Descendant (Secrets of the Makai) (7 page)

Though, she hadn't promised it would work. Either way, everyone on the island would have to pay for her foolish curiosity; it was just a matter when.

A cold hand clamped onto her shoulder and she squeaked, spinning to see Philip. "What are you doing here?" Dorian whispered. "You scared me half to death."

Philip lowered his arms when she refused to take an apology hug and fidgeted his feet, seemingly at a loss for what to do with his hands. His dimples faded. "I thought there was a meeting in the cavern. Are we late? Aren't you supposed to be there?"

"I'm heading that way. It's just that...." Dorian thought she'd dropped the idea. But here it was again, on the tip of her tongue. "Would you help me get off the island if I asked you to?"

"Heck no! Gram would never let me marry you if I did that." Firelight reflected mischievously in Philip's eyes. He must have recognized the alarming look in hers. "Everyone knows we'll be married eventually."

"You can't be serious." The two had grown up more like brother and sister than boyfriend and girlfriend. Maybe she really had been giving him the wrong impression.

"Besides, I've never transported a second person." He raked his fingers through his lopsided hair—buzzed on one side and shaggy on the other. She didn't like the style at first, but had gotten used to the strangeness of off-island influences.

Philip and his friends often came back from their travels with different styles of clothing and slang to spread around. Gram hadn't given permission for her to go, but it was always exciting to hear what they did. No wonder he was confused about where she stood with him.

"When are you going out again?" Dorian asked.

"I don't know. My dad is, well...he's tired of the cave drama and lack of security. Today was the last straw and he said it's time to move. He doesn't need Oliver's permission, but he's going to make his case in front of everyone, in case other families feel the same way and didn't want to say anything."

Dorian's jaw dropped and she didn't bother shutting it.

"Oh, come on," Philip continued. "You know how it is. We're sitting ducks out here in the middle of nowhere. Let's just start over already!"

"I can't leave. You know that."

"Of course you can! It's not like this is the only place that grows stuff. You'd like it in the real world. Trust me."

Dorian backed away from him. "How can you say that?" She would consider leaving the island for a personal mission, but never permanently.

Before he could answer, she ran for the main cavern and skidded to stop at the end of the trail, taking in the anxious crowd below, searching for Gram and Oliver.

Torches lined the right side of the cavern, not that they lit the top or bottom. They merely distracted the darkness that hovered beyond. Tall poles jutted from the bordering rocks, supporting lanterns, while candles in glass jars hung from a rope barricade, keeping people from getting too close to the bubbling mud. The walls on the other side of the mud pit were swallowed by darkness.

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" Philip asked, grabbing her.

Dorian yanked her arm out of his grip and took a shortcut down the trail of boulders, spotting Oliver offering Gram a chair in the crowd below. Philip yelped behind her with a clatter of falling rocks—she smiled to herself before a touch of guilt had her glancing over her shoulder. He was still moving. Good enough.

Dorian leapt to the damp sand at the bottom of the boulders and nearly froze when she heard Philip's father speaking.

"Look at us," the man said, using his arms to include everyone in the cave, seventy-nine if all the islanders were present. "We've become food for…who knows what sort of life-form. With bad security, the dead bodies, the situation Dorian got us into...."

No way could Dorian support abandoning the island. She shouldered her way through the crowd to get to Gram and Oliver, desperate to stop the madness from spreading.

6

-
G
OOD
R
IDDANCE -

EVERYTHING TRISTAN EXPECTED... wasn't. Though he could not explain to himself why the drive along Main Street seemed so wrong. The constant vibration from the backseat of what appeared to be a police cruiser numbed his chest and made his stomach coil. Two police officers sat in the front, both turning to stare when the car stopped at a red light.

A tin-can voice rattled through a speaker and the officer on the passenger side answered with something about transporting a civilian.

"At least you won't miss
more
school," the driving officer said, as if ending a long conversation.

Tristan nodded dumbly, watching as the car continued over the bridge to Felony Flats, his side of town where businesses had bars over windows and drunks carried weapons.

"Double check if you think something's missing," the passenger officer said, directing Tristan's attention to the envelope on the seat beside him. "But I'm assuming you checked before you signed."

Tristan glanced at the label with his name. And his signature.

"What'd you think of that movie? All those plants coming to life and attacking everyone?"

Tristan stared at the trailer park in the distance, half-hidden by smog, too confused to figure out what movie they were talking about.

"Anyway," the driver said, glancing at Tristan through the rearview mirror. "Once again, we apologize for the amount of time we kept you. You seem like a nice kid and I'd hate to see you wrapped up in murder charges. Now
that'
s a time-consuming undertaking. This was nothing in comparison."

Tristan stared at the man's eyes in the mirror, waiting for some sort of punch line. "Murder charges?" He regretted the question instantly. Something about the entire situation seemed so...wrong.

"Just be thankful your alibi checked out," said the passenger officer, "or you'd still be in lockup."

The police car hit gravel and an unexplained fear replaced the fuzzy numbness. Tristan gripped the seat and studied the passing ground. He picked up the envelope as they turned into the trailer court. He had an alibi? For what? "This is fine, I can walk from here." The last thing he needed was for his mom to see him escorted home by police.

"No, no," the driver said. "We'll make sure you get home without any trouble. What you do from there is your own business. But don't leave town."

Tristan felt a flicker of relief when he saw his mother's truck gone from the driveway, though the trailer park's nosiest neighbor had her eyes glued to the cruiser as they pulled in.

"And I'll tell you something else," the driver continued. "Once a suspect,
always
a suspect. So behave yourself. By the way, your house really is the safest place in town. It's the Honest-to-God truth."

