Текст книги "The Titan's Curse"

Автор книги: Rick Riordan

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

TWENTY

I GET A NEW ENEMY FOR CHRISTMAS

Before I left Olympus, I decided to make a few calls. It wasn’t easy, but I finally found a quiet fountain in a corner garden and sent an Iris-message to my brother, Tyson, under the sea. I told him about our adventures, and Bessie—he wanted to hear every detail about the cute baby cow serpent—and I assured him that Annabeth was safe. Finally I got around to explaining how the shield he’d made me last summer had been damaged in the manticore attack.

“Yay!” Tyson said. “That means it was good! It saved your life!”

“It sure did, big guy,” I said. “But now it’s ruined.”

“Not ruined!” Tyson promised. “I will visit and fix it next summer.”

The idea picked me up instantly. I guess I hadn’t realized how much I missed having Tyson around.

“Seriously?” I asked. “They’ll let you take time off ?”

“Yes! I have made two thousand seven hundred and forty-one magic swords,” Tyson said proudly, showing me the newest blade. “The boss says ‘good work’! He will let me take the whole summer off. I will visit camp!”

We talked for a while about war preparations and our dad’s fight with the old sea gods, and all the cool things we could do together next summer, but then Tyson’s boss started yelling at him and he had to get back to work.

I dug out my last golden drachma and made one more Iris-message.

“Sally Jackson,” I said. “Upper East Side, Manhattan.”

The mist shimmered, and there was my mom at our kitchen table, laughing and holding hands with her friend Mr. Blowfish.

I felt so embarrassed, I was about to wave my hand through the mist and cut the connection, but before I could, my mom saw me.

Her eyes got wide. She let go of Mr. Blowfish’s hand real quick. “Oh, Paul! You know what? I left my writing journal in the living room. Would you mind getting it for me?”

“Sure, Sally. No problem.”

He left the room, and instantly my mom leaned toward the Iris-message. “Percy! Are you all right?”

“I’m, uh, fine. How’s that writing seminar going?”

She pursed her lips. “It’s fine. But that’s not important. Tell me what’s happened!”

I filled her in as quickly as I could. She sighed with relief when she heard that Annabeth was safe.

“I knew you could do it!” she said. “I’m so proud.”

“Yeah, well, I’d better let you get back to your homework.”

“Percy, I . . . Paul and I—”

“Mom, are you happy?”

The question seemed to take her by surprise. She thought for a moment. “Yes. I really am, Percy. Being around him makes me happy.”

“Then it’s cool. Seriously. Don’t worry about me.”

The funny thing was, I meant it. Considering the quest I’d just had, maybe I should have been worried for my mom. I’d seen just how mean people could be to each other, like Hercules was to Zoë Nightshade, like Luke was to Thalia. I’d met Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, in person, and her powers had scared me worse than Ares. But seeing my mother laughing and smiling, after all the years she’d suffered with my nasty ex-stepfather, Gabe Ugliano, I couldn’t help feeling happy for her.

“You promise not to call him Mr. Blowfish?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Well, maybe not to his face, anyway.”

“Sally?” Mr. Blofis called from our living room. “You need the green binder or the red one?”

“I’d better go,” she told me. “See you for Christmas?”

“Are you putting blue candy in my stocking?”

She smiled. “If you’re not too old for that.”

“I’m never too old for candy.”

“I’ll see you then.”

She waved her hand across the mist. Her image disappeared, and I thought to myself that Thalia had been right, so many days ago at Westover Hall: my mom really was pretty cool.

Compared to Mount Olympus, Manhattan was quiet. Friday before Christmas, but it was early in the morning, and hardly anyone was on Fifth Avenue. Argus, the many-eyed security chief, picked up Annabeth, Grover, and me at the Empire State Building and ferried us back to camp through a light snowstorm. The Long Island Expressway was almost deserted.

