The Impossibility of Tomorrow Read online

  “San Miguel y Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, eh?” Lucia murmurs, reading the labels on the candles Echo’s chosen. “Someone needs powerful protection.”

  Echo laughs. “My dad’s obsessed with the Virgin of Guadalupe. He says she’s the symbiosis of indigenous goddess worship and Catholicism.”

  Lucia and I both stare at Echo, who finishes her taco in one more huge bite. “What?” she asks, her voice muffled.

  “He sounds like a smart dude,” Lucia says wryly.

  I pay for the tacos and Echo’s candles, thanking Lucia again. She grabs my hand as we leave, pulling me close. “Listen,” she whispers in my ear, “you need any more help, you come see Lucia, okay?”

  “I will,” I promise.

  Back in Echo’s car, I’m dying to open the note Lucia gave me, but I resist. I guess it contains instructions to elude detection online, but I expected the matter to be a bit more complicated than a single scrawled note.

  “You shouldn’t worry so much,” says Echo, pulling up to the Morgan house, and I jerk my head to look at her, surprised. It’s like she can read my thoughts.

  “How did you know I was worried about something?” I ask.

  She pokes my shoulder, its tight ball of muscle. “Look at you. The way you hunch over, the way your hands keep fidgeting.”

  She’s pretty damned observant, I think. For a human.

  “Thanks again, Echo,” I tell her. “This was fun. I’ll see you tomorrow? And don’t forget about the dance committee meeting on Friday.”

  “Definitely,” she answers, tucking a lock of yarn-wound hair behind her ear. I hug her and climb out of the car, watching till it disappears around the block.

  In Kailey’s room, I study Lucia’s instructions. They’re not too difficult, even for me—a proxy server, an IP address scrambler, and a couple of fake e-mail addresses later, I’m in business. I spread a white sheet on the floor and arrange the blue book in the center, snapping a few photos with Kailey’s phone.

  Even though part of me doesn’t want to look at the book any closer, I can’t help it. I pull the book into my lap and start to turn the pages, noting, as before, the illustration of two people with the braided silver cord between them. It’s the same image as the one I saw in Noah’s room. Cyrus was going to recruit Noah, I think again with a shudder, imagining Noah’s fate as one of Cyrus’s henchmen.

  Although I’m well-versed in Latin and Greek, I haven’t read either language in years, let alone spoken them. And the old-fashioned black-letter characters—I recognize Cyrus’s father Johann’s handwriting—are frustrating to my modern eyes. Still, I am able to make out some of the text. There are sections on the mercurial nature of the human soul, the metaphysical properties of lightning, and the assertion that no change can be enacted upon the human body without also similarly transforming the spirit.

  On another page I find the formula for making the Incarnate elixir. It’s written in a confusing tangle of languages, and I can only translate bits and pieces: “the Essence of Silver,” “the furnace of Balneum Vapori,” “the Salt of Quicksilver.” I shake my head. It would take a true medieval scholar, someone like Echo’s father, to figure this out. Possibly several scholars, plus a team of chemists.

  I flip a page that feels thicker than the rest. The second half of the book is entirely in Cyrus’s handwriting. I find myself returning to the thick page, running my finger round its rough vellum edge for several minutes before I realize why it’s so much heavier than the rest: It’s actually two pages, fused together.

  I slip my knife from my boot, but the heavy blade was meant for gutting fish, not delicate cuts. I rifle through the plastic box that contains Kailey’s art supplies until I find what I need: a razor-sharp X-Acto blade with a very fine point.

  Carefully, I run its edge between the pages. Despite my caution, some of the fibers rip and minute flakes of centuries-old ink sift to the floor. The process is painstaking, but finally, I’m able to separate them with a minimum of damage.

  I stare at the writing within for several long minutes, trying to comprehend what it says. The strokes are thick and crowded together, and a deep sense of vertigo makes me glad I’m already sitting down.

  It’s backward, I realize. No wonder I can’t read it. I rise to my feet and hold the manuscript up to the mirror over Kailey’s vanity, blinking my eyes as the words become clear. It’s written in what modern scholars would call Middle High German. Or, as I knew it, simply German.