Frantic, mouth too dry to speak, Tristan failed to figure out where the handle on the door was and barely heard what the officer riding shotgun had said. When his door opened from the outside, he stared up at the waiting man. Leaving town struck him as a good idea.

"It's not designed to be opened from the inside." The officer held it open wider and took a step back. "Come on, don't you want to get in your own bed?"

Tristan studied the ground for a careful moment and glanced back at the driver. There was no teasing, no impatience. Just...something. Something he could trust. "Did you catch the murderer?"

"No."

Tristan gulped.

"But we think he left the country, so don't worry."

Tristan glanced back at the ground, finding it both odd and funny to be afraid of stepping on it. He squeezed the envelope against his chest and did his best to act normal as he got out of the car.

"Good luck, kid." The officer gave him a pat on the back that sent him off balance, then quickly caught his arm and apologized. Tristan glanced at the badge. Officer...a name he would never be able to pronounce. "Stay inside tonight, okay?"

Tristan nodded without thinking, confused by feeling like a ditched child, combined with a desperation to get away. He half ran to the front door without looking back, horrified and embarrassed, and locked the knob behind him.

The front room reeked of moldy carpet and cigarettes. Tristan had done everything he could to escape this place, yet here he was again. He weaved a miserable path through ripped boxes, piles of clothing, and fast-food trash to get to his bedroom. The blackened can of ash triggered something in his memory.

He tore open the envelope and dumped the contents onto his bed. Tangled shoelaces—a glance to his sneakers confirmed they were his. A deck of cards he'd never seen, with a happy magician on the cover—palms upward, juggling cards that read Focus Pocus. And two small, sealed envelopes. Last came a leather pouch with a thin neck cord.

Tristan opened the pouch, already knowing what was in it. The thought made him pause to consider whether it was his or not, but he had no reference to remember it by. Nothing that would explain how he knew.

Tense muscles relaxed when the stone, Cyanea coral, landed in the palm of his hand. It was jade-green with streaks of caribbean blue running through the smooth surface. He pressed it to his temple and the world, with all its terrible smells and noisy chaos, drifted away, leaving him warm and open to endless possibilities. For a few brief moments, his cluttered mind understood everything.

Then it was gone.

Tristan inhaled a quick breath and stuffed the coral back in its pouch. He tossed it to the bed, just out of reach. He knew the effects were addictive, and that it was to be used for emergencies only. But how?

One of the blank envelopes contained $500 in cash—he counted twice to be sure—with a printed letter and an unreadable signature. From the content, people at the police station raised funds to cover the income he would have made from work, had they not been holding him on false charges.

Tristan shut his eyes and shook his head. He'd quit his job officially with a written notice, but how much time had he missed? The second envelope contained even more cash with three crumpled paystubs and a note from his boss that read:
I hope your plans for the future have changed, and that you meant to ask me to cash these for you. I'll expect you back to work as soon as you're available.

Tristan sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes, mentally calculating how much cash he had. He stuffed a twenty in his pocket and slid the foot of the bed away from the wall, exposing his secret hiding place behind a loose length of molding. When all the cash was safely put away, with everything back in place to conceal it, he stared at the manila envelope. Something was missing, but his mind drew a complete blank.

Breaking glass from the kitchen had Tristan diving for the coral. He looped the cord around his neck and tucked the pouch down his T-shirt, then put the deck of cards in his back pocket for safekeeping. He shoved the manila envelope under his mattress and listened. The usual voices of people's thoughts swarmed in clashing tones, distant and unclear, but he couldn't sense anyone in the house. He opened the door and snuck down the hall.

"Mom?" He wondered if she'd visited while he was…wherever he was. He doubted it.

Tristan clicked on the kitchen light. "Hello?"

Dishes teetered in the sink, intermingled with plastic cups and soggy cardboard boxes of take-out. A glass tipped and rolled off the counter, crashing to shards on the floor.

"Squeaky!" Tristan laughed as the mouse made a mad dash for cover. "You still hangin' around this dump?" He lifted a tray of something solidified but didn't see any sign of the tiny rodent. He could've sworn it'd been hauling something. "Where did you go?"

Tristan shifted more dishes, about to give up, when something thudded between the counter and refrigerator. He used a broken mop handle to pull out unidentifiable garbage into the open and caught sight of the mouse. It chased the pile as Tristan pulled, unwilling to let go of whatever it had. Finally, the mouse scampered under the refrigerator empty-handed.

Tristan picked up a relatively clean piece of black plastic, the width of a credit card and half the height. A tangle of chewed copper wires stuck out from the thin edge; hardly what he'd consider good nesting material. He dug in the sink for something to pry the plastic apart.

"Thought you guys skipped town," said a man's voice.

Tristan spun with a butter knife, making an earsplitting clatter when he knocked over the stack of dishes.

"Hold on there," Joe, the property manager, said. He held up his hands in mock surrender, wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt, shorts and plastic flip-flops. "I wasn't expecting you either. I saw the lights on and figured there were squatters in here. Is Gloria around?"

Tristan shook his head. "I just got here. Don't tell me we don't live here anymore."

"Well," Joe took in the mess and raised his eyebrows. "There's an issue of past rent. And seein' as how you really don't keep up with the place, I think I'd rather have new tenants."

Tristan opened his mouth to explain he'd been gone to excuse the mess, but changed his mind. The mess was pretty normal, mostly because he refused to clean up after his mother and her dates. He tossed the electronic gizmo to the pile on the floor. "I'll let her know when I see her."