As we trudged back up Half-Blood Hill to the pine tree where the Golden Fleece glittered, I half expected to see Thalia there, waiting for us. But she wasn’t. She was long gone with Artemis and the rest of the Hunters, off on their next adventure.

Chiron greeted us at the Big House with hot chocolate and toasted cheese sandwiches. Grover went off with his satyr friends to spread the word about our strange encounter with the magic of Pan. Within an hour, the satyrs were all running around agitated, asking where the nearest espresso bar was.

Annabeth and I sat with Chiron and some of the other senior campers—Beckendorf, Silena Beauregard, and the Stoll brothers. Even Clarisse from the Ares cabin was there, back from her secretive scouting mission. I knew she must’ve had a difficult quest, because she didn’t even try to pulverize me. She had a new scar on her chin, and her dirty blond hair had been cut short and ragged, like someone had attacked it with a pair of safety scissors.

“I got news,” she mumbled uneasily. “Bad news.”

“I’ll fill you in later,” Chiron said with forced cheerfulness. “The important thing is you have prevailed. And you saved Annabeth!”

Annabeth smiled at me gratefully, which made me look away.

For some strange reason, I found myself thinking about Hoover Dam, and the odd mortal girl I’d run into there, Rachel Elizabeth Dare. I didn’t know why, but her annoying comments kept coming back to me. Do you always kill people when they blow their nose? I was only alive because so many people had helped me, even a random mortal girl like that. I’d never even explained to her who I was.

“Luke is alive,” I said. “Annabeth was right.”

Annabeth sat up. “How do you know?”

I tried not to feel annoyed by her interest. I told her what my dad had said about the Princess Andromeda.

“Well.” Annabeth shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “If the final battle does come when Percy is sixteen, at least we have two more years to figure something out.”

I had a feeling that when she said “figure something out,” she meant “get Luke to change his ways,” which annoyed me even more.

Chiron’s expression was gloomy. Sitting by the fire in his wheelchair, he looked really old. I mean . . . he was really old, but he usually didn’t look it.

“Two years may seem like a long time,” he said. “But it is the blink of an eye. I still hope you are not the child of the prophecy, Percy. But if you are, then the second Titan war is almost upon us. Kronos’s first strike will be here.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “Why would he care about camp?”

“Because the gods use heroes as their tools,” Chiron said simply. “Destroy the tools, and the gods will be crippled. Luke’s forces will come here. Mortal, demigod, monstrous . . . We must be prepared. Clarisse’s news may give us a clue as to how they will attack, but—”

There was a knock on the door, and Nico di Angelo came huffing into the parlor, his cheeks bright red from the cold.

He was smiling, but he looked around anxiously. “Hey! Where’s . . . where’s my sister?”

Dead silence. I stared at Chiron. I couldn’t believe nobody had told him yet. And then I realized why. They’d been waiting for us to appear, to tell Nico in person.

That was the last thing I wanted to do. But I owed it to Bianca.

“Hey, Nico.” I got up from my comfortable chair. “Let’s take a walk, okay? We need to talk.”

He took the news in silence, which somehow made it worse. I kept talking, trying to explain how it had happened, how Bianca had sacrificed herself to save the quest. But I felt like I was only making things worse.

“She wanted you to have this.” I brought out the little god figurine Bianca had found in the junkyard. Nico held it in his palm and stared at it.

We were standing at the dining pavilion, just where we’d last spoken before I went on the quest. The wind was bitter cold, even with the camp’s magical weather protection. Snow fell lightly against the marble steps. I figured outside the camp borders, there must be a blizzard happening.

“You promised you would protect her,” Nico said.

He might as well have stabbed me with a rusty dagger.

It would’ve hurt less than reminding me of my promise.

“Nico,” I said. “I tried. But Bianca gave herself up to save the rest of us. I told her not to. But she—”

“You promised!”

He glared at me, his eyes rimmed with red. He closed his small fist around the god statue.

“I shouldn’t have trusted you.” His voice broke. “You lied to me. My nightmares were right!”

