fairy-dust sparkles. The wet glob began to firm and cool, until it grew as hard as a marble in her palm.

"It'll dissolve pretty quickly," he said. "If it feels like spit again, you need to get out of there."

"What did you do?"

"My grandma used to say that big people with big power tend to forget about the big power of little people."

"Huh?"

"I put a spell in your hand. A small one. Hopefully it's small enough, she won't notice it."

"What does it do?"

"It's your wits." He shifted into drive. "You've got a hold on them. Don't let them go."
Chapter 24

**T** he Dowager's fence stood higher than the one at the Gateses'. The trees on either side of the curving drive huddled closer and thicker. Watchful.

Olli continued to whisper to Mirror Girl. _Stay still. We can do this_.

The truck wound up and around. The trees abruptly disappeared. Before them, a mansion rose from the swell of the land. With its white stone and glass domes, it seemed bigger, older, than the one down the lane. Carved into the façade, figures in low relief, clustered as if dancing, bearing spears and shields, kneeling in procession, like something out of ancient Greece.

In front of the truck, a line of cars. Among them, a gleaming black sedan, more like a sports car.

She shoved opened the door. Pap stood in her way, his face granite.

"What are you doing here?"

Chief Reeve stood behind him, thumbs snagged in his utility belt. He gazed past Olli towards Locke.

"Not the place to bring a date, boy," he said.

Locke shrank in his seat.

Olli shut the door and drew back her shoulders. "I need to talk to Brend."

Pap's brow plunged. "You shouldn't be—"

"Neither should he," she blurted out and then bit on her lip, quelling her Shield again. "I just need to see him. It's important."

"It can wait," Pap grunted.

She gazed up at Pap's broad, dark face. "No. It. Can't."

But Pap didn't look ready to back down. If anything, his chest seemed to grow broader with every breath. His eyes took on a hard glitter. "You listen to me now—"

"Look who came by for a visit," Daniel said.

The faintest of grimaces flashed over Pap's face before he stepped aside. Daniel sauntered through a flower-laden arbor beside the house.

"She was just leaving," Pap said, reaching for her arm, but she sidestepped him.

"I need to see Brend," she said to Daniel.

Daniel rolled his eyes. "Why? Did he forget your date?"

_Remember, you are a normal teenaged girl_.

"No," she snapped, pushing her voice a little too high, hoping it sounded like he'd hit a nerve. "I have a message from his sister."

"So text him."

"I tried," she said. "That's why she called me. She's upset he's not answering his phone."

" _She's_ upset, huh?" Daniel smirked. "Okay. Come on back."

"She doesn't need to go," Pap said, catching her arm in his massive hand. "We can give him the message."

Daniel looked about to shrug when both his and Pap's phones chimed. Daniel took his out. Pap's grip on her arm tightened.

Daniel glanced at his phone, then up at Olli. His eyes darkened. "Looks like you've been invited to the party."

Olli's hand clenched around Locke's spell. She glanced back at him. He chewed his lower lip, all traces of his smile gone.

Daniel slid his phone back in his pocket. "Let's go then."

She tried to pull her arm free. At first, Pap held tight. Then, bit by bit, he relinquished her.

She started after Daniel.

"Oh, Miss Speare." Chief Reeve stepped up to her, lowering his voice. "If you speak to Dr. Gates, will you"—he cleared his throat—"tell her I dropped my damned phone in the woods last night. I'll call her as soon as I can."

She nodded.

The Chief gave her a small smile that reminded her of Locke. His voice dropped even lower. "Mind the flowers."

He turned away. "Let's have a talk, boy," he said to Locke, climbing into the truck.

Pap stood by, seeming to age by the second.

She wanted to tell him she'd be okay, but . . .

"Are you coming or not?" Daniel said.

_Ordinary. Girl._

"You don't have to be huffy," she said, catching up with him.

"Whatever. Just come on." He led her under the arbor. She didn't look back.

The gardens swallowed them up.

"I don't know why she wants to see you," Daniel grumbled as he led her through a maze of hedges and fountains. Every plant, shrub, and tree bloomed, so heavy with flowers they looked burdened, like slaves in gem-encrusted chains. "You better be polite."

"I will," she muttered. The dying warmth of the day and the thick floral mélange dulled her focus.

_Mind the flowers_.

She tightened her grip on the spell. Her head cleared. The smooth orb of the spell seemed to shrink.

They walked down and down, through big gardens and small. At times the flowers' cloying perfume wound into her head, blurring the edges of things, but she shook away the creeping magic.

Finally, they exited onto a terraced lawn. From the back, the house showed its full grandeur. Boxes of white stone and glinting glass tiered down the hillside, each its own floor. Garden terraces skirted behind. Far down and beyond, the faint black fence-line pressed against the swell of the distant forest.

Under the shade of a broad canvas umbrella in her fancy wooden wheelchair, the old woman was dressed in flowing white, her equally white hair pinned atop her head. Before her stood Brend, his eyes fixed on the ground.

The spell in Olli's hand had shrunk by a third, more the size of a wadded gum wrapper than a marble now.

_Be quick._

Daniel strode to the Dowager, bowed, and said, "My cousin, ma'am."

Olli gave him a look that said, _you're weird_. Or she hoped it did. Acting ordinary was harder than she'd expected.

The Dowager waved him aside. "Miss Speare, welcome. How pleasantly unexpected."

Her voice was youthful, rich, and full. It reminded Olli of the night she'd finished off a bottle of her mom's Merlot. The sound made her head swimmy and her face warm. She held tight to Locke's spell.

She gave the old woman a smile. "Nice to meet you. I'm sorry to interrupt. I only came to give your grandson a message."

"A message?" The Dowager folded her hands in her lap. Her fingers played over the ring on her left hand, twisting it around her bony finger. Light caught in its facets. The band itself appeared carved from diamond. White flashes hit Olli's eyes, hypnotic, like Blinky's skin. Olli looked away. Locke's spell seemed to shrink. "And I thought you were . . . what's the word? The babysitter."

"That's why I'm here," she said, pretending the woman before her was just Farren's sweet old grandma and not a witch from another universe who was trying to spell her with magic flowers. "Farren called me." She crossed her arms and shot Brend a piercing look. That part, at least, she didn't have to fake. "She's freaking out because you haven't answered your phone. Like you said you would."

Brend's jaw flexed, but he didn't look at her, or respond.

"Oh, dear," the Dowager murmured. "Poor child. What a worry, and when she's so far from home. Would you care for lemonade, Miss Speare? You look quite . . . warm."

Her heart leapt, but she shoved it down again. _Stay ordinary._

"No, thanks. I only came to tell Brend that his sister is upset and would like to speak to him and that's it's not very nice to ignore someone or make them worry, or wonder, where he is. Or . . . who he's with."

Daniel rolled his eyes again.

Good. She hoped she sounded like a jealous would-be-girlfriend.

"Hmm." The Dowager lifted her glass and took a small sip. Thus far, Olli had managed to avoid looking her in the eye, but when the Dowager set her glass down, her gaze caught Olli's. "Let's have a look at you."

Down the rabbit hole.

Locke's spell melted in her hand like an ice cube.

Brend seized Olli's arm and spun her towards him, breaking her out of the Dowager's trance.

"You can leave now." He pushed her back a couple of steps. "I got the message."

"Watch it," Daniel growled.

"Yes, Brend." The Dowager sighed. "No need to be coarse with the girl. Is that how your father taught you to treat young ladies? Unfortunate that you children haven't spent more time here with me. Clearly, your sensibilities desire refinement."

Locke's spell had nearly lost all shape. But if Brend wasn't leaving, then neither was she. She glared at him, hoping he got _that_ message.

"You should listen to your grandmother," she said through her teeth.

"Ah, so the girl speaks sense, how refreshing. Tell me, young lady, how do you find our little town?"

Locke's spell diminished again. Before she could answer, Brend stepped in front of her, facing the Dowager. "Give me your answer now."

A small tremor passed through Olli's chest. The deal was already on the table.

"Sadly, my boy, I cannot give you what you want."

"Can't or won't?"

"Brend—" Olli reached for his arm. He shook her off.

"Believe me, child, I would if I could. Perhaps if you visited with me more often, you might have a sense of the formidable nature of your request. When your mother came to me for help, she, too, was terribly ignorant—"

"My mother never came to you."

"Didn't she? Hmm."

Olli's heart started to hammer. She had to get Brend out of here. She had to get out of here.

"You're a liar and a—"

"Stop it." Olli grabbed his arm. He yanked free, whipping around.

"Don't—" His teeth clicked together. "You shouldn't even be here. I told you to leave."

"And you shouldn't speak to your grandmother,"—she glowered at him—"like that. I'm sure Booker told you not to . . . talk like that. It's rude."

"I don't give a—"

"You should listen to my cousin," Daniel said, "before you get yourself into trouble, sir."

"Is that right, Speare?"

"Enough." The Dowager's voice rang low and resonant. "Children. Really." She plucked a fan from the table, snapping it open and began to slowly fan it front of her face. Her gaze returned to Olli. As the fan flickered before her eyes, white over black—flashing.

Locke's spell dissolved to spit.

"We need to talk." Brend grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

"I don't think I like the way you're treating my cousin," Daniel said, stepping in Brend's path. "Sir."

Brend stepped up to Daniel. "Maybe your cousin likes the way I treat her."

"You're asking for it—"

"Here." Brend yanked her forward, releasing her. Daniel caught her before she collided into his chest. "I don't want to deal with her anyway. You tell her to stop following me around everywhere." He leaned in towards her. "It's pathetic."

She didn't have to pretend to be an ordinary girl. Tears appeared all by themselves.

"Such ugliness." The Dowager tutted.

Brend turned back to her. "Are you going to help me or not?"

The Dowager's gaze shone sharper than a sword edge. "Perhaps I can offer you something else."

"There's nothing else I want from you," he said.

He gave Daniel a flat look, ignoring Olli altogether.

"Why don't you take your cousin home? Put her to bed, it's getting late."

He stalked away into the gardens.

Daniel's teeth clicked together. "I'm going to teach that little—"

"Please do remember, Daniel, of whom you speak," the Dowager said. "He may be uncouth, but he is my blood."

"Yes, ma'am, forgive me," he said, his voice strained.

"It's been a long day. I'm very tired," she said, sounding like an old woman for once. "Show your cousin the short way out."

Daniel murmured in assent and dragged Olli away. She couldn't remember ever being pushed around so much. Deep down and far away, Mirror Girl muttered in irritation.

"And young lady," the Dowager called. Daniel and Olli halted. "Better to forget about my grandson. You seem to bring out the worst in him. This world is full of young men, I'm certain you'll find one more suitable for you. Give my regards to your mother when you see her again. You do look remarkably like her."

Olli was glad she couldn't see through the tears burning her eyes, or she might have given the Dowager a look full of green fire.

But at least she had convinced the Dowager she was just an ordinary broken-hearted teenaged girl.

And she was.

Daniel took her back through the garden, but this time, no maze, no magic-laced scent bombs, just a short straight path to the arbor.

"That one'll be spitting blood the next chance I get, just you watch," Daniel grumbled, when they'd reached the arbor.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. "Don't bother. It's not worth it."

"I told you not to get involved with him."

"Thanks for reminding me."

His hand rested on her shoulder. "The Lady's right, forget about him."

She blinked, trying to dry up the tears.

His boots shuffled on the gravel path. "You okay? I gotta go."

"I'm fine. Go."

After a second, he headed back.

"Daniel," she said.

He stopped.

"Thanks."

He gave her a curt nod and left.

She stepped out of the arbor. Brend captured her hand and dragged her towards his car, practically pulling her arm out of its socket. He yanked the passenger-side door open and seemed about to push her in. She re-gathered her wits, no magic-spit necessary, and tore free from him.

"What are you doing?"

He crowded in so close she could taste the mint on his breath. "Get in the car."

"You're out of your—"

"Not here."

"Everything all right?" Pap asked, looming up behind Brend.

Brend's eyes closed for a second, his nostrils flared. "Fine."

"Is that so, Lil' Engine?"

Olli didn't know if it was so or not. Her shoulder ached, her head ached, her heart ached, all thanks to Brend. When he looked at her, she didn't know who she was looking at—the guy who'd called her pathetic a few minutes ago, or the guy who'd sliced open his hand to protect her. She glanced down. The wound on his palm had healed to a gnarly red scab.

She touched his shoulder lightly. He stepped aside.

"Everything's fine," she said. "Brend's giving me a ride."

Pap crossed his arms over his chest and touched the ring on his necklace. She could see the worry etched in his dark eyes, like tiny fissures. "It's getting late."

"I know," she said.

He nodded. "Best be on your way."

"Be safe," she said to him.

The corners of Pap's eyes crinkled. He looked so tired. "You too."

She slipped into the car. Brend shut the door behind her.

For the few minutes they drove, the tension built to the point of suffocation.

Then Brend pulled into the garage at his house, got out of the car, and slammed the door.

She shoved open her own door and followed him into the driveway. The shadows lengthened around them. Without a breeze, the hot air pressed around her like sweaty passengers on an overcrowded bus.

"Aren't you going to take me home?" she shouted at him as he stalked towards the front door. "Isn't that where I belong?"

He swore and spun around. "Do you have any idea what you just did? Do you know what could've happened?"

"Did you bring me here so we could fight?"

"I brought you here so you could explain to me what the hell you were thinking!"

"Me? What about you? You went to her to make a deal? You really are out of your mind. Even I know that's a bad idea." She thrust her finger at him. "And if you didn't want me to go there, then you shouldn't have gone there yourself. Because I'm so pathetic that I'm forced to follow you around wherever you go, remember?"

He lifted his hand, fist clenching. "I had to say that."

"Did you?"

"Yes. If she'd had any idea that I felt . . . That's it, I am taking you home." He stormed past her, back towards the car. "You don't belong here."

"I don't belong here?" She called after him. _No crying. No. More. Crying._ "What about you? What about everyone else in this backwater?"

He reached for the car door.

"You don't belong here either! Aren't you just waiting to get back to Fifthold or whatever leaf world it is you come from? Well, they don't want you back! At least I have someplace else to go! You're stuck in this too-hot no-hole having universe! And the next time a monster comes for your sorry butt, it can have you!" She swiveled towards the gathering darkness beyond the magnolia tree. "Hear that, Blinky? He's all yours!" She charged back to the car. "Take me home." She dropped into the passenger seat, shaking so much her teeth chattered. She slammed the door shut.

After a few seconds, her door opened. Brend squatted down next to her.

"Olli—"

She turned her face away. She wasn't crying.

"What did you just say?"

She fumed, still not looking at him. "You want me to repeat all of it, or just the part where I told you to take me home?"

"The part about . . . you said a word, the name of a place."

"The name of a place,"—she swiped roughly at her tears so she could look at him—"you mean Fifthold? That place in another universe we all got kicked out of because your great-great-grandparents broke some gate? That place?"

He pressed his hands together at his lips and then stood up, leaving the door open.

After a minute or so, she got out. She found him leaning against the trunk, arms folded, staring out at the yard as the light burned gold through the trees and the sky above darkened in heavy purple hues.

Realization crystalized in her mind. "That's it, isn't it? Fifthold." Her breath hitched, feeling freed by the revelation. "That's the word that breaks the promise."

Finally.

She wanted to be happy, but Brend looked more miserable than ever.

"I had to go to her, Olli. I had to do something. I had—" His voice broke. "I had to try." Tears glimmered in his eyes. "Somebody had to try."

Crap. Boy tears. Girl kryptonite.

"Try what?"

"Try to get her back," he said. "My mom. She never should've left. I don't know what she was thinking—" His voice tightened again. "Booker says she had a reason. But what reason could she have? For leaving us? For leaving Farren? She can't come back. Once you go through,"—he lost steam, his voice falling to a whisper—"you don't come back. Isn't it bad enough that my Dad—"

He turned his face away.

She touched his arm with her fingertips. Prickly tingles ran over her skin, everywhere. Double crap. If she wasn't careful, she'd end up a mushy girl puddle on the driveway.

Just because he showed some feeling now didn't mean he hadn't been a royal-sized jerk before. For some reason though, her hand stayed on his arm.

He thumbed away his tears. "You should hate me. Any other girl would."

"How do you do that?" she asked.

"What?"

"Can you read my mind or what? Tell me the truth."

He let out a breathy laugh, eyes turning up to the darkening sky. "You don't know what I would give to be able to read your mind." His gaze dropped to her again. "Does that mean you do hate me?"

"Is that what you were trying to do? Make me hate you?"

"Did it work?"

Instead of answering, she asked, "Why?"

"That day, with Chelle and the promise, I realized . . ." He looked down at her hand on his arm, the tremble returned to his eyes. "There's so much you don't know, Olli. Things you need to know. Let's start there, okay?"

"I think you were holding back," she said. "You could've been meaner."

"No, Olli, I really couldn't have." His hand slid over hers, grasping it.

Triple crap.
Chapter 25

**A** s they entered the kitchen, her phone rang.

She set her bag on the counter and dug the phone out. Brend hovered in the front of the refrigerator, staring through the glass doors, like he could make food appear by imagining it.

She looked at the screen. "Oh."

"Who is it?" he asked.

She put the phone to her ear. "Hi, Mam."

"Where are you? You missed dinner. It's past dark."

"Um, I'm at the Gateses'."

"What? I thought the lady doctor was going to drop you here—"

"She did. But . . . I came back?"

Brend snorted, grinning. She slapped his arm.

"What, for the all world, are you doing back there?"

"I didn't mean to come here. I just sort of . . . ended up here."

Silence. Under normal circumstances, a girl's grandma could simply tell her to come home and that would be the end of it. Normal girls were being dropped off at home all over the country—all over the world. But these weren't normal circumstances, she wasn't a normal girl, and this wasn't even their world.

She knew what Mam was thinking. Blinky could be prowling. If she told Olli to come home, she put Olli at risk. If only she'd known that Olli was a Shield.

"Well," Mam sighed. "I suppose you'll have to impose yourself then. Give over the phone to Dr. Gates."

Somehow Mam had missed the bit of information about Hope going with Farren to Florida. Olli decided that amongst all the lies between her and her family, one more wasn't going to make matters any worse.

"She's in the shower. She's had a long day. You know she works too much."

"You make yourself useful to her," Mam said. "And give her our apologies."

Olli frowned. Why would she need to apologize? If anything, the Gateses should have been glad to have her at the house. This was where she should have been the whole time.

But she couldn't say any of that.

"I will."

"Mind yourself," Mam said. "Remember . . . you're a Speare."

_Shield, actually._ "I will."

"Goodnight then, I guess."

"Goodnight, Mam."

She hung up. At that moment, Roper ambled into the living room, and once again, he wasn't alone. This time he had a pretty cat-eyed girl in tow, Amber.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps. Amber hung close behind him, smiling shyly. Their faces glowed, their eyes bright. They both wore bathing suits. Olli couldn't help but notice how well Amber filled out her red bikini.

Brend scowled. "What's she doing here?"

"Manners," Roper chided. "She's keeping me company. I could ask you the same thing about Speare over there, but that would be rude."

"It's different," Brend said.

"Is it?" Roper grinned. "Too bad for you." He tugged Amber along after him. "We're just going for a swim. We won't disturb your important business, Your Highness." He gave his brother an exaggerated bow and then shot Olli a smile. "Speare."

He and Amber hurried outside, snickering.

Brend glowered after them. "I'm going to kill him."

Olli tucked her phone into her backpack again. Outside, Amber shrieked as Roper grabbed her and propelled them both into the pool.

"As long as they stay inside the fence they're safe, right?"

Brend was too busy staring at the counter to answer her.

"Right?"

"Right," he muttered.

"And that's because . . ."

"Let's talk downstairs," he said, rounding the counter, shooting one last glare towards his brother and Amber, who were now bobbing in the center of the pool, lip-locked.

She picked up her backpack and followed him down the stairs.

"Why is it safe inside the fence?"

"Blood magic." He paused on the landing that led to Farren's room, waiting for her. "It's the strongest kind of magic."

She came up beside him. "Is that why you used blood to seal Chelle's promise?"

"Who told you about Fifthold?" His face darkened. "Not Chelle."

"No," she said, continuing down and leaving him to follow, fully aware that he'd once more avoided answering the question. "Not Chelle. Actually, your brother—"

Brend caught up, falling into step beside her. "Roper? But the promise—"

"Booker told me who to talk to. I think he was feeling guilty . . ."— _about not telling you that your father is dying_. A feeling she was starting to share—"about making the promise in the first place."

"Who did he tell you to talk to?"

"Ballard."

He stopped again. "You talked to Ballard?"

"Yeah."

He looked like he was searching for a reason to be annoyed. "You really don't feel fear, do you?"

"Ballard was weird, but he wasn't scary."

Brend gave her the oh-really look.

"Okay, maybe he was a little freaky," she admitted.

"That's because he's not human."

"Say what?"

He shrugged and started down again. "Welcome to Wonderland, Alice."

"If he's not human, what is he?"

"They used to be called borderlings, back in the old world. That's what we called them anyway. There were all different kinds. Like your friend, Chelle."

She grabbed his shoulder, halting him again. "Chelle's not human?"

He folded his arms. "In this world, she'd be equivalent to what the Greeks called nymphs. The cold-blooded kind."

Just when she thought she couldn't hear anything else that would surprise her.

"And Ballard, what's his equivalent?"

He seemed to think. "I haven't come across anything quite like him. But you're the one who reads fantasy novels, not me."

She stuck out her tongue. He smiled and continued down the stairs.

Before she could follow him the squat metal vase in the hall that seemed to lead nowhere caught her eye. "What's up with the vase?" she asked.

He glanced back up at her. "It opens a secret passage."

For some reason, this didn't surprise her.

"To where?"

"The lower levels," he said and then tossed a grin up at her. "The armory."

"There's an armory?"

"How'd I know you'd like that?" he said, moving on.

She hurried after him. "Because I'm descended from a race of mighty warriors?"

They reached the bottom. Once again, the darkness pressing against the windows drew her attention.

"Come on, I have something for you, oh mighty warrior." He led her through the game room and into the dark hall on the opposite side. Recessed lights came on as they moved. He pushed open a wide door at the end of the hall and pushed on the lights.

She stopped at the threshold. "Is this your room?"

He went down a few steps, smirking over his shoulder at her. "Afraid now?"

"Should I be?"

He knelt down beside his bed. She entered the room slowly. Shaped like a baseball diamond with the door at home and the massive bed spanning from second base to the pitcher's mound, the dark wood floors gleamed underfoot. Overhead, the ceiling domed, dotted with dimmed recessed lights. Jackets hung on a rack by the door. The desk was tidy, the bed made. And it smelled like him. So much so that she had to hang at the top of the steps and let her pulse slow before she moved any closer.

Brend stood and dropped a shield onto the bed. It landed with a soft _whomp_.

This drew her to the bed. She left her backpack on the floor and gazed down at the shield.

The bronze was aged almost black. Around the outer edge the carved symbols were similar to the ones on her grandfather's shield, their style at once simpler, yet more elegant.

"I found it in the armory." He dropped down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face, like he was just waking up.

She dropped a knee onto the bed so she could look closer. In the center, raised from the surface, wings.

"What does this symbol mean?"

"It's the symbol of the Guardian and of Fifthold." He twisted around, stretching, and grabbed a book off the nightstand. He held up the slim green volume. "Look familiar?"

"You can read that?"

He cracked open the book. More dots. More arrows. She didn't have to look. She'd already flipped through the pages after Booker had given it to her.

"Yup."

"What's it about?"

"You."

"Huh?"

"It's about Shields. Not this kind,"—he tapped the metal—"but the Olli kind."

She took the book from him, turning the delicate, aged pages. "What does it say?"

"For one thing it says you can use this,"—he gestured again to the shield on the bed—"to amplify your power, which must be what you did last weekend."

She returned the book to him. Her palms itched to pick up the shield, but her shoulder ached from Brend dragging her to his car.

"It's too bad you can't read it yourself. It's pretty much a training manual. Did you know you can control the shape of your power? You can make it into anything, like a wall or a weapon. And it would actually manifest. It says in here you could stop a whole army, invisible force-field style."

"Cool."

"Yeah."

"What else does it say?"

"A lot. Like that, Shields are rarer than Speares, and it's even rarer that you have the kind of power you used against our little friend. Seems you're packing some pretty serious magic."

"Is that what it is? Magic?"

"Of a sort. There's magic you're born with and magic you acquire. Guess which is stronger."

"I don't want to play any more guessing games, cat." She touched her growling stomach. "Do you have anything to eat around here?"

"Check the desk. Right side."

