Reason number three to hate the man.
Eventually, we’re all settled into the boat, and FSG rows us across the lake to Hemlock Island. My warrior sense goes on alert. This is my life now. Really? Who goes in a rowboat with a pervert to a sketchy-looking island?
Myla Lewis, that’s who.
I’ve had some crappy ideas, but this is starting to feel like one of my worst.
Chapter Thirteen
FSG huffs and puffs as he hauls us across the lake. From here, Hemlock Island looks like a panel of green trees surrounded by a calm sheet of dark water. A weight of foreboding settles into my bones.
Looks like I’m in for some nature-time. Yuck.
I grew up in Purgatory, so I dig the whole rundown industrial scene. Take me to a cracked-up parking garage and—BAM—I feel right at home. To me, forests are a whole lot of irritating. In my experience, the woods are basically packed with bugs and nameless goo.
Oh, well. Anything to find that codex and get this over with. Not to mention stopping Lucifer’s coin from unleashing unholy Hell.
FSG heaves on the oars once again. The dude looks wrinkly, sweaty, and ready to keel over. I tap his shoulder gently. “Would you like some help, uh…” I barely stop myself from calling him Fish Stick Grandpa. “Jeeves?”
He keeps hauling on the oars. “I’ve been pulling these oars…” Pant pant. “Every summer for forty years…” Pant pant. “There’s no one to help.”
I frown. “What do you mean no one?” I glance over at the village by the water. Now that I take a closer look, the houses have a fresh coat of paint. Even so, the windows do look mostly boarded up. “What happened to everyone?”
FSG opens his mouth, and I just know he wants to spill about why the town is deserted and he’s ferrying me around by rowboat. However, before he gets a word out, Prescott gives the old dude the stink eye. FSG shuts his yap and fast.
That is so not stopping me from getting an answer.
“Why did everyone leave the town?”
“No idea.” He keeps hauling and panting.
“But you stayed.”
FSG stops pulling on the oars and takes in a few breaths. “My family has always been here, young lady. We’re not like other people.”
My tail gives him a modified thumbs-up. It’s a nice gesture, even though FSG can’t see a thing.
Or can he?
FSG’s gaze flickers at my tail for a moment before he returns to his task.
My frown deepens. There is no way he could see my tail. Only Lincoln and my father can detect my supernatural side at this point. Lincoln can do it because he’s wearing an amulet that’s linked to mine. Dad can see me because his power is older than dirt. If FSG can see me, he’d have to be someone pretty extraordinary. His recent words echo through my mind.
“We’re not like other people.”
I lean forward. “How are you different, exactly?”
Prescott sighs. “Please leave Jeeves to do his work, Missy.”
“My name’s not Missy.” FSG is carefully avoiding my gaze now. “Your name’s not Jeeves, either. Is it?”
FSG cracks a super-wrinkly smile, and I know two things. One, the man does not visit a dentist regularly, and two, he’s totally not named Jeeves.
“What’s your real name, anyway?” I ask.
“Jeeves!” snaps Prescott. “Stop pestering my summer student. Missy and I have important things to discuss.”
“My name’s Mysteria.” Sheesh.
Prescott keeps ignoring when I correct him. It’s really getting on my nerves. “Now, Missy. I wanted to greet you personally in order to discuss any misconceptions you may have about summer camp at the Wheeler Institute.”
“Sure.” Misconceptions? This is getting good.
“What do you know about us?”
I shrug. “My father says you have the best summer camp on the planet, so here I am.”
“Excellent. Indeed, we are a superb organization.” Prescott gestures to me. “Why, look at the caliber of student we’re now attracting. Your father is a renowned gold dealer.” He lowers his voice. “In secret markets, of course.”
“Something like that.” I told Dad that having gold wings didn’t mean he could pretend to be a human gold dealer. My father countered that he’d done something similar while riding a caravan along the Silk Road, whatever that involved. I find it’s best to change the subject when he starts talking about ancient times. Otherwise, he can and will go on for hours.
Prescott’s voice lowers to a hush. “My point is, I don’t want you repeating anything you may have heard about the Wheeler Institute. There have been some nasty rumors that the island is haunted, but that kind of fear-mongering is completely behind us. The last headmaster did his best. Now I’m taking things the final mile.”
Huh. That’s interesting. “So, how long have you been running this place?”
“About six months.”
I bite back a groan. Six months? That’s when I kicked Armageddon back to Hell. No way that’s a coincidence. “If you don’t mind my asking, where were you before this?”
“Before?”
“Like, what school did you run or whatever?”
“Oh, I never ran any school.”