“Wait. What nightmares?”

He flung the god statue to the ground. It clattered across the icy marble. “I hate you!”

“She might be alive,” I said desperately. “I don’t know for sure—”

“She’s dead.” He closed his eyes. His whole body trembled with rage. “I should’ve known it earlier. She’s in the Fields of Asphodel, standing before the judges right now, being evaluated. I can feel it.”

“What do you mean, you can feel it?”

Before he could answer, I heard a new sound behind me. A hissing, clattering noise I recognized all too well.

I drew my sword and Nico gasped. I whirled and found myself facing four skeleton warriors. They grinned fleshless grins and advanced with swords drawn. I wasn’t sure how they’d made it inside the camp, but it didn’t matter. I’d never get help in time.

“You’re trying to kill me!” Nico screamed. “You brought these . . . these things?”

“No! I mean, yes, they followed me, but no! Nico, run. They can’t be destroyed.”

“I don’t trust you!”

The first skeleton charged. I knocked aside its blade, but the other three kept coming. I sliced one in half, but immediately it began to knit back together. I knocked another’s head off but it just kept fighting.

“Run, Nico!” I yelled. “Get help!”

“No!” He pressed his hands to his ears.

I couldn’t fight four at once, not if they wouldn’t die. I slashed, whirled, blocked, jabbed, but they just kept advancing. It was only a matter of seconds before the zombies overpowered me.

“No!” Nico shouted louder. “Go away!”

The ground rumbled beneath me. The skeletons froze. I rolled out of the way just as a crack opened at the feet of the four warriors. The ground ripped apart like a snapping mouth. Flames erupted from the fissure, and the earth swallowed the skeletons in one loud CRUNCH!

Silence.

In the place where the skeletons had stood, a twenty-foot-long scar wove across the marble floor of the pavilion. Otherwise there was no sign of the warriors.

Awestruck, I looked to Nico. “How did you—”

“Go away!” he yelled. “I hate you! I wish you were dead!”

The ground didn’t swallow me up, but Nico ran down the steps, heading toward the woods. I started to follow but slipped and fell to the icy steps. When I got up, I noticed what I’d slipped on.

I picked up the god statue Bianca had retrieved from the junkyard for Nico. The only statue he didn’t have, she’d said. A last gift from his sister.

I stared at it with dread, because now I understood why the face looked familiar. I’d seen it before.

It was a statue of Hades, Lord of the Dead.

Annabeth and Grover helped me search the woods for hours, but there was no sign of Nico di Angelo.

“We have to tell Chiron,” Annabeth said, out of breath.

“No,” I said.

She and Grover both stared at me.

“Um,” Grover said nervously, “what do you mean . . . no?”

I was still trying to figure out why I’d said that, but the words spilled out of me. “We can’t let anyone know. I don’t think anyone realizes that Nico is a—”

“A son of Hades,” Annabeth said. “Percy, do you have any idea how serious this is? Even Hades broke the oath! This is horrible!”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t think Hades broke the oath.”

“What?”

“He’s their dad,” I said, “but Bianca and Nico have been out of commission for a long time, since even before World War II.”

“The Lotus Casino!” Grover said, and he told Annabeth about the conversations we’d had with Bianca on the quest. “She and Nico were stuck there for decades. They were born before the oath was made.”

I nodded.

“But how did they get out?” Annabeth protested.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Bianca said a lawyer came and got them and drove them to Westover Hall. I don’t know who that could’ve been, or why. Maybe it’s part of this Great Stirring thing. I don’t think Nico understands who he is. But we can’t go telling anyone. Not even Chiron. If the Olympians find out—”

“It might start them fighting among each other again,” Annabeth said. “That’s the last thing we need.”

Grover looked worried. “But you can’t hide things from the gods. Not forever.”

“I don’t need forever,” I said. “Just two years. Until I’m sixteen.”

