“We’ll stay in contact discreetly, of course, but this is your show. Your game. And if you do this for us, if you excel, if you fight for your country, in a way I think you really want to, maybe even need to, I promise, all the charges, they all fall away. And I guarantee you’ll be a national hero instead.”
I study the top of the card table, running it all through, piece by painstaking piece. “So you hook me up with this cell mate, and I’m supposed to make sure he knows I’ve got it out for D Street. I use him to angle my way to Boss McEvoy.” I breathe out. “I help you catch the big fish, and then I walk away.”
Frain nods. “That’s the deal.”
I close my eyes and think through everything that’s led to this moment: my father demanding that I help him, after he caught me sneaking back into my room after a night out with Warren, my magic self-replica still lying in bed as a decoy for my parents. My reluctance, then my slow acceptance of the raw, unbridled magic coursing through me. Then the feeling that my father and I were above the law, the world, that no one and nothing could touch the Danfreys, that the world was our oyster. And then the day it all came crashing, tumbling down.
What I’ve been doing since—following Warren like a dumb puppy, skating by in the Unit, hating everyone and everything, wanting to bring the world to its knees? Maybe Agent Frain’s right. Maybe I do need this. Christ, maybe I need to own the sins of my family, walk headfirst into the underworld that ruined everything, and blow it apart, exact my true revenge, in order to fully leave the past behind.
Besides, what’s the alternative? Decades, a lifetime, in jail?
Still, the fear, it has me, taunts me, winds it way around my throat—
“Alex,” Frain adds gently, “I can’t guarantee it won’t be a long road, and a bumpy one, but you are truly the only one who can do this for us.”
And something about his tone, his words—the only one—massages a tender, deep and hidden spot inside. Before I can think through it anymore, I force out a whisper. “When will it start?”
Frain reaches out and pats my hand. “I’ll take you back to your place. Trust me, you’re going to need some sleep.”
He pulls his hand back to gather his file and close his briefcase. Then he stands. “We’ll come to arrest you in the morning. You tell your mother what you have to—that you slipped up, that you’re sorry,” he says, as the reality of what I’m doing, what I’m owning up to, the trash I’m going to be slumming with—it all winds its way around my throat like a collar and clicks shut with a snap. “No one can know you’re still working for me.”
STICK, CARROT
JOAN
I barely dream: I’m usually so tired by the time I finish cleaning our cabin, maintaining what’s left of the herb garden out back, cooking, helping with Jed’s shows, and caring for Ruby, that most times my mind stops churning and surrenders to a big, blank nothing. And for that, I’m grateful—’cause the nights I have dreams, it’s almost always the same one.
It starts with Mama’s long, low wail from outside our cabin. In the nightmare, I get up, leave Ruby gently snoring next to me, and grip the textured walls of our bedroom, trying to find the door, trying not to wake her and Ben. Then Mama’s call grows louder, and real worry starts gnawing at me. Mama’s not an actress, or a yeller. If she’s hollering, something’s wrong.
I stumble into the moon-drenched clearing, wade through the tall grass, scan the rows of distant trees—nothing. I turn around, but there’s nothing by the back side of the cabin but rake and shovels, and I don’t see her by the silver lip of the brook across the yard. Then I hear rustling, from somewhere in the grass.
A white-hot panic seizes me. This isn’t right there’s something wrong blares loudly through my mind, and I start running in all directions, calling her name as her cries become more urgent—
Finally I see tall blades of grass on the far side of the clearing bend and quake. “Mama!”
I run to her. But she’s not alone.
There’s a man pitched on top of her, spread over her like a tent, whispering, pleading, forcing her to keep quiet—Show me, Eve, show me what I’ve done for you. That’s it . . .
It takes me a full second to realize it’s Uncle Jed.
In a wild, desperate moment my mind offers, Maybe he’s helping her she was out here alone she’s fallen, but it goes quiet, and the silence shatters everything I thought I knew in one furious blast.
Rage, pity, pain, my magic—the new, red-hot magic that’s been burning in my veins since my magic touch ignited a couple weeks back—it’s all rising up inside of me, forces its way out of my mouth, screams, “GET OFF HER! NOW!”
Jed’s head whips around. Pinprick pupils, almost grotesque childlike smile, steady movements—it’s obvious he’s all shined up, and not in the throes of withdrawal. And the bastard has the gall to say, “You’re dreaming, Joan, get back to the cabin.”
Tears I didn’t feel starting are running down my cheeks. “I’m warning you, Jed, I’ll kill you if you don’t leave her alone—”