A cabinet under the desk housed a mini-fridge, a small microwave, and a stockpile of snacks. She opened a bag of pretzels, put a frozen cheese pocket in the microwave, and chugged a bottle of orange juice while she waited. She finished the juice, opened a bottle of water, drank half of that, shoved more pretzels into her mouth, took the steaming pocket out of the microwave, and turned around.

Brend watched her with vague amusement.

She sank into the desk chair and ate. "I didn't eat lunch, okay? Or dinner."

He stood and paced. "Maybe we should start at the beginning."

She cringed as hot grease burned the roof of her mouth. She plopped the cheese pocket back on its paper plate and sat back as it cooled.

"No. Let's start at the end. Tell me why you had to act like a prick this afternoon."

He crossed his arms. "Why don't we start with Ballard instead? What exactly did he tell you?"

She took another swig of water, hoping to dowse her annoyance.

"Fine," she said after she'd swallowed. Nope, still annoyed. "He said that we're all from another universe. That we were exiled to this world after your great-great-grandparents killed the Guardian and busted open the Iron Gate. He said that the Iron Gate leads to a bunch of other universes. He said your father went back to do his duty to the Iron Gate." Her stomach shrank and hardened into a stone. "And he said that if I wanted to kill Blinky I had to find its pulse. He also called it a Preserver. Do you know what that means?"

Brend shook his head. "I've never heard it called that before."

"That's what Locke said."

His eyes narrowed. "Locke?"

She gulped more water. "Yeah, he gave me a ride this afternoon."

"Oh, did he?"

"Yeah, he did, because my Shield sirens went off when I was all the way across town, and I needed to get to you before you did something stupid."

"I knew what I was doing. I wasn't in any danger."

"That's not what my Shield senses told me."

"It was more dangerous for you to be there than for me," he said. "You're lucky she didn't see you for what you are."

"It wasn't so much luck as Locke's protection spell."

He stared at her like she'd slapped him across the face. "Locke Reeve used magic?"

"Yeah, it was gross too. But remind me to thank him the next time I see him." She hugged her knee to her chest. "Does magic always have to involve bodily fluids?"

"What exactly did he do?"

She was beginning to understand Ballard's dislike of having too many questions lobbed at once. "I believe I already answered one of your questions. It is now your turn to answer one of mine. We're going to start with why you felt the need to act like a total . . . why you acted the way you did at the Dowager's."

His chest rose and fell, slowly. "For the same reason you acted like an obnoxious airhead."

She bit back her retort and waited for him to elaborate.

"If the Dowager thought I cared about you, even a little, she would've found a way to use it against me. That's what she does."

"I don't get it. Why is she so mean? Why would she hurt you? You're her family."

Brend sprawled back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "She doesn't care about anyone but herself, Olli. All she wants is power. Booker thinks she wants to get back to Fifthold to finish what she started with the Iron Gate. Personally, I don't care what she wants. She's an evil old witch and they should've killed her when they had a chance."

"Why didn't they? Ballard said that the Iron Gate leads to other universes. Why were they locked up in the first place?"

He rolled over on his side. "The short version? A very very long time ago, the gates were open—"

"Gates. Plural. I think Ballard mentioned that. There's more than one."

"There are nine."

"And ours is the fifth."

"Bingo." He sat up. "A long time ago, they were open. They were used by higher order beings to travel between universes. Our planet, the old world, the name roughly translates to mean, Place of Crossing. That's what our planet was, a crossroads. But the higher order beings, some of them weren't very nice—"

"Higher order beings? What's that? Like Ballard and Chelle?"

"No. Not anything like them. Think more like gods, Olli. Beings with power that . . . would probably scare even a Shield."

She grinned. "Don't bet on it."

He smiled a little and then resumed. "Anyway, if you thought I was a huge jerk, you should read about these guys sometime. They annihilated whole universes, just for kicks. In our world, the old world, some of them set up shop and turned all us lower creatures into their pets and slaves. After a while, us lowly mortals got sick of it and fought back. We probably would've been crushed but some of the other higher-ups were sick of their friends' shenanigans too. They helped us defeat the jerks. After that, they decided, for everyone's sake, to lock up the gates so it couldn't happen again. They installed the Guardians, immortal beings, to watch over the gates. All we had to do was keep our end of the bargain. Keep an eye on the Guardians. Keep the gates locked."

He pointed to the cheesy pocket. "Are you going to eat that?"

She shook her head and held the plate out to him. "So why would your great-great-grandparents kill the Guardian and open the gate? Wait, how could they even kill the Guardian? Didn't you just say the guardians were immortal?"

He took the plate. "Apparently they live forever until some backstabbing keeper decides to use the equivalent of a magic nuclear bomb to take them out."

"But why would they do that? Did they want everybody dead?"

He flopped back onto the bed. "They didn't care. They wanted power. They probably thought if they went through they'd become gods themselves. Instead, they let out a whole host of Whisperers. Back in the old world, the Whisperers don't need time to gain shape. They come out fighting." He picked up the cheesy pocket. "Ask me how many Speares and Shields there were before the Iron Gate opened."

She didn't think she wanted to ask that question. She waited until he'd eaten a few bites. "But if they killed the Guardian, then how'd they get the Iron Gate closed again?"

Brend gave her one of his bitter smiles. "You're not the only one with superpowers, Shield. Our blood carries some too and, like yours, they're very specific."

"Gate-closing powers."

He made a clicking noise with his tongue and pointed at her while he chewed.

"But if you can close the Iron Gate, then why have a Guardian in the first place?"

"Because keeping the gate closed is a lot harder than just turning a lock," he said, tone growing darker with each breath. "It's more like keeping your finger in a dam to prevent a flood. The Guardians were higher order beings. They could handle the pressure. But we're not. We're human. We're weak. It's one thing to hold the key in the lock. It's another to be the lock. And there's always something on the other side, trying to break you. It's been almost eighty years, ask me how many of my family members have become Keeper since then."

Yet another question she didn't want to ask.

"So is that where Blinky came from? The Iron Gate? How'd he get here?"

He swallowed another bite. "He came through the door into this world when my parents went back to the old one. He probably didn't come from the Iron Gate. Though I'm told that, without the Guardian, Whisperers still slip through every once in a while." He lifted the pocket to his mouth and then put it back on its plate and set it aside. "Booker says that the Whisperers are Guardians too, on the other side. He thinks they surround our old universe, like alligators in a moat. The path that was created to this world for our exile is like a rickety old bridge across that moat, with two doors at either end. When those doors open, sometimes the alligators sneak through."

Or in Blinky's case, not an alligator, a giant headless bulldog, but she got the idea.

"So, Blinky came through when your parents left"—she twisted and untwisted the cap of her water bottle, knowing that she needed to tell him, but not knowing how—"and my dad's death, that happened when your grandfather went back?"

"No, that happened when my dad's older sister went back." He clasped his hands together and bowed his head.

She gazed at him, her throat tightening. "Your dad had another sister?"

"Faith. I remember her, a little. I was five when she left. Before her, it was my dad's older brother." His voice took on an abrasive edge. He peered up at her. "The answer is eight, Shield. In almost eighty years, there have been eight Keepers of the Iron Gate. I did the math. They make it about eleven years on average. My grandfather lasted almost sixteen. My uncle only managed two." He looked away, scowling at the wall. "I was three when he left, but I don't remember him. I never knew my grandfather."

He stood up and walked over to one of the maps framed above his nightstand. "If you were offered a job that you knew would kill you in eleven years, would you take it?"

She stared down at the floor wondering if now was the time to tell him that his father didn't have eleven years—not even close. And that's when she remembered what Booker had said about leaving soon.

"Booker's next," she breathed.

"Not if he can help it," Brend said, back still to her.

"What do you mean?"

He turned. "What do you think he does all day? He's looking for a way out. All he wants is to close the door for good."

"You mean the Iron Gate—"

"I mean the door. He wants to shut the door between this world and the old one and let the Iron Gate fall—leave the old world to its fate. He's a coward."

She crushed the water bottle. "You don't know that."

"I do know that. Ask him. He'll tell you. He's not ashamed. He says as long as there's a door, the Dowager will find a way to use it. He thinks she's trying to get back. He says that would be worse. But how could it be worse? If the Iron Gate opens, Fifthold is as good as gone. The entire world could be destroyed. What could be worse than that?"

"This world could be destroyed too," she said without thinking.

She knew Booker wasn't a coward. She knew he planned on replacing his father as Keeper soon. If he wanted the door between the two worlds closed, she could think of only one reason why. To protect the people he was leaving behind.

And then it hit her. . . .

She shot up.

"You're next."

Brend looked away from her.

Her stomach lurched into her throat. Brend's father was sick. Then Booker would become Keeper. If keeping the Iron Gate closed was as hard as Brend said, how long would Booker last? Eleven years? She'd only been alive for sixteen and the first five she hardly remembered. Eleven years was nothing.

"We can always hope that Booker finds himself a nice girl to impregnate, and they spew out a litter of sacrificial lambs," he muttered.

Her knees gave out. She dropped back into the chair, clutching the arms for support.

She had to tell him about his father. She had to tell him now. But her thoughts kept slipping out of gear.

A dizzy voice in her head repeated, _not him, not him, not him_.

But it was him.

Booker was leaving soon.

And after that, like it or not, Brend was next.
Chapter 26

**S** he didn't like it and she wasn't about to accept it.

Booker had told her there was an answer. Now, she needed to believe him. She would find it. If that meant closing the door between the two worlds and leaving the old one to its fate, so be it. Everyone she cared about lived in this world. She didn't want to lose them—any of them.

Even as she made this determination, a whisper from deep down and not so far away grew louder within her.

That annoying, persistent voice she'd thought she'd made a truce with started to speak. But apparently she and Mirror Girl hadn't fully merged, because her inner doppelganger had something to say about this matter of closing the door, and it wasn't something Olli wanted to hear.

_You can't._

_You can't close the door._

_And you can't stop Brend from returning to the Iron Gate. When it's his turn, you must make certain he goes. It's your duty. That's why you protect him. So he and his line can protect us. The Iron Gate must not fall._

_This is what you must do. This is who you are._

"You've figured it out, haven't you?" he said, watching her.

Looking up at him, she could tell he was someone who saw what was and not what he wanted, or what anyone told him, to see.

"You know what it means to be a Shield," he said.

His bitter smile returned. It made her chest burn, like she'd swallowed poison.

"And you thought you were protecting me to save my life," he went on. "Turns out you're only protecting me now, so I can die in the duly appointed fashion later."

All his cold fire seemed to die out. He returned to the bed and lay down, arm over his eyes. "Don't worry," he said. "I don't hold it against you. I'm certain you'll still be the star of my next good dream."

She whipped the empty water bottle at him. It bounced off of his elbow and flew over the bed. "Damn it, Brend. How can you—?"

The world tilt-a-whirled on her. She stumbled out of the chair, catching the edge of the bed.

Her balance returned in an instant. Brend propped up on his elbows, staring at her.

"Shield?"

She ignored him. Who was in danger? Roper?

No, she could hear him and Amber, a few levels up. Even through all the masonry and floors and doors between them, Amber's squeaky giggle sounded as clear as if she was in the next room.

Turning, she honed in on a sound farther away, outside. A screeching groan, like metal bending. It was getting louder. And behind that . . . a whisper-whisper.

She grabbed the shield off the bed and slid her arm through the grip. Dry leather scraped and burned against her skin.

"What is it?" Brend asked, sitting up.

She pushed him back down. "Stay here."

She knew he wouldn't listen, but she didn't have time to argue.

Racing out of his room, she jumped stairs, bounding from landing to landing. Her pulse thrummed.

She charged faster than she'd known possible, especially with a ten pound shield on her arm. But if her shoulder had been sore, she didn't feel it now. She focused only on the bizarre noises outside. Beneath the metal groaning and Blinky's thousand whispers, a softer sound—a voice murmuring. A real human voice. The more she honed in on the sound, the more familiar the tones became. Booker.

Her foot touched the top landing.

An explosion rocked the house. She reeled at the edge of the top step. A deafening metallic boom rattled the windows. She stumbled forward (better than down the stairs), clutching her throbbing ears. Tears seared her eyes.

Back on her feet, she bolted to the wall of windows and stopped cold.

Behind the guest house, the fence was gone. Straddling the shattered iron remains, Blinky, frozen in open blink, its true form exposed. A hulking four-legged . . . creature. Its skin pulsed with eerie white light. Though headless, Booker seemed to be facing it, like he and Blinky were locked in a staring contest.

He just stood there.

She reached for the door handle and then hesitated. Her mind scrambled to assess the situation. She didn't know enough about Blinky to tell if it was attacking Booker or not. For some reason, she suspected not. Maybe because Mirror Girl was wavering. In the past, her Shield self had never hesitated to run right into a potentially deadly situation.

In those minutes of deliberation, Brend caught up with her.

He reached for the door, but she put a hand against his chest.

"No." Unsure as she was about whatever was happening outside, she knew what needed to happen inside. "Find Roper and Amber and get them out of here."

He stared past her. Blinky's ghost glow throbbed in his eyes.

She thumped the heel of her hand hard against his chest. He blinked and refocused on her.

"Did you hear me?"

His face hardened.

"Find Roper and leave. Now."

"I'm not—"

"I'm not asking." She knew she had to go out there and stop whatever was happening—somehow. She didn't need to worry about him too.

She tried to calm herself, but her blood blazed like liquid fire. It was all she could do to keep from knocking him out and throwing him into a closet. But that wouldn't have solved her problem.

The fence was down. The house wasn't safe. She had to remove the remaining heirs . . . Brend and Roper. She didn't know what would happen when she went out there, but if she didn't survive . . .

She swallowed back the barrage of curses and orders that Mirror Girl wanted to shout at Brend.

The tips of her fingers touched his chest. His heart seemed to be battering against his skin like a trapped bull.

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Please go." She opened them again. "Please."

But he still had that stubborn lock on his jaw. "You're not going out there alone."

"Then at least find Roper and Amber. Tell him to leave."

His hand closed around hers. "Don't go out there."

The look on his face almost stopped her—almost.

"You know I have to."

She kissed him then. Quick and full. Heart all in.

Before he could kiss her back, she pulled away and hefted her shield.

"Find Roper," she said.

She didn't wait to see if he would listen. She'd waited too long already.

She opened the door.

Pressure wrapped around her like the invisible hand of a giant, squeezing. Waves lapped in the pool and splashed over the edge, leaving the concrete slick. A smell unlike anything she'd experienced seared her nostrils and brought bile to her throat. Not because it stank; it didn't really. It was just so . . . wrong, like the air on Mars must smell. Not meant for humans to breathe.

Sliding through puddles, she skirted the edge of the pool. Neither Booker nor Blinky seemed to notice her approach. Against the pressure in the air, she struggled to feel her own power. She could only hope her Shield-burst would be there when she needed it. And that it would be enough.

At the far edge, she had a better vantage of Booker. Blinky's glow washed the color from his face. His eyes were open, but the whites were now black. His lips moved. He might've been speaking, or maybe they were just trembling. Hers were.

Sinking her weight into her knees, she lifted her shield. Peering over the rim, she found it easier to see against Blinky's pulsing light. Something about his glow distorted the surroundings, blurring the edges, making them flicker. Behind the shield, she could also feel the swell in her chest again. Building. And building.

She edged closer, as close as she could.

If Blinky moved, or spotted her, she would throw all her power at it. If it didn't, then she'd try to get Booker's attention. If she couldn't, then she'd just push him down and send everything she had towards Blinky.

She reached the closest corner of the pool. Booker and Blinky stood another twenty feet away. Remnants of the fence lay strewn at her feet, iron bars warped and shattered. She picked her way over them, not wanting to make a noise.

She turned her shield towards the beast as she edged closer to Booker. A few feet more and she could grab him.

Then a shout echoed around them. The pressure in the air wavered. Her own power fluxed, almost expending itself. She strained to hold it back.

At first she thought it was Brend, but then she heard another shout and another, coming from behind Blinky. From the woods. The hunting party.

The pressure trembled. Booker began to sway. Blinky's skin flashed—white, then black, then white.

A sharp hiss cut through the air. A spear arced up from behind Blinky, spinning. It pierced Blinky's back.

The trance broke. A thousand screams cried out. She rushed at Booker to push him down, but he had already fallen to the ground. She crouched over him, holding her shield between him and Blinky.

Blinky whipped around. The spear clattered to the concrete and rolled into the pool. His skin strobed the night.

Her hand found Booker's throat, while her gaze stayed on Blinky. Her fingers pressed into the soft flesh under his chin. For a terrifying second, nothing. And then, a faint thump, followed by another. He was alive.

Almost too late she saw the rain of arrows. She threw her shield up. Arrows _thunked_ and _pinged_ against the bronze.

Her ears still rang from the explosion. Blinky's cacophony of screams and roars sliced through her head like knives until she was sure her ears must be bleeding. Yet she could still hear every small sound. The hiss of the arrows, the curses of the hunting party. And the scream.

The human one. A cry of pain.

She peeked over her shield. In Blinky's strobe light, the human figures appeared to jerk and stagger as they circled around Blinky. She counted four, no, six.

Then Blinky whipped its back leg out, more like a tentacle than a leg, and struck someone, sending him flying through the air. She flinched as she heard the body crack against the concrete next to her.

_Don't look. Don't look._

She looked. Eyes open, blood running out of his mouth. White streaks in his hair. Chief Reeve. Her Shield almost exploded right then. He slipped over the edge and splashed into the pool, out-of-sight.

She turned back to the fight. Booker was her priority. She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. He remained limp and unresponsive. She cursed, seized his arm and tried to pull, but he was dead weight.

"Around!" a familiar voice shouted. Daniel. He straddled the wreckage where the fence once had been. Blinky crouched as if about to pounce. Daniel lifted a crossbow. Two others knelt behind him with their own bows. Locke and Fisher.

Then she spotted movement to her right. Two figures crept around Blinky, poolside.

More arrows twanged. More screams of thousands.

She squinted at the creeping figures. She didn't recognize the bigger one. Then her heart stopped. The smaller one was Nate.

One of Blinky's forelegs shot out at Daniel. He, Locke, and Fisher broke. As Daniel lunged away, he shouted,

"Fire!"

Nate and his companion rose, aiming their crossbows. Blinky wasn't fooled. He spun. Nate stumbled backwards. His companion smacked into the diving board and crumpled to the deck. Nate splashed into the blood-clouded pool.

Then Brend opened the patio door.

Blinky had turned back to the fence. Another human scream rose and was cut short.

_Enough._

She stepped away from Booker, tightening her grip on her shield and planted her feet.

"Psst."

Blinky's skin froze in open-blink.

Her knee dropped. Her shield smashed against the ground. All the power in her chest surged out, exploding.

And then—

Darkness.
Chapter 27

_**O** pen your eyes, Shield. Open them now!_

Olli groaned at her inner voice. She was tired. No. Not tired. Exhausted, spent, bone-weary.

"Lil' Engine." Pap's voice sounded like it came from underwater.

Her grandpa . . . Daniel . . . Nate . . .

Her eyes flew open. "Where's Nate?" Her voice rasped. Her throat felt scorched.

"He's fine enough." Pap's face hovered to her left, ashen and worn. His hand rested on her arm gently, but the weight still felt like a cinder block. Every layer of her body groaned.

The room came into focus—gray, dim, unfamiliar.

"Where's Brend? Booker?"

Pap touched her shoulder. "All alive. No small thanks to you, ya." He smiled, but his eyes remained somber.

Her pulse slowed. Nate was alive. And Booker. And Brend.

"Not all alive," she said, stiffening. "I saw—"

Pap nodded. "The chief." He eased back into his chair and rubbed his forehead.

She started to push herself up, sucking sharp breaths. Every movement redoubled her aches.

He pressed a hand to her arm. "Rest back. After what you've done, you need it."

"I need to see Brend." She squinted around. Tubes in her arm. A cuff around her bicep. A machine bleeped out green lines. Pale morning light soaked through the blinds behind Pap.

She pulled the cuff off.

"You oughtn't—"

"No, she ought not," Mam said from the doorway. She had a tray of food in her hands. "Leave off that, young lady. Do as I say." She bustled in, sliding the tray onto the side table, swinging it over in front of Olli: eggs, toast, hash browns. She slapped at Olli's hand, took the cuff, and fastened it again around her arm.

Nate came in, a cup of coffee in each hand. Daniel hung behind him. He stayed in the doorway.

"You're okay," she said to Nate. Her pulse slowed a little more.

He set the coffee down and gave her an awkward hug. "You too."

"I guess." She smiled weakly. "I feel like I was hit by a truck."

"More like you were the truck." A grin spread over his face. "It was wicked sick. I surfaced just in time. I saw you drop that shield and—BAM! You shredded that mother—"

"Enough of that." Mam nudged him back from the bed. "Time for tales later." She picked up a small suitcase from the floor and held it up for Olli to see. "I brought you some things from home." Then she moved the tray over in front of Olli. "Now eat up."

Olli found the control for the bed and pushed the button so she could sit upright. She plowed through the eggs, barely chewing. Her throat ached, but her stomach felt like a bottomless pit. Nate sat on the edge of her bed, picking at her hash browns. Mam slapped his hand away, but he kept at it. As Olli picked up the toast, she caught Daniel's gaze. He watched her, flint-eyed.

"I knew," he said. "When Peter died, I knew." His voice rose. He glared at Pap. "You said she wasn't. You said the seer told you at the birth—"

"Quiet," Pap said in a low voice.

Daniel's mouth closed, but looked like it could open again at any second.

"What was known and wasn't, isn't any of your concern," Pap said.

"It was a mistake," Mam said, opening up the orange juice for Olli and putting it into her hand. "That's all," Mam continued. "It's happened before. Shields aren't like Speares. How was anyone to know when there hasn't been one for generations? The Lady will understand. An honest mistake. Isn't that what, Old Baer?"

Olli chugged the juice.

Pap stared hard at the floor, running the ring back and forth on its chain.

Mam frowned. "Say true you didn't know, Baer." Her brow furrow deepened. "No one knew a thing about it, not even Archie. Isn't that so?"

Pap didn't answer.

Mam's nose crinkled like he'd spit on her cornbread.

Daniel slammed his fist against the door jamb and then spun, storming away.

"What's wrong?" Nate asked. "Isn't it a good thing that Olli's a Shield?"

"Yes, Nathan." Mam plucked her purse from the chair in the corner. "We ought to head home for the time being." She hooked him under the arm and propelled him up. He snagged a quarter of Olli's toast.

"But—"

"Baer?" Mam said to Pap, like a threat.

One dark eye rose to his wife. In all the time Olli had been living with her grandparents, it had been clear to her that Mam ran the show. But at the moment, the hard gleam in Pap's eye appeared implacable.

Mam's mouth pursed, no doubt holding back a whole host of not-very-pleasant words. But then she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders.

"Now then." She patted Olli's leg. "Clean up that tray." Then she gave Pap one more piercing look. "I hope you know what you're thinking." She waved Nate ahead of her. "Off we go. We'll come back once you've slept."

"Later, sis," Nate said, still grinning as Mam herded him out the door. "Wicked sick."

Once they were gone, Olli shoved the last of the toast in her mouth and ripped off the cuff again. Pap didn't stop her. She inspected the IV.

"How do I take this thing out?"

He broke from his meditation. "Disconnect it there, I think." He showed her how the tube came away, leaving the needle under her skin. "You shouldn't. There's something in there to take off the edge, I believe."

"I don't want my edge off." She let the tube fall to the bedside and pushed the tray away. "Where's Brend?"

"With his brother, last I knew."

With his brother. That almost made her feel better that he hadn't been with her when she'd woken up. The floor was like a slab of ice. They must've had the air conditioning cranked to sub-zero. She crouched by the suitcase, popping the old chrome latches. Clothes, neatly folded, hairbrush, toothbrush, and . . . she reached out and picked up tattered old Frodo-bear. Tears pricked her eyes. She set him back down and took out some clothes.

When she stood up, her legs wobbled. Eating had helped, but she still felt like a Jell-O mold.

"Did I kill it?" she asked, leaning against the bed for a moment.

"Hard to say." Pap sagged in his chair. "Dispersed it, for certain. Most of the time you need a direct shot to the Pulse, but this one—I don't know what that boy was up to, but even I couldn't get a fix on the Pulse."

"Where were you? I didn't see you."

"I climbed up on the roof of the back house, behind you. I should've had a clear shot from there. But like I said, something wasn't right. Whatever that boy did . . . he shouldn't have been tampering with that sort of magic."

"How is Booker?"

Pap shook his head.

"Will he live?"

He traced his lip with the edge of his finger. "No way to know."

"What was he doing? Do you have any idea?"

"Nothing I've ever seen before."