Annabeth paled. “But, Percy, this means the prophecy might not be about you. It might be about Nico. We have to—”

“No,” I said. “I choose the prophecy. It will be about me.”

“Why are you saying that?” she cried. “You want to be responsible for the whole world?”

It was the last thing I wanted, but I didn’t say that. I knew I had to step up and claim it.

“I can’t let Nico be in any more danger,” I said. “I owe that much to his sister. I . . . let them both down. I’m not going to let that poor kid suffer any more.”

“The poor kid who hates you and wants to see you dead,” Grover reminded me.

“Maybe we can find him,” I said. “We can convince him it’s okay, hide him someplace safe.”

Annabeth shivered. “If Luke gets hold of him—”

“Luke won’t,” I said. “I’ll make sure he’s got other things to worry about. Namely, me.”

I wasn’t sure Chiron believed the story Annabeth and I told him. I think he could tell I was holding something back about Nico’s disappearance, but in the end, he accepted it. Unfortunately, Nico wasn’t the first half-blood to disappear.

“So young,” Chiron sighed, his hands on the rail of the front porch. “Alas, I hope he was eaten by monsters. Much better than being recruited into the Titans’ army.”

That idea made me really uneasy. I almost changed my mind about telling Chiron, but I didn’t.

“You really think the first attack will be here?” I asked.

Chiron stared at the snow falling on the hills. I could see smoke from the dragon guardian at the pine tree, the glitter of the distant Fleece.

“It will not be until summer, at least,” Chiron said. “This winter will be hard . . . the hardest for many centuries. It’s best that you go home to the city, Percy; try to keep your mind on school. And rest. You will need rest.”

I looked at Annabeth. “What about you?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I’m going to try San Francisco after all. Maybe I can keep an eye on Mount Tam, make sure the Titans don’t try anything else.”

“You’ll send an Iris-message if anything goes wrong?”

She nodded. “But I think Chiron’s right. It won’t be until the summer. Luke will need time to regain his strength.”

I didn’t like the idea of waiting. Then again, next August I would be turning fifteen. So close to sixteen I didn’t want to think about it.

“All right,” I said. “Just take care of yourself. And no crazy stunts in the Sopwith Camel.”

She smiled tentatively. “Deal. And, Percy—”

Whatever she was going to say was interrupted by Grover, who stumbled out of the Big House, tripping over tin cans. His face was haggard and pale, like he’d seen a specter.

“He spoke!” Grover cried.

“Calm down, my young satyr,” Chiron said, frowning. “What is the matter?”

“I . . . I was playing music in the parlor,” he stammered, “and drinking coffee. Lots and lots of coffee! And he spoke in my mind!”

“Who?” Annabeth demanded.

“Pan!” Grover wailed. “The Lord of the Wild himself. I heard him! I have to . . . I have to find a suitcase.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “What did he say?”

Grover stared at me. “Just three words. He said, ‘I await you.’”

Don't miss the exciting new series The Kane Chronicles, by Rick Riordan

We only have a few hours, so listen carefully.

If you’re hearing this story, you’re already in danger. Sadie and I might be your only chance.

Go to the school. Find the locker. I won’t tell you which school or which locker, because if you’re the right person, you’ll find it. The combination is 13/32/33. By the time you finish listening, you’ll know what those numbers mean. Just remember the story we’re about to tell you isn’t complete yet. How it ends will depend on you.

The most important thing: when you open the package and find what’s inside, don’t keep it longer than a week. Sure, it’ll be tempting. I mean, it will grant you almost unlimited power. But if you possess it too long, it will consume you. Learn its secrets quickly and pass it on. Hide it for the next person, the way Sadie and I did for you. Then be prepared for your life to get very interesting.

Okay, Sadie is telling me to stop stalling and get on with the story. Fine. I guess it started in London, the night our dad blew up the British Museum.

My name is Carter Kane. I’m fourteen and my home is a suitcase.