  “The Alchemical Order of the Incarnates,” it reads, “and its Brothers and Sisters in their respective Covens, those whose Souls may Travel between corporeal Beings, never Departing.” Below that is a list of names, perhaps fifty, and locations all over the world. And, at the very bottom, in different-colored ink: Cyrus von Hohenheim, of Caffa. Seraphina Ames, of London.

  My jaw drops. I immediately understand what it is, though the implications take much longer for my mind to grasp.

  There are other Incarnates out there. Others like me. This list was compiled close to seven hundred years ago—who knows how many there are now?

  And Cyrus kept this a secret from me—from all of us, Sébastien and Charlotte, Amelia and Jared. There are no others like us, he would say. And only I have the elixir, so you can’t make new companions. He was so certain, so convincing. We believed him. We believed that the only alternative to staying with Cyrus for eternity was being completely alone in the world.

  The enormity of the betrayal is incalculable. Charlotte and Sébastien could have left together. Even Jared and Amelia, as much as I despise them, might have turned out quite differently without Cyrus’s influence.

  It’s clear why he did it. Being alone is Cyrus’s greatest fear. This way, he could ensure we would never leave him.

  Still shaking, I log on to the antiquarian book auction site, typing in the book’s details: blue leather-covered alchemy codex with illuminated vellum leaves, circa fourteenth century, binding repaired in the eighteenth-century style and historically inaccurate with the original text, complete manuscript. I decide not to list a minimum bid, knowing that any serious offers will be at least $40,000. This way I can weed out any bids that aren’t worth my time. I set the auction timer for four days. I’d rather do even fewer, but I need to make sure Cyrus sees the listing. Though I don’t doubt for a minute that he’ll find it. He probably has Google alerts on every single antique book site on the Internet right now.

  Here goes nothing, I think as I flop onto Kailey’s bed. Luna immediately hops on my stomach, kneading her paws into my sweater with a satisfied purr. I remember that this is, in some ways, the hardest part for a hunter. The trap has been set; now all that’s left to do is wait.

  So I’m startled when Kailey’s iPhone buzzes against my hip, not five minutes after I posted the book for sale. I unearth it from my sweater and bring it to my face. “New e-mail,” the notification reads. I immediately tap through with trembling fingers, their tips leaving smudges on the glass.

  There’s a bid on the book. For $50,000.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Kailey, what is wrong with you?” Mrs. Morgan asks. “Did you completely forget how to peel an apple? And put on an apron, you’re going to ruin your shirt.”

  I sigh, looking at the gummy, ruined fruit in my hands. “I’m out of practice,” I offer, though it’s a lie. Cooking is a skill I’ve never had to learn. Other people have prepared food for me my whole life.

  I eye the apple warily. Cooperate! I order it, silently, then attack once more with the peeler, wishing I could remove the skin in long, continuous spirals like Mrs. Morgan does. “Ouch!” I yell as my hand slips and the peeler slices into my finger. Bright red drops of blood immediately stain the white ceramic sink.

  “That’s it—you’re done,” says Mrs. Morgan, removing the peeler from my hand and covering the cut with a paper towel.

  “As bad-ass as it would be to have bloody apple pie, I agree with your mom,” chirps Leyla, pulling an apron f
rom a wall hook. “Let me help, Mrs. Morgan.”

  Bryan claps. “I gotta give you credit, Kailes. You’re committed to getting out of pie duty. I mean, cutting your own finger? That’s dedication.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not trying to do anything,” I protest. “Let me give it another shot.”

  Mrs. Morgan shoos me over to the kitchen table. “Just sit,” she orders me. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I refuse to serve biohazard pies for Thanksgiving dessert.”

  “Biohazard pie?” Mr. Morgan repeats, stepping into the kitchen. “Sounds like something Leyla would like. Oh, hi, Leyla.” He feigns surprise.

  “Very funny,” she retorts. “It was your lovely daughter who started the idea.”

  “What can I say? I’m a monster.” I bare my teeth at Leyla. “Rar.”

  “Rar indeed,” Leyla agrees, turning back to her peeling.

  I lean back in the chair, inhaling the sweet scents of cinnamon, clove, and caramelized brown sugar that mingle with the roasting turkey. Mr. Morgan sits next to me and starts snacking on a bowl of pistachios, arranging their shells in two neat piles. I smile, watching him. I love this family, this kitchen. I love the mixing bowls stacked on the messy counter, the clatter of cooking and conversation, the smudge of flour on Mrs. Morgan’s cheek that I don’t have the heart to wipe away.