"But you have seen monsters like this one before?"

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the bed. "When you were born, we knew, your father, the seer, and I. She read it in your signs. You were a Shield." He bowed his head. "Her Highness, she's not had a Shield. We intended to keep it that way. Whatever happened. To protect you from her, we thought it best to keep you ignorant."

"But why?"

"There's too much to tell—"

She waved him off. "I know about Fifthold and the Iron Gate and the exile. Tell me why the old witch has control over our entire family. Aren't we supposed to protect the Keeper and his heirs?"

His eyes darkened. "Just as you said, witch. Over the years, she drew each of us to her. By rights, we should all be with the heirs. Used to be one of us would go back with the Keeper, to stand by them at the gate. But after we lost my brothers and sister, she wouldn't allow it. Too few of us left, she said. We all made the same mistake. We took something from her. And we're prevented from warning any other Speares against it."

"But you're warning me, right now . . ." But then she realized. "I'm not a Speare. I'm a Shield."

His eyes gleamed. "One small misstep on her part, and believe me, she doesn't make many. But don't think Daniel isn't off to tell her right this moment—if she doesn't already know. The whole place will soon enough. After what you did . . ." He sighed the heaviest sigh she'd ever heard. "She'll find a way to have you. Unless we can prevent it."

"Can we prevent it?"

He touched the ring on his necklace again. "Get yourself dressed. Go find your fool boy."

Pap gripped her elbow, steadying her.

"By all rights you should be in bed. After what you did."

"I'm fine," she said, less than convincingly. She placed a hand on the wall and tried to inhale her strength back.

"The room's not far." He pointed to the end of the hall. "Around that corner."

"Where are you going?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "This thing's been ringing all night. I turned it off. But there's people I need to speak with and sooner is better. You go find your boy and wait for me."

He patted her shoulder, turned, and strode back to the other end of the hall, through the door marked _STAIRS._

She focused on the end of the corridor. What was it? Fifty feet? That was nothing. She took a couple steps. Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the guardrail.

_Come on. You're a Shield. Move._

Besides, Brend was at the end of this corridor.

She pushed herself upright and, hand still on the broad wooden railing, shuffled along like a ninety-year-old. When she reached the corner she was puffing and a little dizzy. But somehow moving made her feel stronger, as if it charged her Shield batteries.

This part of the hospital seemed awfully quiet. She hadn't seen any nurses or doctors. All the rooms looked empty.

Around the corner was a short hallway. Only two doors on each side. Each had a narrow window, all dark except one.

"Olli?"

She turned. Roper came to her side, his eyes swimming, bleary. His hair was messier than usual. He carried a bag from the bakery—fried sugar aromas almost made her knees buckle again—and a cardboard carrier from the coffee shop.

"Guards," he said, giving her a once over. "Should you be walking around? You look like—"

"I fought a monster?"

He lifted his shoulder as if to say, _yeah_.

She leaned back against the wall. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Thanks to—"

She raised a weak hand, halting him. "Is Brend here?" She tilted her head towards the door with the soft glow coming through the window.

"Yeah. And he's in an even better mood than usual."

She pushed off the wall and opened the door. A thin curtain hung in front of the door, blocking the view through the window. She pushed it aside a few inches.

Brend looked up at her and then, away.

Ouch.

Not the reception she'd been hoping for.

He sat, hunched, on the opposite side of the bed. Above Booker, a small lamp cast yellow light over his pale features. He had a bigger monitor than she'd had. Wires were attached to his head and to his body under his gown.

Roper pushed the curtain aside.

"How is he?" she asked.

Roper looked at Brend, as if he expected his twin to answer. But Brend continued to stare at the floor.

"Not dead," Roper said.

He slid past her to a table in the far corner. Booker's room was bigger and better furnished than hers had been, with a sofa, recliner, and big TV. The walls were painted a calming blue. But Olli didn't feel calm, she felt sick.

Roper set the bag and beverages down. He glanced at Brend, frowning.

"It's still early," Roper said. "We won't know . . . it'll take time—"

"He's not waking up," Brend said with flat certainty, not looking at either of them. He crossed his arms over his chest and slouched deep into his chair, gazing blankly at Booker. At some point, he'd changed into a long-sleeved shirt.

She drifted over to Booker's bedside and sank down in the empty chair. She shook off the hurt from Brend's non-reception. Obviously, he was upset about Booker. That was all.

"We don't know that—" Roper said.

"What was he doing?" She looked over at Roper. "Do you know?"

Roper shook his head.

"Do you?" she asked Brend.

His gaze finally lifted to meet hers.

Chest pain.

_Stupid feelings._

Why was he just sitting there? Why didn't he say something or . . . do something? She'd nearly died, or at least it felt that way. And this was how he greeted her, by not? A wet sand feeling filled up her throat, but she swallowed it back.

_No. Tears._

"Tell me what happened," she said to him.

For a second she thought he'd continue to ignore her, but then he said,

"I don't know. I opened the door and then you . . ." His eyes had a wet sheen, like dark wells. The pain in them made her choke. "You blew the Whisperer apart. Everyone was knocked back. You shattered all the windows. It was a good thing I was outside or I would've been shredded." Admiration mingled with sardonic agony.

She hated it. She hated that he was in pain. She hated that he was so far away. And that he wasn't moving any closer.

"When I got up, the Whisperer was gone. The fence destroyed. The house was a disaster area. The chief of police was dead and bleeding in my pool. My brother was comatose and barely breathing and my girl . . . you were so pale, I didn't think you were still alive."

He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. She would've gone to him, but she wasn't sure she could stand up. Pain bubbled up from within her and throbbed in time with her heart, all the way down to the tips of her fingers. She swiped a tear from her eye before it could fall.

"But she is alive," Roper said, putting a large paper cup of coffee in her hands. "And she took that bastard out."

"It's not dead," she said.

The twins stared at her. Brend's eyes red-rimmed and watery. Roper's cloudy and blood-shot.

"Pap doesn't think so anyway." She traced the rim of the coffee lid. "And now the old witch knows what I am." She popped off the lid and set it on the bedside table. An aroma that reminded her too much of Brend caressed her face. "Pap says she'll find a way to make me one of her flying monkeys. So if either of you have any ideas about how I can stop that from happening, now would be a good time to share."

They both stayed quiet for far too long.

"Great."

Someone knocked on the door. None of them moved. A moment later, Pap entered.

Neither of the twins looked happy to see him. Brend glared with open hostility. She didn't even have the energy to hit him.

Pap stopped by Olli, inclining his head towards Roper and then Brend. "Your Royal Highnesses."

Brend turned his face away. Roper's shoulders bunched, like he feared Pap might attack him. She had to admit Pap was intimidating, even when his face looked like wet cement and his eyes hung half-closed. But he wouldn't have hurt them . . . would he? Just how much control did the old witch have over him anyway? Could she make him ignore his most basic instincts and turn against the people he was supposed to protect?

Pap touched the ring on his necklace again, gazing at Brend like he might be thinking about spilling a little blood.

She reached up and touched his hand, drawing his attention away from Brend.

His gaze softened when he looked down at her. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. Then he looked back at the twins.

"You'll forgive me, sirs, for speaking out of turn, but there's a matter we need to discuss."

Roper shifted back, like he wanted to leave before any more discussion could take place.

But Brend had no problem opening his big stupid mouth. "What's that, Speare? How my brother almost died because you couldn't do your job?"

Her grip on her grandpa's hand tightened. Maybe she did have the energy to hit Brend after all.

Pap's back straightened, but he kept his face as smooth as ever. She wondered if he'd always been able to mask his emotions, or he'd learned it. Maybe he could teach her.

"As you both know,"—Pap was gruff but calm—"my granddaughter is a Shield. For sixteen years, I've kept that fact hidden. It's not well known, but the Lady, she's craved a Shield. I think that's some of the reason she's brought all of us to her, thinking that soon as a Shield is born, she'll have it close."

Brend glared at him. "You don't expect us to believe that, do you? You're in her service. She could rip out your soul and play jigsaw with it if she wanted."

"Perhaps she could," Pap said. "But why should she? We've been loyal to her, as she wanted. I didn't come into her service until I was near thirteen, and by then, I had already made the blood promise to guard all Shields from her discovery. I'm told by Locke Reeve that you know well the strength of a blood promise, young sir. Even she has no power against the word sealed in blood."

Olli gaped. Locke had told Pap about Brend's blood promise? Thoughts of kicking Locke repeatedly in the shins came into her mind, but then she remembered that his father had just died. Her anger melted away. She hung her head, wishing she'd used her Shield-burst sooner. If she had, Chief Reeve might still be alive. She'd never even gotten the chance to tell Hope . . .

_Hope!_

She was about to ask if anyone had told Hope about the chief, when Brend said, "How could you have made a blood promise to hide the Shields from the Dowager? You'd need a Shield for that."

"Ya. I had one then. My sister, Annora."

Olli let go of Pap's hand. "Annora was a Shield?"

Pap nodded, still holding Brend's suspicious gaze. "No one knew. Like with you, when she was born, the seer lied. The seers have always known Her Dowager Highness must not have a Shield. Though no one's ever explained why to me. But as soon as I was able to understand the meaning of it, my father made me take the blood promise. Shields are different. Their power may be latent until drawn out. Annora knew what she was, but she pretended she wasn't. Until your distant cousin was called to be keeper, all those years back. A fierce Whisperer came through then. Killed my father, both my brothers, and ten others besides. And it drew out Annora's power. Just as Olli's power as has been drawn out."

Her hands trembled. She set the coffee aside. "But the Dowager didn't find out?"

"No," Pap said, not looking away from Brend. "She did not."

"Because Annora died?"

"No. After our father died, nothing could've held Annora back. But fortunate for all of us, the seer knew of a way to protect Annora from Her Dowager Highness."

Olli slid to the edge of her seat. "What way?"

Pap's hand closed around the ring on his necklace. "Her Highness uses her right as a Gates to bind us to her service."

"But she's not really a Gates, right? She married the Keeper."

"Marriage makes her a Gates. Marriage, in our world, Olli, is something rather different than it is in this one."

Olli remembered the woman at Creamers. Chelle had said she'd cheated on her husband. Marriage, she'd said, was a promise not to be broken.

"The most sacred of vows," Olli murmured.

Pap rubbed his forehead. "It's no small matter, that's for certain. But I don't know of any other way."

He slid his necklace off over his head.

Olli frowned, not sure what he meant.

"It worked for Annora, in the short time she had left. Your grandfather, Roe,"—he said to Brend—"was a good man. Though not much more than a boy then. After Annora died, he grieved a long time. Most in town didn't understand it, but I did. Because I was there when he gave her this."

The ring dropped from his hand, the chain hooked around his finger.

"It had to be a Gates," he said. "Roe was safe from the Lady. His blood was hers. She couldn't compel or bind him by magic. When he married Annora, she became of his blood. She became immune to Her Dowager Highness and all her . . . ways. That's how he saved Annora. It worked well enough for her. It should work for my granddaughter as well."

Roper stared, wide-eyed. Brend looked pale and sick. Pap was stone.

Weary as she was, she didn't grasp Pap's implication until the silence had grown heavy and thrumming.

"Whoa." She straightened. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Pap let out a long breath that seemed to deflate him by half. "Believe me, I don't take any pleasure in saying it. But I don't know any other way."

"I'm not getting married," she said, lapsing into teenaged Olli. Her glance skipped over to Brend, who had dropped his elbows to his knees, his hands clasped together, his eyes on the floor. "I mean, I—I—I can't. I just—can't."

Pap's gaze fell heavy on her. "Then you give yourself up to her. To use you as she will. And don't doubt, she will, ya. I don't know what it is, but I don't doubt my elders had a good reason for keeping a Shield from Her Dowager Highness at all cost. We were loyal people. Loyal to the Keepers. That's why our people came over when the Keepers were exiled, but not to her. None of them ever intended on letting her have any real power again. I saw what you did, Lil' Engine, you have real power."

"There's got to be another way."

He didn't bother telling her there wasn't. She could see on his face there wasn't.

"Back then, the seer said that the promise itself would be enough, so long as it was meant true," Pap said. "But Annora and Roe, they didn't wait."

"She died," she said, head swimmy. "A lot of good it did her in the end."

She sank into her chair. The last bit of normal Olli was dying and no one seemed to notice. She'd accepted her fate as a super-powered bodyguard, she'd accepted magic and monsters and other universes, but she wasn't ready to accept this.

Suddenly, Brend stood up. "It's not going to be me." He started to leave, but Roper grabbed him.

"This is important," Roper said. "You want her to use Olli like she uses everyone else?"

Good question.

Olli was opposed to the marriage idea on . . . well, on stubborn, freaked-out, teenaged grounds. But why was Brend bowing out so quickly?

She didn't want to feel offended. But she'd kissed him. And now he acted like she had the plague. He would barely look at her. She started to have stupid insecure feelings again.

Reality was sinking in too. If marriage was the only way to keep her out of the Dowager's gate-breaking hands, then what choice did she have? That or spend a lifetime serving a witch?

Deadly pain twisted in normal Olli's belly.

No way. She would never take orders from that freaky old lady, even if she had to marry Roper.

Brend pulled away from his brother. "I can't," he said to Roper, like Olli and Pap weren't there. "It's not fair and it might not . . . it might not work."

"Not fair?" she repeated.

Brend didn't look at her. She hated that.

"It should work," Pap interjected. "For Annora—"

"Why wouldn't it work?" Roper asked.

Brend turned his face towards the window. "Because I might not be around for it to work."

With some effort, she pushed out of her chair. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't—"

"Because I'm next." He shoved back his sleeve. On his forearm, black wings.

She glanced over at Booker. His forearm, though scabbed from constant scratching and half covered with tape and tubing, was bare. Tattoo gone.

The air rushed from her lungs.

"Booker's not going to wake up." Brend pushed by Roper and Pap as he stormed to the door.

She watched as the door shut.

"Well, I guess—" Roper started.

"Don't." She stopped him before he could start. "Give me the ring." She held out her hand to her grandpa. He placed it in her hand, chain and all.

"Made your mind up then?" Pap asked.

She closed her fist around the ring.

Pap stepped over to the door and opened it for her. "Guards help him."
Chapter 28

**"S** top!" she called.

He was halfway down the hall, headed towards the door marked _STAIRS_.

For once, he listened. But he didn't turn around. He placed his fist on the wall and waited.

She walked more steadily than she had earlier. No doubt energized by temporary madness. Nauseated, burning up and shaking, she rounded on him.

"Look at me," she said, even though it was the last thing she wanted. When he did, tears filled up her eyes, but she held them back by sheer will.

"Speare—"

"Shield, remember?" She swallowed the lump in her throat. "When did that happen?" She gestured to his arm and the tattoo hidden under his sleeve.

He clutched his forearm. "When I got up, after you blew up my house."

Her chest constricted, but not from her Shield powers. "There's something I need to tell you."

He looked up at the ceiling, tears clinging to the rims of his eyes. "Olli, whatever it is—"

"It's about your father." Her throat closed, like her own body wanted her to stop.

"My father?"

"Booker told me—" Her turn to look away.

She hated this stupid, painful life. Maybe it would've been better if she'd died fighting Blinky. Death couldn't possibly hurt as much as she hurt at this moment. What hurt most was knowing just how much pain she was about to inflict on Brend, when he was already in too much pain. Way too much. But she couldn't wait any longer. Not now that he was the heir.

"Booker told me he was leaving soon."

"Olli, I know—"

"No, you don't." The force of her will was crumbling. "Booker didn't want you to think that your father was weak. He said . . ."— _deep breath. Any breath. Just breathe_ —"your father is sick. He was sick before he left. He was already dying." Her voice broke. Tears scalded her cheeks. She pushed them away roughly. "Booker thought you'd have more time—"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Finally, she met his eyes. And wished she hadn't. Abjection wasn't a strong enough word for the look on his face. Exiled. That was the word. Abandoned and lost. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he didn't seem to notice.

"He asked me to wait—"

"Why did he tell you? Why didn't he tell me himself?

"He thought it would be . . . easier if you heard it from me."

He turned his back to the wall, leaning heavily against it.

The ring and chain bit against her palm. Why was this stupid space between them? Why couldn't she bring herself to reach out and comfort him? Because he hadn't come to her first? So. Stupid. Where was her superhuman courage now?

"Nothing could make it easier," she said. "I know."

He dragged his cuff over his face. A heavy breath escaped his lips. "Anything else?"

Oh, good. They were playing business-like. She knew this game.

"Yup." She lifted her hand. The ring slid down the chain, bouncing against her forearm.

A wince glanced off his face. "Olli, I can't—"

"I don't want to marry Roper," she said in a rush, "and I don't want to be that bitch's playing-card soldier."

He snorted, but still stared up at the ceiling.

"Tell me I could leave town. Tell me I could run away. Go to Atlanta or Timbuktu." She dropped her arm. "But that wouldn't work, would it? Now that she knows what I am—she'd find me, wouldn't she? Anyway, you and I both know I'm not bailing. I can't, even if I wanted to, which I don't."

He looked at her full on. Too much.

Ouch.

"I can't, Olli. Do you know what you just told me? I could be gone in a few hours—a few minutes. I could tell you I would marry you. I could do it, but then what? It might not even work if I'm in Fifthold and you're here. What good would it do you then, to be married to a corpse in another universe?"

She shoved him. Not as weak as she'd thought after all. "You're not dead yet."

That pained gleam returned to his eyes. "I will be."

"So will I, someday. The way things are going, I'm on track for it sooner than you. How many times have you fought a monster this week?" She raised her fist, thinking about punching him, but instead pressed it against her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Look, I know it's not . . ." _No more tears. Please._ "Even if it just buys me some time to figure out something else . . . I'm not asking you to feel something you don't. I'm just asking you to marry me and save my sorry butt."

He turned towards her, his shoulder pressed hard against the wall. He crossed his arms. "You think I don't care about you?"

She wasn't saying that, exactly. She was only saying that it didn't matter what he felt. The thought of serving the Dowager frightened her enough that she'd agree to marry just about anyone—even Roper, if it came to that.

And so what if she had feelings for him? She didn't expect him to reciprocate those feelings. Sure, he'd flirted with her. That hardly amounted to a marriage proposal. Not that she'd been ready for that. But she had been ready for . . . something. Since she'd found him at Booker's bedside, he hadn't seemed to want to give her anything. Not even a handshake. Which made her wonder if kissing him had been a mistake. Maybe, instead of feeling what she'd felt—falling deeper and deeper down that rabbit hole—he'd felt . . . disappointed.

_Focus. Insecure doubts and girl feelings, not useful. Remember. Monsters. Evil witch. Life and death. That's what this is about. It's not about being in love with some stupid boy who doesn't love you back. No matter how much that sucks._

"I know . . . I mean, I guess—"

"Guards, Shield," he cut in, "you're killing me."

She gripped the rail, off-balance and weak. Every time she tried to put together a coherent thought, it crumbled away. She just wanted to crawl into bed, pull the blankets over her head, and die.

"Olli, if I didn't care about you, I wouldn't—" He pressed his hands together at his mouth and then started again. "I made a mistake, when I met you. I thought I was living for the moment. You know, life is short, _carpe diem_. I thought I believed that. I thought I understood it. But I didn't. Now I do. Life _is_ short. My life is short. And you just told me that it's going to be even shorter than I thought."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you—"

"Forget about that," he said. "You were right. I was a jerk. I was trying to be. I wanted you to hate me. I thought it would make it easier, for both of us. When we met, I made the mistake of thinking I liked you, but . . ."

"It's okay," she said, not really feeling like anything would be okay ever again. "You don't have to like me—"

"I don't just like you. I didn't realize it until that day with Chelle. When my blood sealed the word. That wouldn't have worked if I didn't . . . if I didn't care about you." His hands raised, like he might take hold her arms, but then they tucked in close to his body. "It was hard enough before, when I thought about leaving, when I thought I had years, maybe even a couple of decades. But if I married you, even if I told you it was just to save your sorry butt from that evil witch, it wouldn't be just that for me. If you stood there and told me that you were mine . . . I'd want that and it wouldn't be fair. Because I'm leaving, Olli. I have to. And I don't want to do that to you."

Why did her brain feel stuck in the mud? "You don't want to do that to me?"

He hung his head. "It wasn't real for me before. I knew it would happen, but . . . if I had known how soon, I never would've let this happen."

"This?"

Smoldering. "Us."

_Come on, Shield. Tall, Dark, and Handsome is clearly in love with you. Catch up._

"And you think that if you don't marry me, I'll hurt less when you leave?"

His shoulders fell. He looked like he wanted someone to shoot him.

She, on the other hand, felt like her wheels had finally gained traction.

She opened her hand. The ring had impressed a red circle into her palm. She unfastened the chain, dropping the ring.

It bounced on the polished floor. _Ping, ping, ping_.

Brend reached down and snagged it. Prince Charming.

"Give it to me," she said.

He held it out to her. She plucked it from between his fingers.

"Thanks." She slid it onto her finger—forcing it over her knuckle. "I accept."

"Olli, I didn't—"

She snagged the front of his shirt. "Yes, you did." One of the good things about being a Shield was the occasional moment of absolute certainty.

His lips parted, probably to argue some more. She stopped him.

Her mouth pressed against his and lingered. When she opened her eyes and pulled back, his eyes stayed closed. He opened them, slowly.

Breathing resuming in: five, four, three . . .

"You don't have to worry about how I'll feel when you leave," she said, "because I'm going with you."

Again, she could see the argument forming on his lips.

"My grandpa said that before the old witch took to hoarding them, a Speare used to go back with the Keeper when he was called. Since there are no Speares currently available, you'll have to take a Shield."

"You don't know what you're saying," he said, Mr. Misery. "The door only opens when the Keeper's called. You could never come back—ever." He slid away from her. She hated the space he kept putting between them. "Do you think you could do that? Leave everyone behind?"

"Not everyone."

His hand covered his face. "Olli—"

She took his hand away. "It's my biological imperative to protect your sorry butt. I can't do that if you're in a different universe. It's what I have to do. It's who I am. I'm going."

"What about your family?"

"My family will understand. They're Speares."

"And your mother? They'll tell her you're dead."

He might as well have torn her chest open and stomped on her heart, but fortunately, she had a shield over it. "No, they won't. I'll make them promise to tell her the truth. I'll tell her, if I have the chance."

"You won't see her again."

"I know."

His jaw worked, trying to find its locking position. "You don't know anything about Fifthold. You don't even know the language."

"Just teach me how to say, 'Die, evil monster' and I'll pick up the rest as I go."

"You're only sixteen. You don't know what you're giving up."

"You're only eighteen." She tightened her grip on his hand, though he wasn't gripping it back. "And I do know what I'd be giving up if I don't go."

He stared at the floor. Still resistant.

"Ever since I arrived, people have been giving me looks, making me feel like I don't belong, treating me like I'm from the other side of the river—"

His brow furrowed. "You shouldn't—"

"It's not just here," she cut in. "I've never felt like I quite belonged anywhere, ever. I guess . . . I never thought about it much. I just figured . . ." She shrugged. "I don't know. But all this time I've had this power and never knew it. Some people spend their whole lives trying to figure out who they're supposed to be. I mean, look at my mom. She still doesn't know. But I do now. I'm a Shield, and I belong here. Not here in Horizon Creek, but here, with you. I don't care if it's the magic or my freak genes. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that it's true. It's the first really true thing I've ever known. So I'm going with you, because that's where I belong. It's who I am."

His jaw remained locked, his eyes on the floor.

She yanked on his hand, pulling his attention back to her. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"That's not what this about—"

"Do you?"

He didn't answer.

She stepped closer. Her chest brushed his. "I'm going."

His forehead rested against hers. His fingers tightened around her hand.

Good. That was done.

She was going to another world. On the list of strange things that had happened over the last week, somehow, that didn't seem so strange.

His breath brushed warm on her face. "You never answered."

"Answered what?"

"Whether or not it was okay if I kissed you."

She pulled her head back from his. "I've kissed you twice and proposed."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Yes—"

His kiss was better than the ones she'd given him. Maybe because hers had been punctuated, first by a monster and then by an argument. This time, there was nothing to fight and no reason to end it.

His mouth stayed on hers, and stayed, and stayed.

He pulled her to him. Her arms slid around his neck. His body pressed against hers, burning through the thin layers of fabric and the last of the space between them.

A soft deep sound came from his throat, melting her. Gone.

One of them found a door and opened it.

Together, they slipped into the darkness. 
Chapter 29

**S** he half-woke a few times.

They'd returned to her room. She didn't remember if she'd walked or if Brend had dragged her. But when she first woke up, he was with her—that was all that mattered. She pressed her face into his chest and went back to sleep.