You think I’m kidding? Since I was eight years old, my dad and I have traveled the world. I was born in L.A. but my dad’s an archaeologist, so his work takes him all over. Mostly we go to Egypt, since that’s his specialty. Go into a bookstore, find a book about Egypt, there’s a pretty good chance it was written by Dr. Julius Kane. You want to know how Egyptians pulled the brains out of mummies, or built the pyramids, or cursed King Tut’s tomb? My dad is your man. Of course, there are other reasons my dad moved around so much, but I didn’t know his secret back then.

I didn’t go to school. My dad homeschooled me, if you can call it “home” schooling when you don’t have a home. He sort of taught me whatever he thought was important, so I learned a lot about Egypt and basketball stats and my dad’s favorite musicians. I read a lot, too—pretty much anything I could get my hands on, from dad’s history books to fantasy novels—because I spent a lot of time sitting around in hotels and airports and dig sites in foreign countries where I didn’t know anybody. My dad was always telling me to put the book down and play some ball. You ever try to start a game of pick-up basketball in Aswan, Egypt? It’s not easy.

Anyway, my dad trained me early to keep all my possessions in a single suitcase that fits in an airplane’s overhead compartment. My dad packed the same way, except he was allowed an extra workbag for his archaeology tools. Rule number one: I was not allowed to look in his workbag. That’s a rule I never broke until the day of the explosion.

It happened on Christmas Eve. We were in London for visitation day with my sister, Sadie.

See, Dad’s only allowed two days a year with her—one in the winter, one in the summer—because our grandparents hate him. After our mom died, her parents (our grandparents) had this big court battle with Dad. After six lawyers, two fistfights, and a near fatal attack with a spatula (don’t ask), they won the right to keep Sadie with them in England. She was only six, two years younger than me, and they couldn’t keep us both—at least that was their excuse for not taking me. So Sadie was raised as a British schoolkid, and I traveled around with my dad. We only saw Sadie twice a year, which was fine with me.

[Shut up, Sadie. Yes—I’m getting to that part.]

So anyway, my dad and I had just flown into Heathrow after a couple of delays. It was a drizzly, cold afternoon. The whole taxi ride into the city, my dad seemed kind of nervous.

Now, my dad is a big guy. You wouldn’t think anything could make him nervous. He has dark brown skin like mine, piercing brown eyes, a bald head, and a goatee, so he looks like a buff evil scientist. That afternoon he wore his cashmere winter coat and his best brown suit, the one he used for public lectures. Usually he exudes so much confidence that he dominates any room he walks into, but sometimes—like that afternoon—I saw another side to him that I didn’t really understand. He kept looking over his shoulder like we were being hunted.

“Dad?” I said as we were getting off the A-40. “What’s wrong?”

“No sign of them,” he muttered. Then he must’ve realized he’d spoken aloud, because he looked at me kind of startled. “Nothing, Carter. Everything’s fine.”

Which bothered me because my dad’s a terrible liar. I always knew when he was hiding something, but I also knew no amount of pestering would get the truth out of him. He was probably trying to protect me, though from what I didn’t know. Sometimes I wondered if he had some dark secret in his past, some old enemy following him, maybe; but the idea seemed ridiculous. Dad was just an archaeologist.

The other thing that troubled me: Dad was clutching his workbag. Usually when he does that, it means we’re in danger. Like the time gunmen stormed our hotel in Cairo. I heard shots coming from the lobby and ran downstairs to check on my dad. By the time I got there, he was just calmly zipping up his workbag while three unconscious gunmen hung by their feet from the chandelier, their robes falling over their heads so you could see their boxer shorts. Dad claimed not to have witnessed anything, and in the end the police blamed a freak chandelier malfunction.