Twice more she almost woke. The first time she heard Brend speaking out in the hall, his voice straining to keep quiet. And she heard another voice, deep, murmuring—Pap? She fell back asleep. The second time her eyes cracked open to find Brend slumped in the chair next to her bed, staring at the screen on his phone. He'd changed his clothes again. The tattoo on his arm exposed.

Finally, she woke. Faded light fell in crumpled patches around the room. Dusk or dawn again? The lights were off. She was alone.

She groaned as she sat up. Still sore. Her tongue scraped across the roof of her mouth. Had she been eating seaweed and sand in her sleep? Pushing the blankets away, her bare feet slapped onto the cold floor.

Hand on the bed she tested her legs, stiff and achy, but strong. She picked up the suitcase and padded into the bathroom.

After a shower, a fresh set of clothes (Mam had packed the sparkly purple tank that Olli had purchased at the mall, so that's what she wore, though she felt conspicuously overdressed) and about two gallons of water down her throat, she felt like she could start to think again.

Memories returned dressed like dreams. If she hadn't woken up with a gold band around her finger, she might not have believed any of it had happened.

When she emerged from the bathroom, the sunlight coming through the window had faded. Night again. And she was wide awake. She drifted to the window and pulled up the blinds. Below, the dark street was bathed in streetlight orange. Many of the houses on the other side were lit, yellow eyes open against the darkness.

Her legs began to twitch. She chewed on her lip.

The door opened. She turned, letting out a breath.

Brend smiled a little and dropped a plastic bag on the bed. Wonderful hot and greasy aromas filled the room. "Sleeping Beauty awakes."

She frowned.

"That's not what I was expecting," he said, coming to her side and touching her back lightly. She leaned in to him, wanting to dissolve against him like she had the night before, but her mind was elsewhere.

"Something's wrong," she said

"About a million things," he said. "What is it this time?"

Her gaze swept back out the window. Her normal gaze. Not her Shield gaze. But still, her chest tightened.

"I don't know." She shook her head. "Where's Pap?"

He took her hand, kissed the back of it, then let it go, and sank into the chair beside her bed. "Where do you think?"

She drifted away from the window. When she came within reach, he snagged her around the waist and pulled her into his lap. He kissed her like he had the night before, like it was the first and the last time. A part of her was all puddle. But when he pulled away, she continued to frown.

"You're wounding my self-esteem," he said.

"I doubt it." Her stomach rumbled as she caught another whiff of the bag on her bed. She grabbed it. She didn't bother to leave his lap as she opened one of the little white boxes and devoured the noodles and vegetables inside.

"Maybe I should leave you and the food alone," he said, sliding out from underneath her and giving her the chair. But she'd barely sat down when she stood up again. She returned to the window.

"I didn't know there was an Asian restaurant here," she said. "How many outsiders live in town anyway?"

"You don't have to be Asian to run an Asian restaurant." He took the empty food container from her hand and replaced it with a full one. "Besides, Asian food is similar to the food in Fifthold. Sort of."

"Huh." She barely tasted the food as she ate.

"Are you going Shield on me?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"We're on the other side of the river."

"Blinky can't cross the bridge?"

"I've heard they can cross small streams, but nothing as big as the river. And the bridge is like the fence, protected by blood magic. Also, little known fact, Shield, our property is surrounded on all four sides by running water. Granted, it's over ten thousand acres of timber, but the water acts as a natural barrier, keeping the Whisperers penned in. And don't think it's a coincidence. Anyway," he sighed, "after what you did, if it survived, it'll take a while for it to reform." He left her and went around the bed. He dropped into the chair, propping his feet up on the bed, facing her. "I thought you might . . . I don't know, want to talk," he said. "After what happened last night."

"Talk?" she repeated, one eye on him and one on the window. She dumped the empty container into the trash with the first and poured herself a cup of water and then another.

He shrugged. "I guess not." He took out his phone, turning it around and around in his hand. "So you're fine. Nothing to say. No . . . nothing?"

She itched at her arm, against the IV needle buried under her skin. "Can someone get this thing out?"

"Are you avoiding?"

She gave the tube a tug, wincing.

"I wouldn't do that," he said.

She dropped her arm. "I'm not avoiding anything."

He nodded, like he believed her. He dug a soda out of the bag on the bed and took a swig.

Her gaze slid back to the window. "What did you expect me to say?"

"I guess I didn't expect you to be so casual about it. You know you're wearing a wedding ring, don't you?"

She pinched the ring between her fingers, spinning it. "Yeah, and it won't come off either. I tried before I showered. Stuck tight." She glanced down at the ring. "Annora must have had really skinny fingers."

"Shield!"

She looked up at him. "What?"

He tossed the soda bottle back on the bed. "Some acknowledgement of what transpired last night would be appreciated."

Did he want to be reassured? Funny, she didn't feel like she needed to be. But her instincts distracted her. Something was wrong . . .

_Focus_.

She went to him and slid into his lap again. When she kissed him, he held back, hanging onto his grumpy face. She kissed him again, letting the memories of the night before swamp her nagging instincts and drawing Brend out.

Before long they were back on the bed. His weight pressed down on her. Her hands slid under his shirt, holding him to her.

A part of her wanted to finish what they'd started, regardless of whether or not she was really ready for it. But as his lips moved down her throat, lighting up every place they touched, her eyes opened and rolled towards the window.

Even as she gasped and moaned—his teeth grazing her skin—her instincts elbowed in. He said her name, kissed her again, and—

She shot up. She didn't even have to push him away. The force of her sitting up simply knocked him aside.

"If you don't—"

"I do," she said, grabbing her shirt off the floor. "Believe me, I do." She pulled her shirt back over her head and went to the window, gathering her hair into a ponytail.

She slid the window open. Sultry air rolled in, followed by a distant grumble of thunder.

Her inner Shield powered up. She hurried her ears to full volume, trying to catch anything beyond the normal neighborhood noises: car engines, cricket chirps, streetlight hums. Nothing.

So why did she feel about to jump out of her skin? She searched the floor for her shoes and found them near the bathroom. She put her sneakers on without looking for socks.

Brend had rolled off the bed and put his shirt on. "Stand down, Shield. We're all on the other side of the river. All except for her. And if she's in danger, then . . . good."

"Where's Roper?"

"With Booker last I checked."

"And Hope? Have you talked to her?"

"She caught an early flight back. I saw her this afternoon. She's probably with Booker too."

"Farren?"

"She's still in Florida. I talked to her a little while ago. She's fine."

She bounced on the balls of her feet, pressure rising and falling within her like a drum beat.

"Call Roper."

He gave her a look she didn't particularly like considering all the life-saving she'd done lately.

He took out his phone.

She could hear it ringing, once, twice—

"How was it?" Roper asked when he picked up.

"How was what?" Brend replied, already annoyed.

"You know what."

She rolled her eyes, wishing her super-hearing wasn't so super at the moment.

"Where are you?"

"Around."

Brend swore. "You're not at the hospital?"

"Come on, I've been there since last night. I needed a break."

"Where are you?"

"At Amber's. What's the big deal?"

Her Shield signals jumped all over the place, but she had the sense that Roper wasn't the one in danger. She held her hand out to Brend.

He gave her the phone.

"Stay where you are," she told Roper. "Don't leave the house."

"Yes, Sergeant—"

She hung up. "Is the shield still in your car?"

"Yeah, but you don't really feel like you need it—?"

She put the phone back in his hand. "Look at me. Who do you see?"

"It's not possible. It can't cross the river."

"Just like it couldn't cross the fence?"

"That was Booker—he must have—"

She headed to the door. "We can argue once I have the shield. Let's go."

Sweat formed on her brow almost as soon as she stepped outside. She must have sweated more in the last week than she had in her entire life. But the sweat didn't bother her as much as the erratic pulsing of her Shield. There was danger, but she couldn't pinpoint it. Her compass spun in all directions, haywire.

She paced as Brend popped the trunk.

"Why do you stay on the other side of the bridge? Wouldn't it be safer to live on this side?" she asked.

"The Keeper has to stay close to the door," he said, hefting the shield out and handing it to her.

She took the shield from him. The leather cuff slid supple and soft against her skin, the weight reassuring. "The door's on the other side of the river?"

"When we first came, the whole town was on the other side. It burned though. The old mill's all that's left."

"That big, burnt-out ruin next to the bridge?"

He nodded. "I guess we could move to this side, but . . ." he said, "we're not like everyone else. There are expectations."

"Like at Peter's wake when you had to sit up on stage?"

He sagged onto the bumper, the trunk still open. Besides his, only a handful of cars remained in the parking lot. Overhead, fat dark clouds piled up. The wind gusted, swirling around her, almost chilly. She stepped away from him, her back to the hospital. Something was out there, but she couldn't get a fix on it. Her head kept swiveling, searching.

"We may not be royalty anymore," he said, "not that we ever really were, but people still treat us that way."

"Right, Your Royal Highness." She grinned.

He didn't smile. "Please don't call me that."

She scanned the street parallel to the parking lot. Empty. The houses, quiet. "And why were you exiled anyway? They sent your whole family away just because of what the old witch did?"

"And anybody else who was on our side."

"Loyalists, that's what Pap said."

A shadow broke the light under a jacked-up truck. She dropped to a crouch. A masked raccoon face peeped around the tire. She stood up again slowly.

"Yeah, about your grandfather . . . he stopped by this afternoon."

"Uh-huh." She walked a slow arc around him, one eye searching, one eye on him.

"He wants us to see the pastor as soon as we can. He already called her. He wanted to do it today, but you were crashed out. And then he was summoned."

"Okay."

"He said that being engaged might be enough, that is, if we both . . . either way, it would be better, for you, to make it official."

She scanned the street behind him—muffled behind walls, the thump of someone's bass, a couple of cats hissing at each other. No whispers. She started back towards him, frowning. Maybe using her Shield Burst last time had fritzed out her circuitry.

"And he said we should have sex."

She stopped and looked at him fully. "He said that?"

"So you are listening."

"Of course I'm listening. I can't not listen to you. I can hear your heart beating from across town, for crying out loud. It's just—" She tossed her hand up. "I'm getting mixed signals."

"That makes two of us."

She put her hand on her hip. "Really? What exactly was unclear about what happened last night?"

He relapsed into his gloomy self, glaring at the pavement between them. "Olli, if you're not ready for this—"

Stupid mind reader.

"You want me to pretend like this isn't happening really fast?" she said. "Because I can't. It's only been a week, Brend. I've had to deal with Shield powers and Blinky and magic and evil witches and other universes and . . . you. It's a lot. Okay, I admit it. I just wish—"

Her head turned. Her super-hearing picked up on footsteps. Steady clips on a distant sidewalk, sharp, quick, and light. A woman in heels. Probably just someone in a hurry to get home.

"Just wish what?"

"I wish we had more time," she said, then immediately wished she hadn't. His face turned as dark as the shadows crowding around him. "Don't you?"

"How can you ask me that?"

Words failed her, partly because she was half-listening to the woman in heels. The woman's pace had picked up, almost to a jog.

Why would someone jog in heels? At night?

"Your grandfather not only told me to have sex with you. He told me to do it as soon as you woke up. Do you know why?"

She was too horrified imagining Pap discussing her sex life with Brend to think.

"Because we have to, Olli. You wanted to get married. That's part of the deal. In fact, we could skip the pastor. That's just added insurance. All we'd have to do is have sex and promise to be together and that's it—married old-world style. We could do it right now and you'd be safe."

"So . . . all that just now . . ." Her neck burned. "You did that because my grandpa told you to?"

"Olli . . . I've wanted to be with you since the moment we met. I thought I made that pretty clear. I would've tried a lot harder, if I'd thought you were ready for it."

"But didn't you say that being engaged should be enough to protect me?"

"Yeah, but only if we really love each other."

The heeled woman ran full-on now—fast. Olli's heart ran too, even faster.

"So what? We have to say it?" she asked.

Her vision sharpened, gathering all available light. The night nearly vanished. She didn't hear anything like Blinky, but a woman was running. Was she running away from something? Why wasn't she calling for help then?

Thunder rolled in the distance.

"You shouldn't say anything you don't mean, Olli."

Say she loved him. Easy enough. Because she did, right? She was going to another world with him. She didn't have any doubts. She knew it was the right thing to do. But was she going because her Shield-self felt compelled to protect him or because she was in love with him?

Sure, she'd thought she was in love with him. But thinking it and saying it seemed worlds apart—like universes.

And the woman. Running. Faster and faster. One of her heels snapped. Her footfalls stumbled. Then two soft thumps—the shoes being tossed aside. Bare feet slapped against the pavement as she resumed. Her breath sounded ragged, panting and strange . . .

Olli's Shield swelled. She grabbed Brend's shirt and pulled him up from where he'd been sitting. "Get in the car. Drive—"

Whispers. A hundred soft, soft whispers.

She let go of him and spun around as the woman's footfalls came to a sudden halt.

The woman stood on the corner across the street. She stopped at the curb, chest heaving, dark hair loose, agile body poised like a cat about to bolt.

Olli's shield dipped. "Chelle?"

A hundred shrieks filled the air. Chelle leapt into a run, straight at them.

Olli barely had time to push Brend back before Chelle pounced on her, knocking her down. Her head smacked the pavement, shooting pain through her skull. The rim of the shield pressed into her windpipe. Bloody spit dripped from Chelle's mouth and onto Olli's cheek, slimy and hot. She stared up at Chelle, struggling to shove her off.

Chelle's eyes flashed—black, then white, then black.

Chelle raised her fist over Olli—and then she went rolling as Brend's boot struck her side. He seized Olli's arm and hauled her up to her feet.

"What the hell—?"

Olli shook away the shock and head trauma. "Good question," she said, breathless.

Chelle rolled into the tire of a nearby pickup. She was up in a flash. She charged at Olli again. Olli dodged, falling to her knee, ripping the skin off—again.

She wasn't prepared for this kind of fight. Somehow, Blinky had taken possession of Chelle. Why hadn't anyone mentioned that was possible?

Chelle rounded and approached her again, more slowly. Olli's Shield pressed against her chest. It wasn't much but—

She let loose, dropping her knee to the ground. A rolling rumble shuddered around her. Olli peered up over the rim. Chelle stood there, smiling, eyes flashing.

"Shit."

She braced herself as Chelle slammed into her. She managed to shove Chelle back, but Chelle came at her again, grabbing the edges of Olli's shield. They grappled and fell, tumbling across the pavement. Chelle clawed at her, drawing blood everywhere she touched.

What now? She didn't want to hurt Chelle, and at the moment, that didn't seem to be a problem. Olli was the only one being hurt.

She finally pushed Chelle off and scrambled back to her feet. Chelle rushed at her again. Olli turned her shield away, twisting around. As Chelle lunged, Olli swung her shield around and clocked Chelle as hard as she could. Chelle fell back, splayed on the pavement, blood bursting from her nose.

Brend hovered behind her, but she held her hand out, stopping him. Dizzy, bloodied, and thrumming all over, she took a tentative step closer to Chelle.

Chelle's chest rose and fell, rapidly. Her breath rasped and gurgled. She blinked and looked at Olli. Her eyes were full of tears.

"Olli." Chelle reached out to her, but Olli didn't come any closer. "I'm sorry, Olli."

"Chelle, what happened to you?"

"It's my fault," Chelle said through labored breaths. "I went to her. I went to her to tell her"—tears ran down her face—"about you. I'm sorry."

"But the promise."

"I wanted . . . my soul whole again. I wanted to feel . . . something. The promise meant nothing . . . my beauty . . . once I was whole, I would have died, lost my immortality. But at least . . . I would have felt something . . . again."

Her eyes closed and Olli leaned back. But when they opened again, she was still Chelle.

"She already knew about you . . . but she agreed to return . . . I should've known. She's always hated me. For what I meant to him. He never loved her . . . it was me. He loved me. How could anyone love her?" Blood began to trickle out of her eyes. "She returned my soul, Olli, tainted . . . a piece of the Whisperer. It's inside me."

"What can I do? How can I help you?"

"Nothing, nothing . . . it will use me, Olli, to kill you. Kill me. I can feel it. I can feel . . . everything, now. Oh, guards . . . it's not just me. She saved it. It had something she wanted . . . there's more . . . another like me and your . . ."

Her eyes pooled with blood and turned black. A hundred whispers filled the air.

Olli hesitated. In that second, the thing that had been Chelle bounced up like nothing had happened. Olli reacted too slowly. The Chelle-zombie struck her across the face. Black-spots burst like fireworks over her vision.

She toppled, dropping her shield. The Chelle-zombie fell on her, throttling her from behind. She tore at Chelle's fingers, lungs pulling for air that wouldn't come. Her vision dulled and began to darken—

Then Chelle's hands loosened and slipped away.

Olli gasped and gasped again.

Brend picked her up and pulled her to his chest, holding her. One arm wrapped tight around her. The other pushed the hair back from her face.

"Are you okay?"

Her chest continued to surge. Every breath burned her throat. She blinked away the darkness.

"Olli—"

"Fine. I'm fine," she said, when she knew, inexplicably, it was true. Physically, anyway.

On the ground before her, Chelle's body lay limp. A slick of blood spread around her. Next to her, a blood-stained sword.

"I had to—" Brend said.

"I know." She ran a hand over her aching throat. She twisted in his grip so she could look up at him. "Are you okay?"

His gaze lingered on Chelle's body, and then he looked away and nodded.

"Did you hear what she said?"

"Even _she_ wouldn't—"

"She got something she wanted."

"Yeah, but this . . ."

Olli's gaze slid back to Chelle's body. Tears for Chelle burned away as her anger rose. "I hope the witch got something good."
Chapter 30

**"T** hat's it? No questions asked?"

Hope dropped into the nearest chair, rubbing her eyes. "Questions were asked, Olli. And I told them the truth. As much as I could."

"So Chelle's just another drug overdose, is that it?"

Olli stood near the door in the room next to Booker's. The bed was gone, leaving a table, a cabinet, and a few chairs. Something about a hospital room without a bed sent a shiver through her.

Brend stood near the window, in full brood. Hope had corralled them inside after the police arrived. Whatever questions they asked hadn't taken very long. Hope had returned pretty quickly.

"Would you rather they arrested me for murder?" Brend asked.

"You didn't murder her. That old witch murdered her when she spliced a piece of Blinky into Chelle's soul. Did you know that was possible?"

"No, Olli," Hope answered for him. "None of us could've ever imagined something like that."

"Did you warn them?" Olli asked. "Did you tell them that Chelle wasn't the only one? She said there was another. And apparently, once it's stuffed into another person, it can go wherever it wants. And oh, by the way, it's completely immune to anything I can do. So I think that it would be best if all of you had real bodyguards, the big kind with guns."

"I told them, Olli," Hope said, unfazed by Olli's rant. "They'll do what they can, but . . . it's hard to know who else she could've done this to. I would think it'd have to be someone like Chelle. Someone who had given her a piece of themselves, someone she controls already. To do what she did, to corrupt Chelle's soul like that, would've taken a lot of magic, regardless. But to do it against someone's will, when she has no power over them, that would've taken even more. She would've wanted to use as little as possible. Much of her magic is acquired, it's finite. She makes deals because, even though she spends more up front, over time she always gains back what she gave, with interest. Still, to do this—"

"How many people in town are like Chelle? What did you call them? Borderlings. How many of them?"

"About a hundred or so, but half the town is in debt to her. She doesn't have sway over them like she does the borderlings, or even your family, but some of them do owe her quite a lot, their lives even. And once you save someone's life, they may as well owe you their soul. More than a few people have gone to her when they haven't had any other choice."

A chilled silence filled the room. But Olli refused to be chilled. Hot and restless, she prowled in front of the door, trying to think of what to do.

"Did Mom go to her?" Brend asked.

Hope ran her hands over her legs, as if to warm them. "Your mother?"

"Dad is dying," Brend said.

Hope's mouth dropped opened. "Oh." She glanced at Olli, but Olli didn't offer her any protection. Brend had a right to be angry. Besides, he'd been building up a storm for a long time, he needed to unleash it.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. "Why didn't you tell any of us? Why didn't they tell us?"

Hope stood up, reaching towards him. "I'm sorry, Brend. I wanted to—"

He leaned away from her. "Did Mom go to her?"

Hope's arms dropped, tears fell. "Yes, she did."

He gaped. "What?"

"Your father was diagnosed just after the holidays. Pancreatic carcinoma . . . it was advanced, and he refused treatment. But even with treatment, his prognosis wouldn't have been good. Ten months, maybe. Your mother begged him to do something, but you know how stubborn he is. Faith had already been the Keeper for twelve years, and your mother was afraid that if your father died and Booker was called, he wouldn't last long either. Not long enough for any of you to have any kind of life."

Brend's back pressed against the wall as he glowered at Hope. "Then maybe she shouldn't have had any of us to begin with."

"Your parents were not cowards," Hope said, "not like the rest of us. Why do you think I avoided every relationship that came my way? And now, when I finally—" She hugged herself. "Why do you think none of Uncle Gale's kids had children? Or my older siblings? Your father was the only one brave enough to live his life while he had it. We all thought you would have more time. And that's why your mother went to her. To try to give you more time."

"She tried to save Dad's life?"

Hope shook her head. "That couldn't happen without your father knowing, and he never would have allowed it. Your mom wanted to try to become Keeper herself. That's why she went to the Dowager. That's why she went with your father back to Fifthold. When he dies, she's going to try to take his place."

"How? That's not possible."

"I don't know. She wouldn't tell me. But she wouldn't have gone if she didn't think there was a chance. She would've done anything to give Booker . . . to give you, even a few more days, Brend."

Brend slammed his fist against the wall again. And again.

Helplessness.

Olli knew the feeling. She felt it too.

Brend wanted to help his mom. Olli wanted to help him. And neither of them could do anything.

Hope looked about to make a big mistake—touching Brend.

Olli swooped in and grabbed Hope's arm, drawing her away. "Where's Roper?"

"One of the deputies is bringing him now," she said, her voice catching in a sob. She looked away from Olli as the tears flowed. Olli gave her arm a squeeze.

"I'm sorry," Olli murmured. "I know it doesn't change anything, but I'm sorry."

Hope covered Olli's hand and then patted it, sniffing back her tears. "You should let me clean up those wounds."

"Not now," Olli said, letting her go.

Brend huddled against the wall, building up more storm clouds.

"I need a minute." She left them.

Once in the hall, she found herself standing at Booker's door, peering through the window. Green heart lines blipped steadily. But his face remained pale and slack.

She'd called Pap, after Chelle had attacked her, but he hadn't answered. She'd considered calling Daniel, but hesitated. They all worked for the old woman. Her guts hurt, not knowing if she could trust her own family, even Nate.

What she couldn't understand was why the Dowager would have done this. The old lady had to know Blinky would come after Brend and the rest of them. In spite of her being an evil old witch, Olli remembered the way she'd looked at Brend, like she'd wanted him to stay. Was she really so twisted she would save a monster and send it after her own family? What could she have gained from Blinky to justify putting her own family in danger?

A part of Olli didn't care how or why the old witch had done it. That part of Olli just wanted to find the witch and kill her. But Shield Olli couldn't. The old woman was a Gates. Olli couldn't kill her, she wasn't sure she could even kick her in the shin.

She balled her fists. Every inch of her buzzed. She felt like a wasp trapped between two panes of glass, bouncing between them, searching desperately for a way out.

She heard footsteps approaching. She knew their easy shuffle.

A few moments later, Roper appeared, rumpled like he'd just gotten out of bed.

"At your command," he said with a salute.

Her eyes narrowed.

He held up his hand, appeasingly.

"I think you've been spending too much time with my brother." He rested his hand on her shoulder. "Don't buy into it, Shield."

"Buy into what?"

"The gloom and doom. Look, it's bad. But you think this is the first time? My family basically opened the gates to hell. _That_ was bad. Way worse than this. And before that, our ancestors were slaves to other-worldly creatures that make this Whisperer look like a rompy little puppy. How do you think they felt?"

"Terrible?"

"Wrong. They felt pissed off. They fought back. They could've felt terrible. They could've chosen to sit around and wait to die. But they didn't. And we're here because they fought and they survived."

He brushed his bangs away from his forehead. For the first time, she saw some resemblance between him and Brend, in their straight brows, but Brend's always seemed locked in a scowl. Roper's remained arched, like he was enjoying a private joke.

But Olli couldn't imagine laughing right now.

"I love my brother," he said. "And obviously you do to." He smiled a little. "But he's a downer. He thinks being realistic means being a pessimist."

She gawped at him. "I—I—"

He rolled his eyes. "Shield, stop playing dumb. He made a blood promise on your behalf. Don't you know what that means yet?"

"Actually . . . no."

"It means he's stupid in love with you, that's what it means. And I could tell from the first time I met you that you were stupid for him too. He's just been waiting for a girl to get all Darcy over."

"You mean like, Mr. Darcy?"

"You don't have to spend too many nights with a girl before you get suckered into watching that movie." He smirked. "I laughed through the whole thing. The point is, my brother should have been spending his time doing something worthwhile, like trying to get into your pants,"—he hooked one of the belt loops of her shorts—"instead he's been wasting it being conflicted. And you've been letting him get away with it. Tsk, tsk."

She pushed his hand away. "I wouldn't say he didn't try."

"Oh, yeah? Good for him."

"Roper, this is serious."

"You're right, it is serious. So are you going to stand here and wait to die? Or are you going to go kick some ass?"

"As much as I like the enthusiasm, it's a little bit more complicated than that. The Dowager—"

"I know what she did," he interjected. "Hope filled me in on the phone. I know everybody acts like she's the boogeyman. And she's pretty bad, ya. But sometimes, Shield, when you think you see the boogeyman, you're really just looking at an old coat in a closet."

She yanked her hair free from its mangled ponytail. "You're saying she's not an evil witch?"

"Oh no, she's an evil witch, but she's not a god or anything." He glanced through the window of Booker's room. The brightness in his face faded some. "We think she has power, so she does. Or to put it another way, you think you don't have power, so you don't."

She picked apart the knots in her hair. "You're saying it's all in our heads?"

"No, I'm saying she doesn't have anything that you don't give to her."

She frowned at him. When had he turned into Ballard? She couldn't grasp half of what he said. "Are you drunk?"

He grinned. "I wish."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He plucked a wild tress of hair away from her face and gave it a tug. "Because I know what you're thinking. You wear it all over your face. It's the same thing my brother's thinking. You're both freaking out because you feel like you don't have control. But you do have control, Shield." He tucked the hair behind her ear. "You can control how you react. You don't have to freak out. You don't have to lie back either. You can do something unexpected. That's who you've been this whole time—unexpected. Don't give up on that now just because everything seems like it's turning to shit."

"Seems like?" She shook her head. "Thanks for pep talk, but—"

"It's no pep talk, Shield. You're all we have. I'm not asking you to buck up. I'm telling you to get it together because we need you. I don't want to die. And I definitely don't want any more of my family members ending up like Booker, or worse. So stop standing out here moping and do something."

"Like what?"

"Surprise me." He leaned in. "Surprise _her_."

"I think I hate your brother," she said to Brend after Roper had gone into Booker's room and Brend joined her a few minutes later. She wrapped a strand of hair around her finger until the tip turned bruised-looking.

He leaned against the wall. "What did he do now?"

_Besides telling me that you love me . . . and that I love you. And being right?_

"He gave me an idea," she said.

Her heart skipped beats thinking about it. It would mean leaving Booker behind. She didn't like that, but he wasn't first on Blinky's hit list. Chelle had made it clear who was first. Olli must have really pissed him off.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said.

"Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like this?"

"I have to go back to the house, just for a few minutes."

"Why?"

He looked around, like someone might be eavesdropping. "Because of the door."

Her heart stopped. "It's not time already—"

"No," he said, though his face lost what little color it had. "I have to . . . check-in, every twenty-four hours. I don't have to go to the door. I just have to go past the fence. I wasn't sure it would still work until I went this morning, since the fence is busted, but it seems to have. And now I need to go again. I have to keep going back."

"What happens if you don't?"

He gave her that terrible bitter smile. "Then Roper gets the tacky tattoo."

"Fine, we'll all go," she said. "In fact, that's pretty much what I had planned anyway."

He searched her face. She remembered what Roper had said about her thoughts being written all over it. Brend wasn't a mind reader. She was just an open book. If he knew that she planned on paying the old witch another visit, he would flip out. She tried to make her face as straight and blank as Pap had done all those times.

"You have a plan?" he asked.

"And I already know you're not going to like it, so don't bother arguing."

"What is it?" he asked, about to argue.

"Tell me something," she said, "this magic stuff. Hope said the old lady blew a lot of it to stuff a piece of Blinky into Chelle, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So she's probably holding on tight to whatever she has left. She's not about to use it unless she really has to."

"Probably."

Probably. A pretty big risk to take based on probably. But for all she knew, another Blinky-zombie was on the way while she stood around dithering. Roper had been right. She needed to do something. She wanted to end this. Now. She was tired of waiting for the attack. She needed to know where she stood. She needed to face the old woman, as a Shield, and find out what she was up against. But she couldn't be sure of her safety, even with the old woman depleted, not unless . . .

"Olli, what are you—?"

"One more thing."

She leaned in and kissed him. He held back again.

She pulled away. "I hate it when you do that."

Mr. Misery reappeared. "I think that maybe—"

She kissed him again, grabbing his shirt. But he broke away.

"Olli—"

"I love you," she said, "you stupid jerk. Stop trying to push me away."

He bowed his head.

She leaned her face close to his. "I know you love me too."

He looked up at her, obstinate. "Are you a mind reader?"

"Tell me you don't."

"Then what would you do?" he asked. "Would you still be willing to marry me, to be with me, even if it was only to save yourself from her? Could you do that? Would you still want to go to Fifthold with me?"

"I said I was going and I am. I don't say things I don't mean."

His phone in hand, he flipped it over and over.

"I still pay his bill—" Brend said, when she glanced down at his phone, "my Dad's. Just so I can call his number and hear his voice." He stuffed the phone back in his pocket. "Mom's too. I'm afraid I'll forget what they sounded like."

_Damn._

"If there were any other way to keep you from her," he said, "I would tell you I don't feel anything for you. Because being with me"—he caught one of her tears on the end of his finger—"is just going to be more of this, Olli. I've lost count of how many times you've cried since I've met you. And I hate that."

She dropped her forehead to his chest, her fist tightening its hold on his shirt. "Just say it."

He lifted her face. His hands on either side of her face, his forehead pressed to hers. "I am so in love with you, Olli Speare."

She pressed her fist to his chest. "That's right, you are. Now kiss me like you mean it."

_And then we're going to see a witch._
Chapter 31

**"T** his is crazy."

"I like it," Roper chimed in from the back of Hope's SUV.

"No one asked you," Brend said, glaring into the rearview mirror.

Fat drops of rain drummed on the car roof and sheeted down the windows. The windshield wipers _thrump_ - _thrumped_ , back and forth.

The rain started as soon as they crossed the bridge, along with the tension. The three Gateses gathered a few personal things at the house, which was truly a disaster area, every window and glass ceiling shattered, most of the lights too. Fortunately, the flashlights stashed under the kitchen sink had survived.

While the Gateses went to their rooms, Olli stalked up and down the hallway, crunching and slipping as rain poured in, shield thumping against her back where she'd slung it. Brend returned with three more swords and two more shields.

He tried to argue with her, even though she told him not to. Then he took up the silent treatment, but once back in the car, him at the wheel, he started grumbling again. And they weren't moving.

"If you don't take me there," she said, not looking at him, "I'll get out and walk."

"And leave us helpless Gateses here to defend ourselves?"

"Drive," she ordered.

"I have to say, I agree with Brend," Hope said from behind Olli. "I'm not certain what you hope to accomplish—"

Olli twisted around. "It's simple. I'm going to go in there and ask her who the other Blinky-zombie is and where I can find it. And then I'm going to go kill it. And end this."

"Why do you think she would tell you anything?" Brend said.

"Brend's right. Besides, Olli"—Hope rested her hand on Olli's arm—"are you sure you're safe?" She glanced at Brend and then back at Olli. "Have you . . .?"

"I'm as safe as I'm going to get," Olli said, face burning, "for the moment."

"It really doesn't take that long," Roper said. "We could wait."

"Shut the hell up," Brend snapped.

"We're not waiting." Olli burned all over now. "We may not have time to wait. And I'm not leaving this world until I know that the rest of this family is safe."

"Well, what happens if another Whisperer comes through when you and Brend leave?" Roper asked.

Hope and Olli both turned to glare at him.

"What? We're avoiding the truth now?" He slumped back. "You think I like it?"

"This isn't your run-of-the-mill Whisperer," Olli said. "It's walking around in someone else's body. It crossed the bridge. It can probably even go out during the day, which means no place is safe. Not even a cruise ship in the middle of the ocean."

Silence.

"But that's another good reason to have a chat with the witch," she went on. "I need to make sure she's not planning on doing this again, the next time."

Brend slammed his hand against the steering wheel. "She won't tell you anything."

"You don't know that."

"Not without a price," Hope said softly.

"We won't know until we try," Olli said.

Brend shook his head. "I don't know what you think you're going to accomplish."

"I'm going to surprise her," she said. "None of you know what she wants or what she might do to get it. None of us expected her to do what she did to Chelle, did we?"

More silence.

"I'm not just going to wait for the next Blinky-zombie to find us. I'm tired of being blindsided. I'm tired of not knowing what I need to know. So we're going to ask."

She faced front, glaring out at the yard. The landscaping lights had exploded too. Before them, the yard and the driveway were lost to the night. She really had used everything. Too bad her power had proved useless against Chelle. She didn't know if Chelle's body had acted as a buffer, or if Olli had been too drained. Maybe the Dowager would know.

"It never hurts to ask," she muttered.

"Except when it does," Brend said.

"Drive."

His hands tightened around the steering wheel, but he didn't move otherwise. A sword rested against his leg, tied there. Olli's shield lay over her shins snug on her knees, wedged. She ran her fingers over the rim of the shield—Brend's shield.

Was this really her life now? Hauling a shield around, fighting monsters, chatting with witches? A week ago her biggest concern had been keeping Farren off the computer and whether or not she'd make any friends when school started.

But she wasn't going to school. And as for making friends . . . she didn't even speak the language in Fifthold. Besides, she wasn't going there to make friends. She was going to be with Brend—until he died.

A knot in her throat.

_No tears, Shield. Don't waste energy on what you can't control._

Then, without a word, Brend started the car. The SUV rolled around the drive and down, through the gate. He turned right, deeper into the forest, towards the witch.

Her freak-powers continued to rise and fall, giving her little sense of how near or far away any potential danger might be, except she knew they were driving straight into it. But she didn't feel the urgency she had when she'd chased Brend to the Dowager's. Then, she'd been on high alert. She hoped it meant the Dowager was weak. A big part of her decision had rested on that assumption. The rest had been desperation.

Brend was right. This was crazy. But . . . she felt a little crazy.

The headlights skimmed the darkness shrouding the road. The rain slashed down as they turned up the drive to the Dowager's house. On either side of the gate, two lamps burned, flickering with actual fire. As they approached, the gate opened.

Olli glanced at the clock, almost midnight. Not the best time to make an unexpected visit, but then, when was a good time to drop in on a witch?

Brend drove right up to the front door. No arguments, not even a further grumble.

She eyed him. He was bottling up again. If he exploded in front of the Dowager, it would be bad. She needed him and the others to be, if not kind, then at least polite. Or in Brend's case, not a complete jerk. Because even though the Dowager had stuffed bits of Blinky into unsuspecting borderlings, Olli wasn't convinced that she'd done it to harm her family. If she'd wanted to hurt them, there had to be easier ways. At least, Olli hoped that's not what the witch wanted. Otherwise, bringing the entire Gates clan here was really a bad idea—and it was hers.

A figure stepped onto the porch. The firelight licked at Daniel's face, sharpening its edges and darkening his eyes. He held a spear.

"Stay here." She stepped out into the rain, sliding her shield onto her arm as naturally as she might have slipped a bracelet over her wrist.

Daniel clomped to the edge of the stoop to meet her. "What are you doing here?" Water dripped off his brow. He glanced past her to the car. "Brought the whole family. How nice."

She stayed at the bottom of the step. Rain soaked her clothes, running down her face and arms.

"I thought you'd be out hunting," she said.

"Don't you know, Shield? Whisperers don't like the rain."

"Not even when they're holed up in a nice cozy body?"

The shadows of his eyes darkened. "What are you talking about?"

"She didn't tell you. Interesting. Is Nate here?"

"Inside. What didn't she tell me?"

"Where's Pap?"

His combative demeanor wavered. He shifted from foot to foot. "I don't know."

She forgot to be on the other side for a second. "What do you mean you don't know—?"

"Don't worry about him. He can take care of himself."

"Then where is he?"

"I don't know," he repeated. "But he's pretty good at keeping secrets, isn't he, Shield?"

She rolled her eyes. "Get over it, Daniel. I'm a Shield, so what?"

"He shouldn't have kept it from us." Daniel's voice lowered. "He shouldn't have kept it from _her_."

"Are you saying she did something to him?"

"Saying something like that wouldn't do me much good."

"Are you afraid of her?"

"A Speare's not afraid of anything," he said flatly. "Maybe it's not the same for a Shield—"

"I didn't come here to fight with you."

"You shouldn't have come here at all."

"Don't tell me—I'm doing what I have to do. What you're supposed to be doing."

"What's that? Giving it up to the first rich prat who comes along?"

Her shield came up, but then she forced her arm back down and stepped towards him. "It's our duty to protect the Keeper and the Keeper's heirs. It's our duty to protect the gate. As far as I can see, you're not doing either of those things. It looks to me like you're stuck playing doorman for the old hag who busted the gate in the first place. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's not the same for a Speare. Maybe you're a better butler."

His fist rose.

The car doors opened. All three at once.

But she hadn't been worried. Maybe he would've hit her, but deep down, she didn't think so. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was still counting on the little boy she'd known, the one who'd been sweet and kind and always let her tag along with him wherever he went. She didn't know how the old lady had wrangled Daniel into her service, but she didn't think it involved taking that part of his soul. At least, she hoped it didn't.

"Oh, look, your boyfriend's here," Daniel muttered, lowering his fist as Brend came around the front of the car.

"Technically, he's my fiancé." She held up her left hand. Firelight ran over the gold like burning oil.

Daniel went rigid. For a second, she felt certain he was going to hit Brend, possibly with a spear in the gut.

"You're sixteen," he sputtered finally. "Does Pap know—?"

"It was his idea, actually," she said. "It's the only way to keep your favorite old witch from adding me to her collection. So someone in our family can still do their duty."

It might have been a trick of the light, but steam seemed to be rising off Daniel's body. His eyes fixed on Brend just behind her. "Is that what you call it?"

Brend drew his sword. Daniel lifted his spear in a motion so fluid that Olli didn't get a full breath in before the sleek pole hovered in the air above her shoulder, the steel tip at Brend's throat.

"No!" Hope cried out.

Roper started forward, but Olli turned her shield against his chest. "He won't."

"Don't bet on it," Daniel snarled.

Maybe she'd been wrong about Daniel. "What would Her Dowager Highness say if she found her grandson, and the heir, gored on her front stoop?"

"I'm not a wild boar, Shield," Daniel snarled. "I don't gore. I'm a Speare. I thrust, strike, and stab. In this case, I might castrate."

She might've been glad Daniel cared enough to bother, but at the moment, she didn't need a big brother.

"Stop wasting my time, Daniel. I don't need you to defend my honor. If you want to help me, then help me. But if you're just going to stand there and bluster, then get out of my way. I'm not here to fight you. I'm here to see her."

After a minute, he lowered the spear. The shaft struck the wet stone with a crack. "Why?"

"Because a ballerina-zombie almost cracked open my skull and ate my brains tonight."

"What are you talking—?"

"Ask her yourself. I don't have time for this. Are you going to tell her we're here or not?"

He glowered at each of them in turn, saving the last and longest of it for Brend. "She already knows you're here, believe me." Then he stepped aside, extending his arm towards the door. "Be my guest."

Olli nodded for Hope to go first, followed by Roper and then Brend. Hope hesitated at the threshold, warm amber light reaching out to her as the door opened. Then she stepped inside. Roper didn't hesitate. Brend stopped at the door, turning around and waiting for Olli.

Daniel seized Olli's arm and pulled her close. "You don't know what you're doing. You don't know anything."

"I know that Chelle's dead and it's because our Whisperer friend made a deal with your boss," she hissed. "Did _you_ know that?"

Judging from the sullen expression on his face, he didn't. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you," he said in the thinnest of whispers.

"I know you're trying to protect me, Daniel. But I'm running out of options here. I'm a Shield, remember? I have to protect Brend and his family."

"And you think this is protecting them?" he said through tight lips, like he was fighting his own mouth to get the words out.

"I think I'm almost out of time. If you have a better idea, please, tell me."

"You could turn around and go home."

"Home? What home? My old home was foreclosed on. My mother sleeps on my aunt's futon. My grandparents' house is full of people who've been lying to me, who didn't even trust me enough to tell me our family is from a whole other universe. Or is that what you mean? Home, as in back to Fifthold? Because that's exactly what I intend to do. When Brend's called to the gate, I'm going with him."

Daniel's eyes bulged. His fingers dug into her arm. "You can't—"

"I can and I will and it could happen at any moment and then who's going to protect the new heir and the rest of the family? It should be you, Daniel. I don't know why you're stuck here serving an old lady, but we both know it's not where you should be."

Maybe it was the rain, or the lack of light, but the look on Daniel's face might have been something close to respect. His tone, on the other hand, remained gruff. "You're not ready."

"How about telling me something I don't know?"

His hand dropped from her arm, but caught her hand, lifting it so he could look at the ring. "You think this is really going to work?"

"Pap said it would."

"Then for your sake,"—he released her hand—"I hope he was right."
Chapter 32

**T** oo hot.

The moment she stepped inside, she started to sweat.

A heavy floral scent floated through the air like a fat cat weaving around her, brushing her face with its tail, making her nose itch.

While the Gateses' house was an exercise in austerity, the Dowager went in the opposite direction. On the walls, paintings, portraits, maps, mosaics, swords, spears, shields. On the tables, statues, plates, vases, and flowers, flowers, flowers. On the floors, rugs, one laid over the other like papier-mâché. All of it, she realized, as she took in the intricate patterns on the floor and the stoic faces in the portraits, came from Fifthold. If she'd ever wondered what the culture was like, it seemed this would've been the place to learn.

On the far side, just like at the Gateses', stairs led down.

A blank-faced young woman approached, striding up the steps in a business-like manner. Olli clenched her shield. The woman bore far too much resemblance to Chelle, from her high forehead to her easy grace. Olli's Shield powers did not react as she joined them on the landing. She bowed. When she straightened, her dark almond-shaped eyes swept over them, impassive.

"Your Royal Highness," she said to Brend, "Her Dowager Highness welcomes you." Then she turned her empty gaze on Olli. "Lady Shield. Follow me, please."

She turned and descended the steps again.

Olli realized she needed to do more than just find the other Blinky-zombie. She needed to find a safe place for the family too. Bad enough she'd had to leave Booker behind with nothing but a couple of police officers to watch over him, but what was she supposed to do with the rest of the family while she hunted down the last remnants of Blinky?

She hefted her shield.

_One thing at a time._

_First, the witch._

Olli started down the steps after the woman. Hope plucked at Olli's wet shirt. Her black hair was plastered to her head, spikes cutting into her cheeks like the shadow of a jaw closing around her head.

"Olli—"

"I won't let anything happen to you," she said, just like she'd said to Farren.

Hope withdrew her hand and nodded.

Olli tightened her grip on her shield and descended the steps.

Each landing proved more elaborate than the one before, broad ovals dripping with history in every form, from the massive headless statue of a shield-wielding warrior to a delicate looking scrap of paper the size of her palm inscribed with faint arrows and dots, encased in a box of what looked like bullet-proof glass.

They passed four landings before stopping at the fifth.

Their blank-faced guide stood by a set of double doors, holding one open. "Her Dowager Highness will join you momentarily. She wishes for you to find comfort here. May I offer—?"

"We don't want anything," Brend said.

The woman bowed low to him. "As you wish, sir. But I am told to inform you that no reciprocal obligations will result from your acceptance of anything I might offer or provide to you. All is out of due courtesy, nothing more. It is Her Highness's word."

"Good," Olli said, cutting Brend off. "Bring food and water and dry towels, please."

"And a bottle of Scotch," Hope said as she trudged past Olli and Brend into the room beyond. "The good stuff."

"As you wish, ma'am." The woman bowed again. Then she shut the door.

Immediately, Brend rounded on Olli. "You shouldn't have asked for anything."

Olli slid the shield off of her arm and flexed her hand. She ignored his glare and craned her neck. Far above, darkness pressed down against the glass panels of the ceiling and two of the walls. Rain thrummed, muffled enough to be soothing, streaming down the curve of the roof and the walls like the room had been built under a waterfall.

Again, every surface seemed laden with antiquity. Her gaze lingered on a bronze breast-plate sitting in one corner, gleaming coolly. A helmet sat beside it—ridged on top with a long nose piece. Her arm slid back into her shield.

In the middle of the room four curved sofas formed an oval that mirrored the shape of the room. Roper went to one of them and flopped down on the thick red cushions, closing his eyes.

She could hear Brend's jaw click. It hadn't skipped her notice that, even though he'd sheathed the sword, he held the grip tightly.

Hope perched on the edge of one of the sofas, picking at her cuticles, her gaze roving the room.

"Now what?" Brend said to Olli.

"We wait," she said.

He glared at her. A fire-breathing Jabberwock stomped around inside of her, wanting to unleash on the cat, but she held it back. One of them had to keep their cool.

Within minutes, the woman returned, pushing a cart piled with fruit, bread, and cheese, along with two sweating silver pitchers of water and one crystal bottle of golden liquid. From underneath, she took a stack of thick white towels and laid them, pointedly, at Roper's feet.

"May I offer anything further?" It was unclear whether she spoke to Brend or Olli, but since Brend was too busy grinding his teeth, Olli answered.

"No, thank you."

The woman inclined her head and left again.

Brend growled and stalked away to the opposite end of the room. Hope pulled the cap off the bottle and inhaled. She poured herself a glass and then looked at Olli, raising her eyebrow. "As the only adult in the room, I shouldn't offer you any alcohol, but in your case—"

"I don't want any," Olli said.

"I do," Roper said, popping up off the couch.

"Too bad," Hope said.

He pouted. Once Hope had retreated to the sofa, he snuck over and poured himself a glass and downed it before his aunt could see. He popped grapes into his mouth, one after another.

"What's the plan?"

Good question. Since they'd entered the house, the Shield pressure had leveled out, ceasing its aggravating flux. Her skin buzzed and her senses remained crisp, but at nothing like full power. She worried the house had dampened her powers somehow. But in her gut, she had the oddest sense that they were as safe here as they would be anywhere. Maybe safer. She hadn't ruled out the possibility of a trick though. If the Dowager's garden could disorient her, then the house could've been full of traps too.

She ran her thumb over Annora's ring—her ring.

Brend stood at the far wall, staring out at the streaming blackness.

It had taken all the courage she had to tell him she loved him, even after Roper had explained what the blood promise meant. When Brend had said it, she knew he was telling the truth. But when he'd kissed her, as tremble-inducing as it had been, she still wondered if he held back. They both tried so hard to protect each other, it seemed like they never let their guards down. When she thought about having a moment, when they weren't fighting a monster, or each other, when her mind wasn't racing, searching for answers, worrying about impending doom, when they could just . . . be together.

She wanted that.

It scared her. How much she wanted that.

The only thing that scared her more was the thought that such a moment might never happen.

When she didn't answer his question, Roper returned to the couch and stretched out, closing his eyes. Hope sat back. Her eyes closed too, Scotch resting against her thigh.

Her clothes dried to damp, Olli ran her fingers through her ponytail, and waited.

Then the doors opened.

The Dowager entered in her wheelchair, pushed by Pap.

Olli let out a small breath of relief. After what Daniel had said, a cold crystal of fear had formed in the back of her mind that the Dowager might punish him for keeping Olli's Shield-ness a secret.

Pap kept his eyes down, not looking at her as he rolled the Dowager into the room, stopping just far enough inside the doors to allow them to close. Hard as it was for Olli to see him acting so obsequious, she wasn't surprised.

The Dowager looked more like an old woman than ever. Her shoulders slumped under her white shawl. Her hands rested limp in her lap. Even her eyes had a dull weariness to them. A subtle sweetness drifted in with her, light and delicate, like orchids. Not the overpowering magic musk of her garden.

Pap stood by, dressed in a clean button-up and pair of slacks, hands clasped behind him.

Olli glanced back at Brend. He turned towards them, but he remained at the far side of the room.

The Dowager's eyes touched on each of them, but she didn't speak.

Finally, Olli said, "Do you know why we're here?"

The Dowager made a face like she'd licked a lemon. "Rather callow of you, Lady Shield. Not at all to the standards expected of my grandson's betrothed."