Another time, we got caught in a riot in Paris. My dad found the nearest parked car, pushed me into the backseat, and told me to stay down. I pressed myself against the floorboards and kept my eyes shut tight. I could hear Dad in the driver’s seat, rummaging in his bag, mumbling something to himself while the mob yelled and destroyed things outside. A few minutes later he told me it was safe to get up. Every other car on the block had been overturned and set on fire. Our car had been freshly washed and polished, and several twenty-euro notes had been tucked under the windshield wipers.

Anyway, I’d come to respect the bag. It was our good luck charm. But when my dad kept it close, it meant we were going to need good luck.

We drove through the city center, heading east toward my grandparents’ flat. We passed the golden gates of Buckingham Palace, the big stone column in Trafalgar Square. London is a pretty cool place, but after you’ve traveled for so long, all cities start to blend together. Other kids I meet sometimes say, “Wow, you’re so lucky you get to travel so much.” But it’s not like we spend our time sightseeing or have a lot of money to travel in style. We’ve stayed in some pretty rough places, and we hardly ever stay anywhere longer than a few days. Most of the time it feels like we’re fugitives rather than tourists.

I mean, you wouldn’t think my dad’s work was dangerous. He does lectures on topics like “Can Egyptian Magic Really Kill You?” and “Favorite Punishments in the Egyptian Underworld” and other stuff most people wouldn’t care about. But like I said, there’s that other side to him. He’s always very cautious, checking every hotel room before he lets me walk into it. He’ll dart into a museum to see some artifacts, take a few notes, and rush out again like he’s afraid to be caught on security cameras.

One time when I was younger, we raced across the Charles de Gaulle airport to catch a last-minute flight, and Dad didn’t relax until the plane was off the ground, I asked him point blank what he was running from, and he looked at me like I’d just pulled the pin out of a grenade. For a second I was scared he might actually tell me the truth. Then he said, “Carter, it’s nothing.” As if “nothing” were the most terrible thing in the world.

After that, I decided maybe it was better not to ask questions.

My grandparents, the Fausts, lived in a housing development near Canary Wharf, right on the banks of the River Thames. The taxi let us off at the curb, and my dad asked the driver to wait.

We were halfway up the walk when Dad froze. He turned and looked behind us.

“What?” I asked.

Then I saw the man in the trench coat. He was across the street, leaning against a big dead tree. He was barrel shaped, with skin the color of roasted coffee. His coat and black pinstriped suit looked expensive. He had long braided hair and wore a black fedora pulled down low over his dark round glasses. He reminded me of a jazz musician, the kind my dad would always drag me to see in concert. Even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I got the impression he was watching us. He might’ve been an old friend or colleague of Dad’s. No matter where we went, Dad was always running into people he knew. But it did seem strange that the guy was waiting here, outside my grandparents’. And he didn’t look happy.

“Carter,” my dad said, “go on ahead.”

“But—”

“Get your sister. I’ll meet you back at the taxi.”

He crossed the street toward the man in the trench coat, which left me with two choices: follow my dad and see what was going on, or do what I was told.

I decided on the slightly less dangerous path. I went to retrieve my sister.

Before I could even knock, Sadie opened the door.

“Late as usual,” she said.

She was holding her cat, Muffin, who’d been a “going away” gift from Dad six years before. Muffin never seemed to get older or bigger. She had fuzzy yellow-and-black fur like a miniature leopard, alert yellow eyes, and pointy ears that were too tall for her head. A silver Egyptian pendant dangled from her collar. She didn’t look anything like a muffin, but Sadie had been little when she named her, so I guess you have to cut her some slack.

Sadie hadn’t changed much either since last summer.

[As I’m recording this, she’s standing next to me, glaring, so I guess I’d better be careful how I describe her.]

You would never guess she’s my sister. First of all, she’d been living in England so long, she has a British accent. Second, she takes after our mom, who was white, so Sadie’s skin is much lighter than mine. She has straight caramel-colored hair, not exactly blond but not brown, which she usually dyes with streaks of bright colors. That day it had red streaks down the left side. Her eyes are blue. I’m serious. Blue eyes, just like our mom’s. She’s only twelve, but she’s exactly as tall as me, which is really annoying. She was chewing gum as usual, dressed for her day out with Dad in battered jeans, a leather jacket, and combat boots, like she was going to a concert and was hoping to stomp on some people. She had headphones dangling around her neck in case we bored her.