Olli's gaze flicked to Pap, but then she remembered herself. Here, he was the witch's servant. And Olli was a Shield.

She let herself feel the swell in her chest—solid, but restrained, unalarmed.

_Please, let that mean the old woman's magic is cashed out._

"I haven't had much time to brush up on whatever passes for etiquette around here. I've been a little preoccupied fighting a Whisperer. Or what once was a Whisperer."

The Dowager's back straightened, her eyes sharpened. "Are all young women in this world so brash?"

"I didn't come for tea." Olli held onto her courage even as the Dowager's eyes seemed to open up to swallow her. But this time, Olli wasn't falling. "I need information."

"And what would you have to offer in exchange for such . . . information?"

"Your family."

That got everyone's attention. From the corner of her eye, she saw Hope grab Roper's arm and Brend shift, like he was about to draw his sword.

Even the Dowager tilted her head. Surprised maybe?

"My family?" she said, running fingers over her hand like she had the day before, except this time there was no ring to hypnotize Olli. A pale line marked her finger where the ring should have been. "I'm afraid, Lady Shield, you cannot bargain with that which does not belong to you."

"I'm not bargaining with them, not like that," Olli said. "What I'm offering you is a chance."

Now the Dowager frowned. Not a pretty expression, even on a still beautiful old woman. "A chance?" she said like it was some new-fangled slang term Olli had picked up on the streets.

"A chance to show your family that you're not the evil old witch they think you are."

Of all the talents Olli had uncovered in herself as of late, creating stunned and heavy silences seemed to be the one she'd mastered quickest. In this instance, she found it especially satisfying, since even the Dowager appeared to be at a loss for words.

Not for long though.

In a soft, restrained tone, she said, "Is that what they think?"

She saw Hope move, but shot her an arrow-sharp look. Roper's eyes were wide, like someone had stuffed a hot pepper in his mouth and glued it shut. She guessed he hadn't expected her to be this unexpected. Brend watched her with an expression that said he knew this had been a bad idea.

"How unfortunate," the Dowager said in the way a grandmother might speak when she felt slighted by her ungrateful grandchildren. "But I have never before concerned myself with the opinions of others, especially those of my own blood. Why would you imagine I would start now?"

Olli knew what Brend was thinking: _I told you so_.

But she forged ahead.

"As far as I can tell, you don't have much family left. I know what that feels like. I also know what it feels like to be excluded from them, to be an outsider. All I wanted was for my family to know the truth. For them to know who I really was." Her gaze flicked to Pap again. His eyes remained on the floor. "And I definitely didn't want any of them to be hurt. When we leave here, there's a good chance that one of your grandchildren could be hurt, and it's because of something you did."

The Dowager had a poker face to beat all—that was for sure.

"Not entirely correct. The threat my grandchildren face is not wholly my doing. You are in part to blame for what has come to pass."

Olli frowned. Was it another trick?

"I didn't stuff bits of a Whisperer into anybody's soul."

"No. But your unique abilities injured the Preserver in such a fashion as to make what came after possible. Only a Shield could shatter the Pulse of a Preserver. If not for your unfortunate lack of training, you might have killed it. Instead, you scattered it, torn into pieces, to die a slow pitiful death."

"You could've let it die."

The Dowager gave a slow, bobbing nod. "I should have, in fact. And would have gladly, but it made me an offer and . . . . felt compelled to accept."

"Compelled to put your family in danger?"

"My family has been in danger, Lady Shield. They have never ceased to be in danger. And though it may not seem so to short-sighted persons such as yourself, and even mine own children, all I have done, from the beginning up until this very moment, has been for them."

"Liar." Brend took a step forward. "If you hadn't killed the Guardian, none of this would be happening. Three sons, four grandchildren, and three . . . four of your great-grandchildren, and how many others? Dead, because of you."

"Hundreds," the Dowager stated, sitting up a little straighter, her nostrils flaring.

Great, now Brend had pissed her off.

"Thousands, dear child. A tragedy, I cannot deny. But if you're asking me if I regret, then my answer is no."

"Of course not," Brend said in a low deadly voice.

"Are you eager to return to Fifthold, my boy? Are you so glad to sacrifice your life to the Iron Gate, to be its servant, to be its slave? To leave behind everyone you care about, including your Lady Shield?"

"I'm going with him," Olli said.

"Ah. As is your duty, correct?" The Dowager let out a breathy puff of laughter. "Indeed. Well then, my courageous Lady Shield, as you stand by and watch my grandson deteriorate; watch the gate sap the life from him like a parasite draws blood from its host; watch as he, day by day, ages by years until the gate, in its greatest mercy, renders him a withered and wasted corpse. On that day, Lady Shield, when my grandson is dead in your arms and your whole life, still left before you has been desolated. On that day, will you rejoice that you have so officiously and bravely enacted your duty?"

Falling again. Down and down.

"Or perhaps," the Dowager continued, "you are capable of a deeper sort of bravery. One that enables you to question why you have been shackled to this so-called duty which has forced you to marshal the one you love to the most miserable and wretched of deaths?"

Olli had forgotten how to speak. Suddenly the shield on her arm grew heavy, straining her shoulder.

Then, unexpectedly, Hope spoke. "It wasn't like this before." Her voice grew stronger, matter-of-fact. "When the Guardian was in place, the Keepers lived as long as anyone else. Longer. I read the genealogies. I know the history. Our service to the gate was nothing like what it is now, after what you did. If Brend is doomed to die an early death serving the gate that _is_ your doing."

The Dowager's ring-less hand fluttered in the air. "Then the matter is settled. You _know_ the history. You were there, ya? And I am guilty. Your great-grandfather and I, we so longed to see our children's bodies piled before the gate that we spent years planning, searching, garnering every ounce of power we could to destroy the Guardian, just so we could murder our children."

Olli frowned. Olli had come so the Dowager could show her family she wasn't evil by telling them who the other Blinky-zombie was. Olli hadn't expected to actually question whether or not the old woman was truly evil.

"You opened the gate for yourself, not because you cared about anyone else," Brend said.

"That is what you were taught," the Dowager said, "by my children and theirs. All resentful and angry. I cannot deny them their rage, nor turn away from my share of culpability. But had my son and his _army_ not interfered, disrupting my husband's transfer of power from the Guardian, the situation would be quite different, for all of us. But my son, like you my boy, thought he knew better and died for his mistake. And _that_ is when the Guardian died, the Iron Gate opened, and the onslaught came through. Consult your history again, dear daughter, and tell me if it is not written that I, alone, held the gate until my second son could return to close it. Did they forget to mention that I fought that day? That I killed more of those foul beasts than anyone? More even than your ferocious ancestors, Lady Shield."

"But why did you do it in the first place?" Olli couldn't help but ask.

"Power," Brend snarled from the back of the room.

The Dowager's laugh was paper-thin. "Power? I had power. More than enough. I sacrificed my power."

"To gain more."

"No," she said, leaning forward on the padded armrests, "and yes. To take the power from the Guardian, to end our subservience and become the masters of our own destiny, not merely the slaves."

Ballard's sandpapery voice came back to Olli then—he'd called the Keepers slaves to the gate too.

"You're insane," Brend said. "The gate is what protects us."

"Protects us? Protects us from what?"

"From the others—" he started.

"Oh, yes, like little children we need to be protected from the great evils of the world . . . worlds. Those monstrous perpetrators of countless horrors. As a child, I heard those same stories by my nurse's knee. Eons ago we fortunate mortals were saved from slavery and torment, no longer subjected to the cruel whims of the Higher Beings—world-destroyers, enslavers, soulless and petty tormenters. As a child I believed those fables, and then I grew and I learned that not all bedtime stories are true. We mortals live such short lives, but there were others, older beings who were not so far removed from those events of yore. And their recounting of those days was quite different from what I was told at the hearthside."

"Borderlings," Brend spat.

"Long-lived creatures—"

"Liars, just like you—"

"Heir you may be, but your insolence tries my patience—"

Brend stood still as stone—too still. "You don't deserve my respect. All you deserve is—"

Before Brend could piss off the old lady any more, Olli jumped in.

"Why do you call the Whisperer the Preserver?"

The Dowager continued to watch Brend, but after a long moment in which Olli considered cutting her loses and getting Brend out of there before he really did erupt, the Dowager answered.

"Because that's what they are. They are made to preserve the status quo. To keep us in our place. What do you imagine is on the other side of the gates? In this world, people use guns and dogs to guard what they don't wish others to possess. That's what these Preservers are, dogs. They're set loose to remind us that we are the slaves. And that we should not attempt to be anything other. Imagine, Lady Shield, if everyone in this world had equal access to the wealth and knowledge hoarded by those who call themselves stewards, but act as tyrants?"

"If that were true, if the gate is built to keep us out, then why didn't the Higher Order Beings, or whatever, why didn't they just close up the gate? Or destroy it?"

"How they wish they had that power. But they do not. Even as the wealthy in this world buy islands and build fences, they cannot separate themselves entirely. Sometimes, dear girl, those who seem to have the most power are weak, often weaker than those whom they oppress."

"Does that include you?" Brend said in a way that made Olli tense and hold her shield a little tighter.

"Is it not obvious? I am weak in many ways. I am old and, by rights, should have died long ago. I have been selfish in my attempts to return my family and my people to their proper and rightful home and, perhaps, harsh in my methods." Her righteous fire seemed to diminish. "Above all, I am weak as all humans seem to be. In this world and in ours, humans share the same great weakness. Love. The desire for it, the longing, the need. We must feel it and give it and for that all else be damned. I love my husband. I have waited for him. I will continue to wait. And I will do all that is in my power to return all of us to our world and then to once again break the bonds that required my children and theirs and theirs to die in thralldom to those who deem themselves higher. If that makes me the villain, then so be it."

"What makes you the villain is what you did to Chelle," Olli said, not forgetting why she'd come here in the first place. It hadn't been so the evil queen could make a case that she'd been slandered. No matter how convincingly she did it. "If you really cared about your family, you wouldn't have saved the thing that's trying to kill them."

"Point in fact, Lady Shield, at the moment, what is left of the Preserver desires to kill you, above all others. But you are correct. The risk was great. But so long as our family is yoked to the gate, my grandchildren are as good as dead. Isn't that right, young Brend?"

Brend strode closer. Smoldering had turned into Conflagration. "Just like you."

He ripped his sword free and charged.

Olli shook off her shock, bolting. Just as his sword arched around towards the Dowager's sunken chest, Olli slammed into him, knocking him face down on the floor. The sword flew from his hand. When he rolled over, he kicked her legs out from under her.

She landed on her butt with a grimace, glad for the thick collage of rugs beneath her. Brend groped for his sword. She shoved back up to her feet, throwing her shield up in front of the Dowager. His sword cracked against the bronze again. She pushed him back, ears ringing, arm aching.

He glared at her. "You're protecting her?"

She panted. "I . . ." In her chest, her Shield seemed to reverberate, like it had been struck with a sword. Brend's sword. Were they actually fighting?

He threw his sword down on the rug, giving her a look that left a permanent chip in her heart.

"We're leaving now," he said to Hope and Roper, and then stormed out.

Hope rushed after him. Roper followed more slowly.

"Definitely unexpected," he said grimly.

"I couldn't let him murder her," Olli said.

Roper lifted his shoulder. "Yeah, you could've. But I guess that means you saved her life." He lifted an eyebrow at the Dowager. "Isn't that right, Granny?"

A bulge appeared in the Dowager's cheek, where her tongue pressed against the inside.

Roper squeezed Olli's shoulder. "You know he thinks this means the engagement thing didn't work. I told you we could've waited for you two to seal the deal properly."

"Why would he think—?"

"Because my grandson is quite right, Lady Shield, you saved my life. And in fact, you were not obligated to do so. Brend is the heir, the next Keeper. If he should think anyone in his family needs to be dispatched, then he is quite within his rights to do so. Since you are not in my service, you could not have been involuntarily compelled to protect me from him."

Olli's head reeled. The witch was right. Olli hadn't protected the Dowager because her Shield-self had told her to. She'd done it to stop Brend from hurting himself. He'd killed the Chelle-zombie to save Olli's life. But if he murdered the Dowager, even if she deserved it, it would still make him a murderer. And she knew that eventually, he'd hate himself for it.

But if Roper was right and Brend thought the engagement hadn't protected her and that the Dowager had managed to sneak a magical shackle around Olli's throat forcing her to save the old witch, then that also meant Brend thought she didn't really love him. Because that was only reason the engagement wouldn't have worked.

"Shit," Olli said, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. "I have to go talk to him—"

"Nah, you need to stay here," Roper said. "Granny owes you a debt now, and you'd better make her pay up big time, because her life . . . it's worth a few shiny pennies, ya? I'll try to stop Romeo from drinking any poison, but be quick." Roper gave the Dowager a grin. "Nice digs, Granny. Thanks for the Scotch."

He gave Olli's shoulder another squeeze and left.

Olli watched him go, swearing under her breath.

"What is your price, Lady Shield?" the Dowager said curtly.

"My price?"

"For saving my life."
Chapter 33

**O** lli glanced at Pap. He continued to stare at the floor. It didn't look like he'd budged since he'd taken up position beside the Dowager. If the Dowager had really been in danger from Brend, then why hadn't he moved to help her?

"If you should need time to give the matter due consideration," the Dowager said in a weary voice, "I am quite tired, as you can imagine. It is very late."

"Free my family," Olli said.

Pap didn't even blink.

"No," the Dowager said without missing a beat.

Olli wasn't surprised, but she'd had to try.

"I want answers," she said, taking another tack.

"Indeed."

"Honest answers."

"Honest is not as firm a word as you may think."

"Fine, I want the truth, as unvarnished, unbiased, and objective as you can give it." She twisted her palm around the grip of her shield. "Do you think you can manage that much?"

The Dowager closed her eyes for a moment. Olli's heart hammered. Had she asked for too much or too little? She didn't really want to be asking for anything. She wanted to find Brend and strangle him. Did he really think that she didn't love him? After everything they'd already been through?

"I agree," the Dowager said finally. "On the condition that I shall provide to you only the information you require and nothing you might use to harm me or my interests."

"Your interests?"

"As I stated, Lady Shield, my objective is and always has been to return to Fifthold and complete what I began all those years ago. If any of the 'honest' answers you request should contain information that you might utilize to interfere with my work, then I retain the right to keep said information from you."

She didn't like the sound of that, but then again she wasn't comfortable with this situation in the first place. She'd only wanted to learn who the other Blinky-zombie was and where she might find it. Instead she'd been treated to the Dowager's manifesto and gotten into a brawl with her fiancé.

"I agree with a condition of my own," she said, "that you never attempt to make me your servant or to control me in any way."

The Dowager smiled a rather venomous smile. "Why dear girl, there's no need for that. My grandson's earnest, if not ill-advised, love for you has quite prevented me from bringing you into my employ." Her hand again touched the place where her hypnotic ring had once been. "And I have waited so very long . . ."

"Do you agree?"

The Dowager heaved a sigh. "If that is your condition, then I must."

"Good. Did you create any other creatures like Chelle with bits of the Whisperer?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Like Chelle? Only one."

"Who?"

"I doubt you would know him. He has been in my employ for many years and had very little left of himself to prevent the transplant from taking root. His name was Slate."

"Why did you do it? Why Chelle?"

"She was not your friend, if that's what grieves you about her passing. She was quite willing to break her promise and trade your freedom for her soul. As for the why . . . As I stated, the Preserver made me an offer, the nature of which is not your privilege to know. And that hollow creature you refer to as Chelle owed me a debt, and not just for her immortality. But in this way, she was able to pay her debt."

Olli remembered Chelle's last fragmented words and something clicked. "She was in love with your husband."

"She thought so yes." The Dowager smiled that snake smile of hers.

Olli licked her lips. "She said he loved her."

The Dowager's eyes flashed. "As was intended."

"You mean, you knew?"

"Knew? Orchestrated, is a better word. Convincing a creature like that to give over a piece of her soul is no small task, I assure you. Take note, Lady Shield, seduction is quite a reliable means to persuade even the most powerful of beings to do things that they might never before have considered."

"Good to know. Where can I find this Slate?"

"Undoubtedly, he has not gone far. And I feel certain he will find you."

"Does that mean you don't know where he is?"

"No creature of that sort, not under my command, can cross the fence. Here, we are safe from it."

Olli's breath caught. "Your family too?"

"Of course. This house is young Brend's. As the heir, it all belongs to him."

The wheels in Olli's head ground into motion. "What about the fence at the other house, can that be repaired?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what Booker was doing?"

"He did not consult me on the matter, if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I asked."

"I assume he was looking for answers, my girl. Much like you. As they say, desperate times . . ."

"He was looking for a way to destroy the door between this world and the old one."

"Is that so? How foolish."

"Are you saying it's not possible?"

The Dowager tilted her head, studying Olli from the corner of her eyes. "Anything is possible. But advisable? I think not."

"Is that what you told Brend's mother when she came to you?"

"I told her that it was possible to transfer the responsibility of Keeper from one to another, but that she would not be able to achieve it. Magic of that sort is reserved for a select few."

"Like you?"

"Not that I would ever attempt it, but no, even I could not take up the burden. That is why my husband was the one who attempted the transfer of power from the Guardian. Blood is the most powerful magic, Lady Shield. He was born a Keeper. In his blood is magic of that select variety. Sadly, Brend's mother was not born a Keeper, so her attempts will fail. But she will attempt just the same. For her children's sake."

Olli's legs began to twitch. She needed to leave. "You told Brend there was no way to bring her back, was that true?"

"At the time, it seemed to be true. Who could've known there was a Shield in our midst?"

Olli stopped tapping her toe. "Why does it matter if I'm a Shield? What does that have to do with bringing Brend's mom back?"

The Dowager smiled her thin smile again. Olli hated that smile.

"Everything, Lady Shield. Everything."

Olli took the steps two at a time.

"Your Shield is malleable," the Dowager had said, "it may be shaped however you wish it. With the proper skill and no small degree of fortitude, a Shield could place herself within the doorway, forcing it open long enough for a person to pass through."

_So I'm not just a Shield, I'm a multi-tool_.

The door still wouldn't open until the next Keeper was called, but it would stay open for a day or until Brend went through. At that point anyone could pass through it, the Dowager had told her. Though obviously, no one had ever given the Dowager a call when the door opened.

The Dowager's serving wench was nowhere to be found, but Olli didn't need a tour guide. She headed straight up the stairs and out the door.

She couldn't tell which was more uncomfortable, the heat of the house or the tacky warm drizzle outside.

Engine running, the front doors of the SUV stood open. From the stoop, Hope watched with her hand on her head, as Roper and Brend tussled in the glow of the headlights. She looked at Olli with pleading eyes.

Olli handed Hope her shield and Brend's sword and charged into the driveway. But if she was worried about how she was going to break it up, she didn't have to. Brend flung Roper aside before Olli reached them. Roper stumbled into the grass on the far side of the driveway, blood running from his nose, his eye swelling.

Brend saw her approaching and reached for a sword that wasn't there.

She stopped in mid-stride. "Really? Is that your answer to everything now? Stab, stab. Kill, kill. Guards, Brend, have you gone completely out of your mind?"

Brend's hair had come loose in the fight, he shoved it back, giving her a look that she'd thought he reserved solely for the Dowager. But she put up her Shield against it. Her heart already hurt enough.

Brend seized her arm and dragged her, backpedalling, away from the lights of the house and the car. He released her, flinging her away.

"Are you in service to the Dowager?" he asked.

She stumbled back a few steps. "Damn it, Brend—"

"If you are, you're obliged to tell me. I'm the heir to the Iron Gate of Fifthold, you cannot lie to me."

"'I'm the heir to the Iron Gate of Fifthold?'" she repeated. "Well, you're also an idiot. Do you know that? I didn't stop you from murdering her because I'm serving her. I stopped you from murdering her because you're not a murderer."

"Answer the question!"

"No! I'm not working for her. You really think that I lied to you? That I don't really—"

Then he was kissing her. Urgently, like he needed to breathe life back into her. She hardly knew what was happening before he pulled back, one hand gripping her arm, the other pressing against the small of her back, holding her to him. She could feel the blood coursing through him. His forehead rested against hers.

"Are you crazy, is that it?" she said, breathless. "You can tell me. There are drugs for that, you know."

"I just—" He ran his thumb over her face. "I might be going crazy."

Stupid in-love feelings. She should've been able to be annoyed with him for a few seconds longer.

"I thought you couldn't go crazy when you're already mad."

The faintest of smiles passed over his lips, the shadow of a shadow. She kissed him again. She wanted to stay there, tasting his lips and absorbing his heat, feeling his hands on her—wanting her—but the idiot pulled back.

"You should've let me kill her."

"Maybe," she said. "But then she wouldn't have been able to tell me—"

"Shield!" Daniel ran up the driveway from the direction of the garage, spear in hand.

She turned, stepping in front of Brend.

Daniel came to a halt. Drops of water glistened on the spikes of his hair. The smooth rhythm of his quick breaths spoke to the Shield in her. The taut pressure in her chest expanded in response. The silent conversation seemed as natural as the drizzling mist blurring the world around them.

Daniel's eyes flicked from her to Brend. He drew the short sword at his hip. Close behind her, Brend tensed.

Then Daniel bowed.

"It's near," he said. "Do you feel it?"

She searched herself. Since the Dowager had done her Dr. Frankenstein bit on Blinky, her senses had been scrambled. She hadn't gone into full Shield-mode with the Chelle-zombie until it was practically right in front of her. But once Daniel said it, she knew he was right.

"Pap—" she started.

"Just got a text from him. He and Nate will sweep around and drive it to us." He gestured with his sword towards the road beyond the trees. His gaze locked on her. "Are you ready?"

_No. Not really._

"You don't need her," Brend said.

Daniel rested the flat of his sword on his shoulder. It seemed like a stupid place to put it, so close to his throat, but he looked at ease. "Are you volunteering, Your Royal Highness?"

"No, he's not," she said.

Daniel smirked. "Once you two lovers have hashed it out, I'll be down there, killing a monster if either of you care to join me." He bowed again. "Sir."

He strode by them, down the driveway, picking up speed until he was running.

"I don't trust him," Brend said.

"Obviously."

"Do you?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I have to go with him though."

"No, you don't. You heard what she said, you're the one it wants."

"That's right. It'll come right to me, better now when Pap, Daniel and"—was she really going to say it?—"Nate are here to help me than later on when they're not. We can end this now."

_And then maybe I can get some sleep and a real meal and we can we pretend we're a normal couple for a few minutes._

"Then I'm coming with you."

"No."

"Try to stop me."

"Don't tempt me."

He stood there, not budging.

She threw her hand up in the air. "What do I have to do to convince you to stay here?"

"Not go."

She might've screamed, but Shield-mode was powering up. And she didn't need super-vision to see that his jaw-lock was engaged.

"Fine," she said, starting back towards the car where Hope and Roper huddled inside. "But do me a favor. Don't try to be the hero, that's my job."

"Good idea," Daniel called from the cover of the trees. "Stand in the road, the more visible the better. Our boy will sniff you out in no time."

She stalked off the road, slip-stepping down the muddy embankment. "Do you want our help or not?"

"Not actually. But I've been stuck with Locke and Fisher, you two can't be any worse," he said from the shadows, "I hope."

Brend stood at the edge of the roadside above them.

"Did Pap tell you what we're dealing with?" she asked.

Daniel looked away from her. "I talked to the doctor while your boyfriend was pummeling his brother. Oh, pardon me, fiancé."

Olli touched the tree he hid behind. A slimy tickle crawled down her palm. She pulled her hand away, flapping it and shuddering.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, not about to admit she was grossed out by insects of all varieties. "What do you have against Brend anyway?" she said in a whisper.

"Besides the fact that he's an arrogant prick?" He shifted, his shoulder butting against the tree as he leaned towards her. "A better question might be why you like him so much. Is it the car? I thought you had better sense."

"We're engaged to protect me from your old hag's magic tricks. And how would you know how much sense I have? Since I came here, you've barely acknowledged my existence."

"I didn't know you needed so much coddling."

"You didn't know I was a Shield, is what you mean. Tell the truth, if you had known, you would've been a lot more interested in me, like you were in Nate."

"If I'd known you were going to be suckered into falling for some bratty rich kid, I would've kept a closer eye on you, true." He glared over the top of her head at Brend, who didn't seem to be able to see them as he squinted down into the trees, searchingly. "He's the heir, Olli. He's next. Going back to the old world with him, that's just crazy. You're not trained, you don't know back from front and . . . you're sixteen."

"I'll be—"

Daniel put his hand on her shoulder. "Listen to me. I know you. I was there when Pap started calling you Lil' Engine. That night when you refused to go to bed, determined you were going to tie your laces by yourself and fell sleep with your face in your shoe and your butt in the air. I was the one who sat with you for hours and showed you over and over how to do it."

"I remember," she said softly.

"That next morning, when you woke up with lace-face, you could tie them perfectly. I told you then that if you slowed down and slept on it, you'd get it and you did. But you're just the same now as you were then. You fix on something and then you refuse to listen to sense. You're right. I should've paid you more attention. I was too focused on readying Nate. I've spent the last month with that kid, teaching him, training him, and he's nowhere near ready, not for any of this. So don't try to tell me that you are. Because I can see, clear as daylight, you're not. Not for fighting, not for leaving, and not for being married."

She let out a heavy sigh. "Sometimes things happen whether you're ready for them or not."

Daniel let go of her shoulder and took his spear in both hands. "If he really cared about you, he wouldn't let you go anywhere near the Iron Gate."

"I'm not giving him a choice."

Daniel looked about to argue, but then they both froze. In the distance, footfalls pounded through trees, leaves rustling, branches snapping, moving faster and faster. She strained to determine how near they were and from what direction they came.

"I'd get your boyfriend out of here," Daniel muttered.

"He's the one who killed Chelle."

Daniel lifted an eyebrow. "So he's not completely useless."

"It'll come for me," she said.

"If that's so, then get back on the road. We'll have a clear shot at it up there."

She nodded and trudged back up the embankment.

"Can you even see me?" she asked, standing a few feet behind Brend. No streetlights. No moon or stars. Not even the house lights broke through the cover of the trees.

He turned towards her. "I can now."

"You shouldn't be out here." She returned to his side. "It's pitch black and—"

She started to distinguish the approaching footfalls now. Two sets of them, neither light enough to be Nate—Pap was in pursuit. She wanted to be relieved Pap was back in action, especially after how emotionless he'd been around the Dowager. She feared that the Dowager had done something to him, worse than what she'd already done by making him her servant. But at the moment, all she could feel was her inner Shield growing and growing.

"Please go back inside the fence," she said, turning her back to him and facing the approaching Blinky-zombie.

"You first," Brend said, drawing his sword.

"Daniel," she called in a whisper.

"Stay there," he hissed from the darkness.

She stepped back, keeping Brend close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him. "They're coming from there." She pointed, though she wasn't sure he could see her. "Pap's right behind him."

At least, that's how it sounded.

"How far?"

She closed her eyes, attempting to put some measure to the distance that the Shield in her understood instinctively. "A few minutes."

"Do we have a plan, or is this going to be like last time?"

"At least we survived last time."

"Not reassuring."

A sharp whistle pierced the air. Pap signaling. Daniel took off.

"Daniel!" she called after him. Daniel whipped through the forest much faster than anyone with a career-ending knee injury should have been capable of—gone. She guessed the knee injury had probably just been a cover story to explain why Daniel couldn't leave town.

"What's happening now?"

"Ssshhh." Her free hand touched his chest. She held her shield out in front of her.

Daniel ran faster than the other two, racing to intercept. One of the runners hesitated, stalling as Daniel approached—the Blinky-zombie. It changed direction. Pap's pace slackened too. Daniel picked up speed and shouted. She could hear grunts and yells as the fight began. Her hand tightened around Brend's shirt, twisting it. She wanted to help, but couldn't leave Brend.

A series of dull thumps followed—fists hitting flesh maybe, breath being knocked away. Steel struck wood—Daniel's sword, or Pap's, hitting a tree. Daniel cursed. A hard crack made her heart stop, like a branch hitting a stone, or a skull. Then something thudded on the earth—someone falling, hard. Her teeth set on edge as a second of silence followed.

Then, whispers. Footsteps running fast through the muck, sucking and squishing. The Blinky-zombie was on the move and no one seemed to be following.

She pushed Brend towards the open gate.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"Nothing good," she said. The gate wasn't far, fifty feet. She continued to propel him backwards. If nothing else, she could shove him through at the last minute. The last minute? Right, the last one before she died. Happy thoughts.

She was tempted to take Brend's sword from him. Not that she had any idea how to use it. But after her Shield had proven useless against Chelle, she really didn't have much of a choice. Daniel was right, she wasn't ready. She hadn't thought this through. She'd been determined to kill the last bit of Blinky, but hadn't stopped to think how she was going to do it.

Her thoughts kept returning to what the Dowager had said about making her Shield into a wedge to hold open the door between worlds. She'd said Olli could control the shape of her power. Brend had said that too. He'd said she could make it into a wall or a weapon.

But who was she kidding? She didn't have control over it. Up to this point, it had been controlling her.

The footfalls clodded and thumped, snapping and rustling—

She stopped shy of the gate, spinning back towards the road.

— _whomp_!

Blinky leapt onto the road only a few long strides away.

Whispers, a hundred times over.

Eyes flashing.

The man possessed by Blinky was long armed and short legged, like he'd been a monkey in the old world, or a runt troll. His chest was sunken and his chin, nonexistent. His hair was like a dead-cat glued to his head. The Dowager certainly hadn't sacrificed her best-looking servant.

Blinky-man charged. This time, Brend shoved her aside.

She hit the black-top and rolled, once, twice.

She looked back in time to see Brend's head smack against the road, Blinky-man on top of him. The sword clattered and clanged away, down the embankment.

Scrambling to her feet, she threw her weight behind her shield and shoved him off Brend. She and the Blinky-man toppled and tumbled in a tangle. Each of them tore and grappled for the other, the shield between them. Her inner Shield pounded like a fist against a door, but she couldn't see the use of setting it loose. It would only exhaust her.

Blinky-man grabbed the edges of her shield and yanked her up and down, smashing her against the street. Pain seared through her arm like hot oil. She screamed as she landed in a crumple, clutching her arm in agony. The shield fell away.

Brend charged at him. Blinky-man chucked the shield at Brend, knocking him back a few steps. The shield landed with a dull metallic crack.

As she rolled onto her side, the man picked Brend up by the shirt and tossed him from the road, down the opposite embankment. Then he reached over the side of the road. When he stood up, he held Brend's sword. He turned to her, eyes strobing.

Could whisperers laugh?

_Any time, Shield._

_Sure. Any time for what though?_

She rose to her knees, trying to visualize the force in her chest, like a bubble of energy. At the same time Blinky-man strode towards her, smiling. One step and then another.

A few more and the sword would be buried between her eyes.

_Be a weapon, Shield._

But how could a shield be a weapon? Could she bash Blinky-man over the head with it—but isn't that basically what her burst did? She needed to think faster than she was, but she couldn't get the shape of the shield out of her head. What was a shield? A disc. A big metal disc . . . like a saw.

Blinky-man swung the sword up.

_Be a spinning disc of metal. Be a saw._

The pressure spun out of her almost as soon as the thought popped into her head, slicing invisible through the air. And right through Blinky's host.

He hung in front of her, sword raised, and then his torso toppled.

His legs followed.
Chapter 34

**"H** ell." Daniel knelt next to her, laying down his spear, staring at the bifurcated body and massive pool of blood still spreading across the road.

She inhaled sharply when he touched her shoulder. Her right arm dangled at her side.

"Hold still," he said.

"Wait—"

He gripped her shoulder and shoved her arm back into joint. She screamed, nearly blacking out. So much for super-human, pain-numbing powers.

"That's going to hurt for a while," he said.

She doubled over, dry heaving. "You think?"

He clapped her on the back. "You'll survive." He scanned the road. "Where's your boyfriend?"

For a moment, she forgot her pain. "I don't know."

Daniel pushed up, crossing the road, plodding right through the blood. He stopped at the edge. "I found him."

She gritted her teeth, standing. "How is he?"

"He's fine." Daniel side-stepped down the embankment. With a few grunts, he dragged Brend up to the road. "Out cold," he announced as he let Brend sprawl on the pavement. "Where's Pap?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him. What happened to you?"

"Knocked out." He touched the back of his head, wincing. She couldn't tell if the dark splotches that came away on his fingertips were mud or blood—or both. "I didn't see it coming. Don't know why he didn't just kill me. Must've been in a rush to get to you and prince prat."

She skirted the pool of blood, cradling her throbbing arm. "A big rush? How much more time would it have taken to kill you? A couple of seconds?" She crouched beside Brend and placed her hand on his chest. His heartbeat was slow but strong.

Her Shield powers drained away, only her night vision was hanging on.

Daniel inspected the body, both halves. "You did good, Shield."

She met his eye. "I don't feel good."

"Your boyfriend . . . fiancé is still alive, isn't he?"

She sagged. "Do you really hate him?"

He touched the back of his head again, wincing. "Pretty much."

"Why?"

His face absorbed the shadows around them. "Do you remember my parents?"

"No."

"I doubt he does either." Daniel notched his chin towards Brend. "But they died protecting him."

Her mind went blank. "I didn't know."

"My mom didn't have to be involved. She wasn't a Speare, but it was because of him. Because he was screaming and crying and couldn't save himself. She threw herself in the way. Killing her was enough of a distraction for Pap to save him."

"I'm sorry, Daniel," she said. "But he was just a little kid—"

"It's not about that. I'm proud of how they died. With honor. But you wouldn't know it, the way they act. The way _he_ acts. Like his life's terrible because his family has to make sacrifices. Like the rest of us haven't made sacrifices."

Brend groaned, eyes fluttering.

"Maybe we should all go to the hospital," she said.

_Rustle, rustle, crunch, crunch_.

She and Daniel looked up as Pap emerged from the trees, climbing up onto the roadway a good distance from them.

"What happened?" Daniel called to him.

"Hit," Pap grunted, walking towards them slowly. He rubbed his head and semi-turned. His clothes clung to his back, soaked in mud.

Olli frowned. She'd only heard one person fall, but they'd been a long way off, it was hard to know what she'd heard exactly—she guessed.

Brend mumbled as he regained consciousness. She kept her hand on his chest.

"Where's Nate?" she asked Pap.

"He's coming now," Daniel answered, pointing over her head in the opposite direction that Pap had come from. "Lump misses out on all the action."

She couldn't hear Nate coming, but that was to be expected. Even her night-vision was dimming.

Pap stood over the lower half of the Blinky-zombie, surveying the remains.

"Shield did it," Daniel explained.

Pap's gaze seemed to flick up to her, but she couldn't see him clearly as the darkness and waves of exhaustion piled up on her.

"Did you know a Shield could do that?" Daniel asked.

Pap gave a noncommittal grunt. His hand reached up towards his throat, probably for the ring that wasn't there anymore . . . except he caught something and held it. She could still see his hand moving back and forth, just like it used to when he ran Annora's ring over its necklace.

Nate burst out of the woods, panting. He held a spear in one hand. His sword was still slung at hip.

"Aww," he said. "Did I miss it?"

"You didn't miss anything," she said, grateful that Nate hadn't been near when the Blinky-zombie attacked. She glanced down at Brend and then back at Pap. "Pap, don't you carry a spear?"

Pap stopped moving.

"Don't you know, Shield? He always has a spear, in here," Nate said, tapping his chest.

She didn't know if he meant that metaphorically or if Pap had a power like hers and could conjure up invisible weapons. "Sorry, Nate. I didn't get the handbook."

But she couldn't help but notice how Daniel frowned at Pap.

"Wow. Did you do this, sis?" Nate treaded around the blood. He turned to her, his smile bright enough to see clear through the blackness. "Wicked."

"We're going to the hospital," Hope insisted—again.

"I'm fine," Daniel grumped, cringing as Hope applied antiseptic to the back of his head. They were still on the road, although much less alone.

The entire police force and most of the town milled around the blood-drenched remains of the one who had been called Slate. No one seemed to be crying over his loss. Somehow, word must've spread that the last of the threat had been dealt with, because no one looked nervous about being there. The majority of people, behind the police barriers, craned their necks to get a peek at the scene: congealed blood stamped with shoe-prints, hastily covered remains—both halves of them. Olli and the family stood half-hidden behind various vehicles.

After one of the paramedics had put her arm in a sling, she realized she'd lost sight of Brend. He'd been at the ambulance with them, but once Hope finished asking him a series of questions to check for a concussion, he'd vanished.

She walked away from the scene, back towards the gate, leaving the flashing lights and salty scent of blood behind. Parked just inside the gate, she spotted Hope's SUV. The back hatch stood open. Dim light pushed against the surrounding darkness. Two shadows sat in the cargo area.

Brend glanced over his shoulder, through the window. He murmured to Roper, who turned his face away as Olli rounded the back of the car—was he crying? If so, there was no sign of it when he looked at her again.

"What's going on?" she asked, eyeing Roper more closely. His left eye had swollen shut, but his grin was as effortless as ever.

"I was just trying to convince my brother that post-victory sex is the best kind, wouldn't you agree, Shield?"

"When have you ever won anything?" Brend asked.

His grin remained, but something about his normally light eyes seemed to darken. "Never."

Brend grabbed his brother's shoulder and shook him a little. "Get out of here."

Roper bowed his head and left without a word.

Olli watched him shuffle past the gates.

"What was that all about?"

Brend sat, damp and mud-crusted, in the back of the SUV, his arms crossed tight over his chest. Even though the night was balmy, he seemed to shiver.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Exhausted," she said. "You?"

He nodded and stared down at the ground, wet strands of hair hanging over his face. "I've been thinking."

She sighed. "About?"

"I want you to know that if . . . you change your mind, it's okay."

As tired as she was, she still found the energy to be annoyed. "Change my mind about what?"

"Any of it. All of it."

She moved closer to him. "I'm not changing my mind about anything."

He shifted back, Mr. Misery Returns. "Maybe I wish you would."

Her heart began to beat too fast, painfully. A barrage of emotions came at her, all of them pummeling. She resisted their push and pull, and their call to bash him over the head. "Can't we talk about this tomorrow?"

"It is tomorrow," he said.

"Brend—"

"How many times have you almost died this last week, Olli?"

"I stopped counting."

He snorted, humorless. "I heard what your cousin said."

Her stomach dropped. "Oh."

"He was right. I've been selfish. I haven't been thinking about anyone else. About their sacrifices. I haven't been honest with myself either. Even when I thought I was the only one who was being honest."

"What haven't you been honest about?"

"About how it's okay for you to come back with me to Fifthold because you're a Shield and it's your duty, and I let you because I'm in love with you and I want you with me."

"What part of that isn't true?"

"What's true, what's really true, is that you were right. I'm scared. And the only time I feel anything resembling courage is when you're with me. That's why I agreed to let you return with me, because I'm afraid. I'm afraid that if I go alone, I won't last eleven minutes, let alone eleven years."

She touched his arm. His skin was chilled. "You're afraid, so what? That seems pretty reasonable to me. And if my going makes you less afraid, good."

"I can't let you give up your life just so I can feel better about losing mine," he said, tear-glimmers in his eyes. "That's too selfish. I don't want you to go with me."

She let her hand drop. "Now you are lying."

"No, I'm not."

She could tell by the death tremors in his voice that some altruistic part of him was telling the truth. But she wasn't about to hear it.

"What do you think's going to happen if you leave and I stay here?" she asked. "You think I'm just going to go back about my business? Back to high school? Writing essays and taking math tests? Hanging out on Friday nights? Flirting with some other guy? Is that what you think?"

"Sounds good to me," he said in a voice that sounded anything but good.

"Well, that's not what would happen. Booker told me to keep looking for the answer. He told me not to let you give up. And that's what I would do. That's what I will do. I will spend every minute of every day trying to find a way to free you, to restore the Guardian, to shut the door, whatever the answer is, whatever it takes to save you. Because the old witch was right, I'm not some mindless tool. I may be a Shield, but I'm not just going to stand around and watch you die. There is an alternative. There's a way to end this, and I am going to find it. I'm not leaving you and you're not leaving me, so stop trying to ditch me and just accept it."

He fell quiet. When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were dark and wet, like the blood-soaked road behind them.

"Are you scared, Shield?"

"Not ever."

He smiled a little. "Promise?"

"What's the word?"

He took her hand and kissed the back of it. Girl puddle.

He drew her to him. She slid into the back of the SUV, leaning against him. His arm wrapped around her. He kissed her temple and the edge of her ear. His breath, warm on her cheek, and the steady rhythm of his pulse lulled her. She'd meant what she'd said. She was going to find a way to save him. Her eyes drooped.

As she began to fall, down and down, into sleep, she thought she heard him say,

"I'm sorry, Olli."

She'd thought it was the beginning of a dream, but then, she woke up.
Chapter 35

_**W** hoop-whoop!_

The yelp of the police cruiser ripped her out of sleep. That and her Shield-powers kicking into high gear. Shooting up, her forehead smacked against the roof edge of the SUV. She swore, but the burst of pain dulled quickly under the influence of her Shield.

Beside her was a Gates, but not the one who should've been there.

Roper blinked with his one blink-able eye, groaning as he sat up. "What time is it?"

"Where's Brend?" she asked, on her feet, scanning the road. Gray light slipped through the branches overhead. The clouds were thick, promising more rain. An earthen rot stench hung in the air, along with the faintest traces of blood, metallic.

Roper rubbed the sleep from his good eye and then grinned weakly at her. "Did I tell you how much I like that shirt?"

Before she could ask again, he tugged his pushed-up sleeve down, but not fast enough. She seized his arm.

He tensed, ripping away. But not fast enough. She'd seen it. The wings. He was the new heir, which meant . . .

Her blood seized in her veins.

"Son of a bitch." She ripped off her sling, tossing it aside, and took off running.

"Shield! Stop!" Roper called after her.

But she wasn't going to stop. Brend was the Keeper now, he'd been called, and he was going to leave without her. That was enough to bring her to a boiling rage, but she hadn't told him what the Dowager had said about his mother. If he went through the door, it would close behind him, and Brend's mom really would be stuck there.

As she came to the main road, someone caught her arm, swinging her around. Most of the cars and on-lookers were gone. A firefighter stood with a water hose, spraying blood off the pavement. As the water struck, pink froth boiled up and sheeted away.

"Where you off to?" Daniel asked.

She tore her arm from his grip. "Brend's leaving."

Daniel gazed at her coolly.

She backed away. "You know."

"Pap gave him a ride."

"Pap?" Her Shield slammed against her chest, on the verge of bursting. But why? Sure, Brend was going to the gate, but that shouldn't have set off her Shield. After all, that's why she had Shield-powers in the first place. To make sure Brend didn't bail on his responsibilities as Keeper.

"Might be he's not so bad," Daniel said. "Leaving you behind, that's the right thing to do."

"Something's wrong," she said, still backing up. "Don't you feel it?"

But then, she could see he did. Even in the pale light, his skin radiated a warm honeyed glow. His deep brown eyes burned with amber light. So why wasn't he moving?

"The Whisperer's dead," he said, like he didn't trust his own instincts. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm supposed to stay—"

Olli turned and raced down the wet, winding road. Then up a hill, gritting her teeth. Down again. Around. Feet pounding the road, lungs burning, crying for more air.

Her inner compass led her back to the Gateses' house. Up the drive. Past the magnolia, dressed in white.

She ripped open the front door and slipped on the wet tile. She crashed on her butt, cutting her hand on a shard of glass.

She swore as blood ran down her arm. As she pushed herself up, she heard a sound so faint—maybe she'd imagined it. But then it came again . . .

Whispers.

She shoved herself back onto her feet and rushed down the landings, moving as fast as she could over the slick steps, until she reached the metal vase.

The wall behind stood ajar. Beyond, a dark passage.

Then she heard another sound. Metal striking stone. A sword. Someone fighting.

She slid through the passage and found herself racing down an even steeper set of stairs, wider, carved of stone. Dim caged sconces lined the walls of rough-cut stone, their wiring exposed. More landings and hallways. She caught glimpses of doors, modern riveted-metal ones, ancient-looking wooden ones. The doors passed, little more than dark blurs, that is, until a ray of reflected light shone at her like a beacon. She caught the edge of the wall, stopping her momentum. Her foot teetered on the edge of the step.

At the end of the short hallway, a massive wooden door stood open. Within its shadows, a glint of swords mounted on the wall.

The armory.

In the far distance, echoing up the stairwell to her ears, another clang of metal. And another shriek from the Whisperer. She hoped that its screams meant it was losing the fight.

She charged into the armory, tore the first shield she saw off the wall, and raced back out. Behind her, in the house above, she heard voices, but she tuned them out, turning all of her focus to the sounds of the fight below.

Down the stairs again, leaping from landing to landing. The shield's armband was too big and cut against her forearm with each step.

Had another Whisperer come through? How? It took them time to take form in this world. Could a second one have come through with Blinky all those months ago? Or . . . if it wasn't a new Whisperer, then was another piece of Blinky left? Someone else the witch had infected?

"Lying bitch," she huffed as she came, finally, to the bottom.

Two massive doors stood open to her right, she ran into a rough stone tunnel. Water dripped from the ceiling, down the curve of the walls, collecting in puddles on the floor, trickling into iron grates. Dank mildew putrefied the air. But more familiar scents cut through the rankness, smoky-sweet like espresso and chocolate, sun-warmed leather—Brend. And another scent, astringent aftershave, citrusy—Pap.

Her thoughts ran almost as fast as her legs. Pap had brought Brend here. He would protect Brend against whoever the Dowager had—

"No." The word slipped out on her breath. She pushed her legs to move faster. Gravity helped, hooking her and pulling her down the slope of the tunnel.

Tears burned her cheeks. She should've known. Pap had been acting so strange. At the Dowager's he wouldn't even look at her. Was that because he was afraid she'd see his eyes flashing?

_But he helped hunt down Slate_ , a small voice in her cried.

No, he hadn't really helped at all. He'd whistled for Daniel and then disappeared. He'd drawn Daniel away, he'd probably been the one who'd hit Daniel over the head even. When he'd finally appeared, he'd spoken, but barely. He'd kept his distance from her, even though she was injured. That wasn't like him. That wasn't like him at all.

The Dowager _had_ punished him for keeping the truth about Olli a secret.

She'd infected his soul with a piece of the Whisperer.

Olli couldn't run fast enough. The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever.

The clangor of the fight came to her clearly now. Two swords, crashing against each other. Ragged breaths, shoes scraping across stone, grunts, and above all, whisper-whisper-whispers.

The Dowager hadn't told Olli the truth because she didn't have to. That had been her condition. She would tell Olli the truth so far as it didn't interfere with her plans. But how was this part of the plan? Giving up Pap to Blinky? Wasn't he worth more than that?

Olli's fury drove her, coal on her flames. When she saw that old woman again . . .

Ahead another set of massive wooden doors appeared.

She knew she couldn't harm a Gates, but what about a Speare?

_It's not him anymore_ , Mirror Girl told her. _It's the monster. Pap is dead. That old witch killed him. And the first chance we get, we're going to kill her—somehow_.

The doors loomed before her, ajar. She couldn't slow her momentum. She banged into one of the doors, shoving it open and knocking into someone. She heard a grunt and clatter of metal against stone.

She stumbled to a halt. The circular room was cave-like, more exposed-wires and metal-caged lights. Brend lay on the ground, eyes rolling back in his head.

_Damn._

She swung her shield up just in time. Pap's sword slammed against the bronze, clanging. She stumbled back from the force of the blow.

Pap pulled back. His eyes flashed. Black, then white, then black. A hundred whispers hissed at her. A ring dangled around his neck, glittering like it had been carved all from diamond—the Dowager's ring.

He came at her again, forcing her back towards the center of the room. Then he turned on his heel, raising his sword over Brend, still semi-conscious on the floor.

She rushed at Pap, throwing all her weight behind her shield. But Pap's body was thick and balanced low. She didn't knock him over as she'd hoped she would. Instead she drove him back against the door. A deafening thud rang as the door slammed shut, his body pinned to it.

As soon as his back hit the wood, he shoved against her shield, propelling her towards the middle of the room where the floor dipped like a big drain.

He came at her again, sword raised. She threw her shield up, but at the last second, he swung the sword around. She couldn't shift fast enough. The sword _thunked_ against the edge of the shield and sliced into her exposed left arm.

She screamed. Bright agony flared through her super-power pain-veil. Blood ran hot down her arm.

He raised his sword again. This time, he drove it down on top of her, forcing her to bend her knee and almost lose control of her shield completely. The edge of the metal cuff cut into her arm.

Her inner Shield pressed against her breastbone, but she couldn't use it. Not if Brend was going back. Not if the door was open, though if it was here, she couldn't see it. She had to save what she had for Brend's mom. Besides that, she didn't want to slice Pap in two. She knew it wasn't him, not really, not anymore, but still . . . she couldn't.

He slammed the sword down again. Whisperers cheered him on as every strike pushed her deeper into her knees. Pains lanced thru her, like cracks of lightning waking up the neighborhood, one by one.