[Okay, she didn’t hit me, so I guess I did an okay job of describing her.]

“Our plane was late,” I told her.

She popped a bubble, rubbed Muffin’s head, and tossed the cat inside. “Gran, going out!”

From somewhere in the house, Grandma Faust muttered something I couldn’t make out, probably “Don’t let them in!”

Sadie closed the door and regarded me as if I were a dead mouse her cat had just dragged in. “So, here you are again.”

“Yep.”

“Come on, then.” She sighed. “Let’s get on with it.”

That’s the way she was. No “Hi, how you been the last six months? So glad to see you!” or anything. But that was okay with me. When you only see each other twice a year, it’s like you’re distant cousins rather than siblings. We had absolutely nothing in common except our parents.

We trudged down the steps. I was thinking how she smelled like a combination of old people’s house and bubble gum when she stopped so abruptly, I ran into her.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

I’d almost forgotten about the dude in the trench coat. He and my dad were standing across the street next to the big tree, having what looked like a serious argument. Dad’s back was turned so I couldn’t see his face, but he gestured with his hands like he does when he’s agitated. The other guy scowled and shook his head.

“Dunno,” I said. “He was there when we pulled up.”

“He looks familiar.” Sadie frowned like she was trying to remember. “Come on.”

“Dad wants us to wait in the cab,” I said, even though I knew it was no use. Sadie was already on the move.

Instead of going straight across the street, she dashed up the sidewalk for half a block, ducking behind cars, then crossed to the opposite side and crouched under a low stone wall. She started sneaking toward our dad. I didn’t have much choice but to follow her example, but it made me feel kind of stupid.

“Six years in England,” I muttered, “and she thinks she’s James Bond.”

Sadie swatted me without looking back and kept creeping forward.

A couple more steps and we were right behind the big dead tree. I could hear my dad on the other side, saying, “—have to, Amos. You know it’s the right thing.”

“No,” said the other man, who must’ve been Amos. His voice was deep and even—very insistent. His accent was American. “If I don’t stop you, Julius, they will. The Per Ankh is shadowing you.”

Sadie turned to me and mouthed the words “Per what?”

I shook my head, just as mystified. “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered, because I figured we’d be spotted any minute and get in serious trouble. Sadie, of course, ignored me.

“They don’t know my plan,” my father was saying. “By the time they figure it out—”

“And the children?” Amos asked. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. “What about them?”

“I’ve made arrangements to protect them,” my dad said. “Besides, if I don’t do this, we’re all in danger. Now, back off.”

“I can’t, Julius.”

“Then it’s a duel you want?” Dad’s tone turned deadly serious. “You never could beat me, Amos.”

I hadn’t seen my dad get violent since the Great Spatula Incident, and I wasn’t anxious to see a repeat of that, but the two men seemed to be edging toward a fight.

Before I could react, Sadie popped up and shouted, “Dad!”

He looked surprised when she tackle-hugged him, but not nearly as surprised as the other guy, Amos. He backed up so quickly, he tripped over his own trench coat.

He’d taken off his glasses. I couldn’t help thinking that Sadie was right. He did look familiar—like a very distant memory.

“I—I must be going,” he muttered. He straightened his fedora and lumbered down the road.

Our dad watched him go. He kept one arm protectively around Sadie and one hand inside the workbag slung over his shoulder. Finally, when Amos disappeared around the corner, Dad relaxed. He took his hand out of the bag and smiled at Sadie. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Sadie pushed away from him and crossed her arms. “Oh, now it’s sweetheart, is it? You’re late. Visitation Day’s nearly over! And what was that about? Who’s Amos, and what’s the Per Ankh?”