"Stop!"

The cry halted Pap's attack long enough for her to push to her feet again, swaying, dizzy, and breathless. She staggered.

Daniel stood in the doorway, sweat-soaked and huffing. His spear rose, but he didn't seem to know where to point it. Confusion dug deeper onto his face as he looked from her to Pap and back again. Behind him, another figure ran at them—Roper.

Brend groaned, still on the ground.

"Pap?" Daniel asked.

She panted. "It's . . . not . . ."

Pap spun, sword arcing towards her. She flung her shield up, though it felt like a block of concrete tied to her arm. The sword struck the metal and stuck. She stumbled back, into the middle of the room, dragging him with her . . . down and down and down . . .
Chapter 36

**H** er head thumped against the ground.

A second later, Pap crushed down on top of her. She wriggled free, kicking him in the face as she pulled out from under him. The ground gave and shifted underfoot. She twisted, struggling to stand, kicking up black sprays. Sand. Black sand.

A distant voice shouted something. She staggered to her feet and turned to face Pap, her shield raised.

He hurried to his feet as well, but he didn't come at her. Behind him, a vast violet ocean rolled in, drowning out the whisper-whisper-whispers. A chilly breeze swirled like a curious child around her, smelling of salt and fish and breaking her out in goose bumps. The molten crown of the sun peeked over the horizon, lighting the bellies of the clouds hot pink.

Pap sneered, crouching. His flashing gaze slid past her, over her shoulder.

She glanced behind her, turning so she could keep one eye on Pap and the other on—

She almost dropped her shield.

"Dad?"

Long, gray-streaked strands of hair cut across his face, but it _was_ his face. Even aged eleven years, she'd spent enough time staring at the pictures in the hall to know those features. Nate really did look like him. Same broad cheeks, almond-shaped eyes, same crimp in his eyebrow when he was dubious, or shocked.

His spear lowered slightly. "Olli?"

Pap surged at her again. She tried to block him, but was too slow, again. He slipped behind her. His arm cinched tight around her neck. She drove the edge of her shield against his side, but he seized the shield and wrested it from her, flinging it away. She clawed at his arm.

Her dad lifted his spear again, but hesitated. "Pa?"

Olli gurgled, wanting to tell him that it wasn't Pap, but couldn't get the breath to do it.

Not far behind him a small crowd of people shifted like they didn't know what to do. Their loose clothes fluttered in the breeze, bright, rich colors, maroon and indigo and saffron. Except one, she wore white.

She broke from the crowd. Brend had her mouth and sharp, dark eyes.

"Archer, that's not your father," she cried as she ran towards them.

"To the Iron Gate," Blinky said in a rough, forced version of Pap's voice. If her eyes weren't already streaming from lack of oxygen, she might've cried. This thing wasn't her grandpa.

Brend's mom joined Olli's dad.

"Iris . . ." he started.

Iris spoke to the Blinky-zombie. "No."

"Yes," Blinky-zombie hissed. "Or Shield dies." His arm snapped back, crushing her throat. The world, this new world, faded in and out.

"No!" Her dad shouted, holding up his hand. "Release her and I will take you to it."

Pap's chokehold loosened just enough for her to gasp. The air sliced her throat as she sucked it down.

Where was Brend? A part of Olli wanted him to appear and another part of her hoped he was still unconscious on the floor. If he came through, the door would close behind him

This thing needed to die before it could do whatever the Dowager had sent it here to do. She didn't doubt for a second that's why it wanted to go to the Iron Gate. The old witch had a plan and she'd sacrificed Pap to make it happen.

If only she had a knife.

Olli glanced at Iris. Her eyes, Brend's eyes, met hers, held them and then flicked downwards. Olli followed them. Iris touched the hilt of the dagger tucked into the braided leather belt around her waist.

Another mind reader.

Olli gathered up her inner Shield. _Not too much. Only a little, only just enough._

Blinky-zombie started to speak, "At the gate—"

She released her Shield through her back, straight into his chest, like a punch. He stumbled back, releasing her. Olli fell to her hands and knees. Iris threw her dagger. Olli crawled towards her dad, glancing back.

The dagger struck Pap in the shoulder. Off-target. He ripped it free, blood soaking his button-up plaid, and started towards them.

The spear whisper-whispered through the air and then slid soft and quiet into Pap's stomach. He lurched.

He gripped the spear and pulled. Blood gushed, so red it was almost black. The spear dropped into the sand. His eyes flicker-flashed. For a second, she thought she saw the warm brown hue of her grandpa's gaze, the smile crinkles around his eyes. And then he fell.

Iris hurried to Olli's side, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Be still, you're injured." She twisted and started to call to the crowd of onlookers in some other language, but Olli grabbed her arm.

"No, listen. I can take you back."

Iris tilted her head like she hadn't heard Olli correctly.

Her dad knelt in front of her and clasped her face in his rough hands. Tears shone in his eyes, reflecting the fiery orange of the sunrise. He gathered her into a hard hug. She cringed from her various injuries, but didn't stop him. He smelled like sandalwood and cedar. She closed her eyes and inhaled, her lungs shuddering.

"Archer, she's hurt." Iris gently pried his arms from Olli.

"They said you were dead," Olli said to him when he pulled back.

Her father's mouth—her mouth—turned down, frowning. "I am dead, Olli-girl." He shook his head. "In this place, it's not living, it's—"

She gripped his wrist. "I can take you back. I can take you both back."

"That's not possible," Iris said.

"It is possible," Olli said, rising to her feet, "if you're a Shield." She looked at her dad, into his burning dark eyes. "I can do it. I can hold the door open. You can go home."

Iris shook her head. "I don't understand. Where's Booker?"

Olli's heart panged. "He's not coming."

"What—?"

The breeze stopped. Everything seemed to stop. Even the waves seemed to hesitate. Olli spun to see Brend falling from the door, which was a glimmer, like a heat wave hanging a foot above the sand. She tore free from her dad and ran past Brend.

"Olli!" he called, reaching for her, but she slipped by.

"I can't let it close!" She pushed her Shield out as far as she could as she leapt towards the door and—

Stuck.

She strained against the pressure, pushing and pushing with her Shield, willing it to expand as far as it could. A force, like a straight-line wind, shoved back against her, so hard she couldn't move and could hardly breathe. Dizzy, stomach churning, her heart rammed against her ribcage. A roar filled her ears, the wind or the ocean, or some furious other-worldly being pissed off that she was messing with its door.

And then she saw them—Roper and Daniel. In the dim cave, they stared at her, mouths agape. Her eyes slid to her right. Looking up, her dad and Brend and Iris. They stood on the black sand beach, bathed in flaming orange sunlight.

It took all of her concentration to move her arm without dislodging herself. She held her hand out to Brend's mom.

Iris grabbed Brend, hugged and kissed him, seemed to say something Olli couldn't hear over the roar, and then she reached up and took Olli's hand.

Olli hardly felt her touch. Her own body had gone numb, or maybe it was going into shock. All she could feel was the door squeezing against her Shield.

Iris let go of Olli's hand. Her long black hair streamed up behind her, her skirts billowed around her waist. She looked as though she was falling, except she hung suspended less than a foot in front of Olli's face the whole time, until . . . she vanished. Olli looked back into the cave.

Iris landed more gracefully than Olli had done, stumbling a few steps, right into Roper's arms.

Olli had done it. Farren had her mom back.

Olli's gaze slid to her own father, the one she'd thought she'd lost, and then beyond him.

She tried to scream in warning, but couldn't. The brightly clothed strangers appeared to shout. Her dad and Brend turned just as the Blinky-zombie lunged at Brend. Her dad grabbed the body-snatcher and flung him away from Brend—right into Olli.

The thing that had been Pap slammed into her. Her Shield contracted. The last thing she saw before the fall was her dad reaching out to her and Brend's too-much gaze.

And then they were gone.
Chapter 37

**T** his time, she landed on top of the zombie. His head cracked against the stone. His flashing eyes rolled.

"Olli!" Daniel's hand clamped around her arm and yanked her up, pushing her back into Roper and Iris. Without hesitation, Daniel plunged his spear into Pap's already bloody body. This time, into his chest. Pap's body jerked, whispers garbled and wailed and then went silent.

She shook free from Roper's tentative hold and stood over Pap's body. His eyes were brown, empty, lightless.

She knelt beside him, closing his eyelids, touching his cheek. His silver stubble scraped her wounded palm. Her fingers trailed down until they came to the chain around his neck and the flashing ring of clear stone. Her hand closed around the ring and tore it from Pap's neck.

She looked up. Daniel was ashen.

"She'll punish you," Olli said in a voice she barely recognized, but knew all too well as she'd been hearing it her entire life, Mirror Girl's voice, "for interfering."

His eyes overflowed, but were hard as steel. "I know."

Slowly, she stood.

Roper's mom put an arm around him. Tears glimmered in their eyes too. But Olli wasn't crying. Her eyes burned for lack of tears, like a parched throat ached for water.

She glanced back at the center of the room, where the door had been. If it was there now, she couldn't tell. It wouldn't open again until Brend was dead and Roper was called to be the Keeper. But there had to be another way. And she would find it.

"Olli?" Roper called her attention to him, looking at her with an intensity that reminded her of his brother. "Are you—" But he stopped himself, as if hearing the absurdity of his question only as it left his lips.

"What now?" Daniel asked, looking ready to spill more blood. If only he could. If only he wasn't chained to that old witch.

Good question. The gears in her head groaned into motion, spinning and spinning, and then, she fainted.

She came to as Daniel laid her down on cool, dewy grass. Above her, the sky was blue, the clouds gone. Nearby she could hear water running—the river.

"The ambulance is on its way," Roper said.

She turned her head and saw the empty brick ruins of the old mill. So that's where the tunnel led. The door must've been under the mill somewhere. That's why it hadn't been torn down.

She started to sit up, but Iris appeared above her, stopping her. "Be still, Shield," she said. Olli's chest hurt looking at her.

"My dad—"

Iris put a finger to Olli's lips and glanced over at Daniel and Roper, both of whom were occupied on their cell phones. "No one must know."

"Why?"

" _She_ does not know. He escaped her."

"What can _she_ do? He's in another world."

Iris gave her a sad smile—so much like Brend. "It's not as far away as you think."

Her chest hitched. She slammed her eyes shut against the tears. She didn't want them. She wanted her dad. She wanted Brend.

In the distance, she heard sirens. In her hand, the Dowager's ring stuck to her skin, held fast by blood—hers and Pap's.

"You again, ya?" Ballard squinted at her over his shoulder with his red eyes—blood red. How had she not seen it before?

"Should be with the rest of them, your kind." He jerked his chin towards the hill covered in white, though the crowd was obscured by the scraggly trees—full of universes.

"I'm tired of funerals," she said.

He grunted and returned to the stone he was chiseling. _Clink, clink, clink_. The shadow of his workshop fell over them, a corrugated metal building buried in the trees. He sat on a three-legged stool dug into the leaf-litter, chipping away at the chunk of gray stone.

"Who's that for?" she asked.

"Never can tell," he said.

"They say you know who's going to die before they're dead. They say you have the name carved before the body's cold."

"They may say a lot, but not much worth hearing." He leaned away from the stone and squinted up at her again. His gaze tracked from her face to her neck. "Not a thing I'd wear, ya."

She picked up the flashing ring around her neck, smirking. "The ring of power?" He didn't get the joke.

He stood, plunking his tools down on top of the stone. "Power. Ya. Power." He shuffled away, taking a rag out of his back pocket and wiping his face and neck, grumbling. "Too hot."

She touched the ring, trailing after him. Her arms were still painful. The right one in a sling and the left wrapped in a fresh bandage. A tepid breeze skipped through the trees, making them murmur. The pastor's voice echoed far down the hill, words indistinct, but tone robust and ringing—for Pap and Brend's dad.

The college's summer term started next week. Everyone agreed it would be better to have a joint funeral before the students returned that coming weekend. They hadn't told Farren. She was still in St. Maarten, though when she'd heard her mom's voice on the phone she'd wanted to come home immediately. But Iris had decided to wait to tell her about Brend and Booker, and her father, until she returned. Olli didn't think Farren would thank her for it, but no one had asked her.

They'd already had Chief Reeve's funeral on Tuesday. Hope had clung to Iris and sobbed the whole way through.

At the reception, Olli had gone to say something to Locke, but when she'd looked into his eyes, all her paltry condolences died in her throat. His smile was gone. She didn't have any way to bring it back. So she'd sat down next to him and stayed there because someone needed to and no one else was. Since then, he'd been hanging around. She told him there was no chance of anything happening between them. He said he just wanted to help her. He needed to. He needed to do something. She understood that. She had to do something too.

He waited for her at the edge of the trees.

Her fingers ran over the cold surface of the ring. It was carved from some clear brilliant stone, but whether quartz or diamond or some other-worldly rock, she couldn't say. She didn't care what it was made of; her only concern was what she could do with it.

"What power does it have?" she asked.

Ballard began to pump on the spigot. After a few grunts, water spurted out into his cupped hand. He took a sip and then stuck his rag under the stream. He took off his cap and squeezed the water over his lumpy bald head. His fingers were long and slender—claws. She saw that now too.

"Put an end to it, Shield," he said, water streaming down the creases of his face. He jammed his hat back on and wrung the rest of the water from the rag onto the ground. "Preserver's dead. Heir's safe. Family safe—what's left of them. Keeper at the gate—where he belongs. Faced the witch and won. A proper Shield now, by what I see, and I see true. Let that be the end, ya." He stuffed the rag back into his pocket. "The end."

She nodded. "The end."

He eyed her. "Then why have you come? For tea?"

She lifted the ring. He bared his yellow teeth at it.

"You said it has power."

He scowled, deeply. "Ya."

"What sort of power?"

"Can't hear it?"

She cocked her head and listened. The pastor, weeping, soft chatter, the stream rushing—almost whisper-whispering. She let the ring fall against her chest.

"No. What should I hear?"

He held up his finger to his ear. "Calling."

"Calling for what?"

His eyes were liquid. "For him."

"Him?"

"Ya. What do you feel about that, Shield?"

"About what?"

"You and she, share the same pain and the same want."

"What do you mean?"

He titled the brim of his hat back, grinning, his teeth like needles. "Lost what you love, ya? Want it back."

For an unsettling moment, her Shield pulsed in warning. And then Ballard tugged his hat down, hiding his face once more in shadow.

"Hear, Shield, and well. Let go your tears. Feel your pain. Heal your wounds. And let that be the end. Or else the wanting become poison. Drink it and become like her."

She stiffened. "I'll never be like her."

He turned, shuffling away. "Now you can see, need to learn to hear," he grumbled as he left her.

She watched him slip through the trees. Around her finger, she twisted her own ring. Stuck tight.

Ballard was wrong. She could hear. She could hear that inner voice, her voice, loud and clear.

_Don't give up, Shield. Don't. Give. Up._
Epilogue

**"C** ome to kill me, Lady Shield?"

The Dowager's gardens seemed smaller and less fragrant than the last time, though no less hot.

Daniel stood next to the old woman. But this time, he didn't look happy about it. He hadn't been at Pap's funeral that morning, but he still wore white.

She gave Daniel another quick once over.

She couldn't tell if the Dowager had punished him or not. He seemed to be, physically, the same. Pap had appeared physically the same too, even when Blinky had taken him over. Her Shield-senses hadn't powered up when Pap had been possessed. For all she knew, Daniel could have a piece of Blinky stuffed into him. He hadn't come home for days. But Olli didn't think he was possessed. For one thing, he looked her straight in the eye, like he wanted her to kill the Dowager.

"You know that's not why I'm here," she said.

The Dowager tongued her cheek and folded her hands in her lap. Even frail and diminished in power, she was a threat. Olli could see that now.

"Indeed," the witch said. "You have something which does not belong to you."

"And so do you," she said, nodding towards Daniel.

"Are you proposing an exchange?"

Olli's hand closed around the ring. The Dowager watched her.

"Would you consider it?" Olli asked.

"For your cousin?"

"For my whole family."

"Ah, yes, young Nathan is quite promising, isn't he?"

"Free them all and then . . . we'll talk about making a deal."

"And what if I ordered the Speares to take it from you by force?"

Daniel shifted. Olli wasn't sure what would happen if she had to fight Daniel and Nate. She wasn't sure she could—not because she was a Shield and they were Speares, but because they were family. And she knew they weren't here by choice.

The Dowager watched her for a long time, long enough for a second sweat to break out on Olli's back.

"What if you did?" she said finally.

The Dowager tilted her head, eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Lady Shield, do you intend to find a way back to Fifthold before young Brend is lost to the gate?"

"Absolutely."

The witch smiled. Olli's heart sank. How could she have been so stupid? Ballard had been right. She and the Dowager did want the same thing. They both wanted to go back.

"The piece of Blinky you put in Pap, it could sense when the door opened, couldn't it?" Olli asked.

"Indeed."

"Then why didn't you have it come and get you and take you back before Brend could return? Why let it attack Brend? Why send it through in the first place? Why send it to the gate? Why not go yourself?" She lifted the ring. "Why give it this?"

The Dowager glanced away, like she'd lost interest in the ring. "I'm quite tired now, Lady Shield. This past week has been most trying. When I was young, I, like you, had questions. I craved answers, more than sleep, or food. I was quite relentless in my pursuit. But then, the old world was full of knowledge. In every crevice it seemed someone had hidden some great truth, in every forest some ancient being dwelled, willing to spill tales for a pittance. I drank in knowledge, I overflowed with it and I grew powerful from it. But that, Lady Shield, was in the old world. And sadly, I left much of that power, along with all the sources from which I had garnered it, behind."

The Dowager took up her fan, but it didn't make her eyes flash this time. They remained flat and dark, tired. Still she smiled that snake smile Olli hated.

"Where will you find the answers you seek in this empty world? I promise you, they're not in the cemetery. They're not in any book that was brought here by my son all those years ago. I know. I've read them all."

"You're supposed to answer my questions truthfully."

"So long as it does not interfere with my plans."

"And do your plans include this ring? Because this empty world has a lot of places it could get lost."

If the Dowager was bothered, she didn't show it. "A bit of advice, Lady Shield, always undertake a plan with earnest hope for its success and always be prepared for it to fail." She folded her fan. "Daniel, I would like to go in now."

Daniel gave Olli one last nice-try-kid look and stepped up behind the Dowager's wheelchair.

"Good day, Lady Shield. Please do come again. I so rarely have such entertaining guests."

Locke paced beside his truck. When he saw her coming he stopped and held her phone out to her. "I just talked to Dr. Gates."

Olli took her phone. She hadn't wanted any interruptions and it seemed like the whole town had her number now. People were paranoid. Every time someone frowned, their neighbor thought they were possessed by a Whisperer and called Olli to have her come check them out. Mostly, Olli thought people wanted to check her out. No one had ever seen a Shield (that they knew of). A week ago people had barely acknowledged her, now they fell over themselves to befriend her. But Olli wasn't interested in making friends.

"Is it Booker?" Olli asked, expecting the worst.

Locke nodded. "He's awake."

She dropped her phone. The screen shattered. She snatched it up, shaking away the glass.

"Let's go," she said.

He already had the door open for her.

Twenty minutes later, she entered Booker's room. The family gathered around him, smiling.

Booker's eyes slid over to Olli, but they weren't right. They were black, even the whites. His smile faded.

"Olli." His voice had changed too—splintered. But her Shield didn't waver. Whatever had happened to Booker, he wasn't a threat—at the moment.

The family looked at her, their smiles wilting. Her ability to create awkward silences had expanded to killing smiles as well. Even her own smiles weren't true smiles. They were bitter, vicious, and thin. She knew, but didn't try to change it.

She stepped into the room. Roper and Hope backed away.

"Give us a minute," Booker said to his family.

They nodded and floated by her, out the door. Hope gave her a sad smile. Roper just looked at her. Iris stopped by her side and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, squeezing her hand before leaving. Olli barely looked at her though. She looked too much like Brend. Too much.

The door closed behind them.

"You've changed," she said, stepping closer to Booker.

"You noticed." He ran a trembling hand over his pallid face, spotted by a thin beard. "I thought maybe I was the only one who could see it. My family—"

"They see what they want to see."

He nodded. "My mother told me what you did."

"You mean how I left Brend to die?"

"That's my fault, not yours."

She didn't argue.

His strange new eyes seemed to look at her, though it was hard to tell without pupils. "Aren't you going to ask me?"

Ask him? She was having trouble not screaming at him. The house was in ruins. The fence breached. As of yet, no other Whisperers had shown up, but that didn't mean one hadn't come through. The last one had taken months to attack. And worst of all, Brend was gone.

"Be angry, Shield. But I did what I did for all of us," he said.

"For Brend?"

"Especially for him," Booker said without hesitation. "Even if I had gone to the gate, how long would I have survived? Five years? Ten? Just long enough for you to really hate me when I finally died and he was called. Long enough for your children to hate me too."

Her heart ached. "What were you doing?"

"I told you I would find an answer."

"You're not destroying the door. I'll kill you before I let that happen." And she meant it.

"No, Olli. I won't. That's not the answer." He licked his lips, they were peeling and cracked. "I had to join with the Preserver. I had to delve into it. I had to learn what it knows. That's why I did what I did. It was crazy, I know, but it was the only way. It was the only chance."

He licked his lips again.

She snatched up a cup from his bedside table, filled it with water, and handed it to him.

He downed the water and then stared into the empty cup. "I did learn, Olli. I may have learned enough to end this."

"End this?"

"All of it. My family has been searching for a way to end their exile and their death sentence at the gate. But we were mistaken. We were looking only for ourselves."

She twisted the ring around her finger. "I don't get it."

"Fifthold." He held up his fist, each finger popping up one by one. "Our gate, Shield, isn't the only one, it's the fifth. There are nine."

"So?"

"So all along my family has been looking for an answer to our problem, for our gate. But it turns out we're not the ones who started this. My great-great-grandparents weren't the first ones to breach a gate. That's what I learned from the Preserver."

"Did you learn how to get back to Fifthold?"

"Yes."

Her knees almost gave out. She grabbed the bed rail. "How?"

"We can't do it, Olli. Just like we can't end Brend's service to the gate."

"But you—"

"Not us, Olli. You and I, we can't. But there is someone. Someone who can not only open the door, but who can free Brend, free my entire family and more, so much more."

She dropped into the chair next to his bed. "Who?"

"I don't know the name, or names, I think . . . I think there's two of them." He began to scratch at his arm, even though the tattoo was gone. "One who is blood and one that is ether, or one who is becoming ether and one is becoming blood . . . it's all in here. I just have to sort through it. I can't quite—"

"Booker!" She dug her fingers into his bedding to keep from strangling him. "You said they, or he or she, whoever, that they can open a door to Fifthold? They can free Brend?"

He nodded.

"Where are they?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

A scream built in her throat. She surged up from her chair. "What good is that then? You don't know who, you don't know where. You might as well not know anything."

"But I do know something," he said calmly, those too-black eyes unmoved by her outburst. "They're like us."

"Us?"

"Exiled, in this world."

"In this world," she said. "So somewhere in the world is someone who can help us."

He nodded again.

She took a deep breath. Once again, the tears she didn't have threatened to emerge. "It's nothing," she said. "It's less than nothing."

"No, Olli," he said. "It's hope. We can find them."

"Somehow, right?" She shook her head and started towards the door.

"Shield, wait," he said.

She didn't want to, but she looked back at him. A too-thin young man with too-black eyes and a too-fierce look on his face. She stared, transfixed. Not because of his eyes, but because of something else in the air around him, something in the splintered resonance of his voice, like two voices speaking as one. As much as she wanted to turn away from him, to hate him for what he'd done, for the time he'd stolen from her and from Brend, she found her pulse slowing and her fists uncurling. She found herself listening.

"There's more." 
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_**Acknowledgements**_

Thank you to my editorial team. Renae, my first and best reader and friend. Chad A. Clark, fellow indie author. Kris, editor and font of strength. Pam House Caster, all around superhero. Leah, reader, friend, and fan. D.j. Hendrickson, my wonderful proofreader.

Thank you to all of my family and friends, most especially my husband and son, who allow me to disappear into other worlds without complaint.
**The Summoners Series**

 _Minor Gods_ : Book One  
 _Lost Gods_ : Book Two  
 _Fated Gods_ : Book Three

 **The Horizon Cycle**

 _Shield and the Shadow_  
 _Stoneheart and the Axe_  
 _Sparrow and the Dagger_

 **The Stealer Series**

 _Stealer #1_  
 _Hunter:_ Stealer #2  
 _Unraveler:_ Stealer #3
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