  Luna seems to feel the same way, purring and rubbing against our legs, constantly underfoot.

  Bryan joins Leyla at the sink and begins cutting the apples into thin slices. They’re standing very close together, and I feel a wave of bittersweet happiness. They’re obviously crazy about each other, but Kailey never would have allowed them to date. That’s one good deed I can give myself credit for, I suppose.

  But I can’t deny that watching them hurts me too.

  I can’t stop thinking about Noah—what he’s doing, how he’s feeling. I’m sure this holiday must be tough on him. I don’t exactly picture his father whipping up a Thanksgiving meal. I wish, not for the first time, that he was here with me, in the Morgan’s kitchen. As soon as Cyrus is gone, you can get him back, I promise myself.

  Maybe. Maybe he will. If he’s not in love with someone else first.

  Leyla told me earlier that Nicole was planning on asking Noah to the winter dance. I nearly died when I heard the news and instantly hoped he would turn her down. Then I felt even worse for being so selfish. He deserves happiness—and a girlfriend who doesn’t come with six hundred years’ worth of deadly baggage.

  But I can’t help it. I still love him.

  I should know better by now. Happily ever after is a silly dream. What kind of happy ending can Noah and I have—a mortal boy and a girl doomed to live forever?

  Yet I can’t stop believing in it. Otherwise I would have nothing left to live for.

  My reverie is interrupted by the low chime of the doorbell. “Kailey, can you get that?” Mrs. Morgan asks me as she heaves the turkey out of the oven for basting. Luna sniffs the roasting pan and announces her interest in the turkey with a plaintive meow.

  “Of course.” I jump up, happy to have something to do.

  I open the door to a grinning Officer Spaulding. His eyes are inscrutable behind dark sunglasses, and he’s holding a mustard yellow envelope. “Hello there,” he says. “Kailey, right?” I nod. “This was on your doorstep.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking it from him. KAILEY & BRYAN MORGAN is written on the front in scrolling maroon ink. “Did you need something else?”

  Despite the cold, overcast day, he’s wearing the short-sleeved police uniform, revealing thick, muscled arms and a tan that has no reasonable explanation at this time of year. “I actually came here to talk to you, Kailey. And your brother.” He consults a notepad that he pulls from his breast pocket. “Ryan, is it?”

  “It’s Bryan,” I say flatly. “With a B.” Some detective.

  “Right, Bryan. I guess I’m just better with girls’ names.” He pushes his sunglasses up on his bald head.

  “May I come in?” he asks, his smile revealing a row of sharp, white teeth. I’m reminded of the old legends about vampires—that they’re not able to enter a human’s home unless they’re invited. I’m well-versed in their mythology, thanks to Cyrus’s obsession with the writer Anne Rice.

  “She’s surprisingly sympathetic to her vampires,” he used to say wistfully. “Even though they’re murderers, just like us.” He would smile, as though he’d said something funny. “We should go find her, don’t you think? I hear she lives in New Orleans. Damn fine city for immortals. We could turn her into one of us. Blow her mind. Too bad there’s no such thing as vampires; I wouldn’t mind being one.”

  Cyrus had a way of missing the point.

  “Come on in,” I say hesitantly. Officer Spaulding is already through the door before I finish speaking, headed straight for the kitchen, as if he’s already familiar with the layout of the house.

  I follow his powerful-looking back, massive shoulders tapering to a slim waist, feeling like I just let the coyote into the henhouse. I’m nervous about what he might ask me in front of Kailey’s family.

  “Hello, Morgan family,” he says, entering the kitchen. Bryan and Leyla turn to see who it is, their eyes wide. Worry flickers across Mr. Morgan’s face, and he makes to stand up from the kitchen table. “No, no, don’t get up,” Officer Spaulding continues. “No need to panic. I’m just here to ask a few questions.”

  The kitchen, which was already crowded, now feels positively claustrophobic. I squeeze past Officer Spaulding and join Mr. Morgan at the table, scooting my chair back toward the wall.

  “Can I get you some coffee, Officer . . . ?” Mrs. Morgan offers.

  “Officer Spaulding. Thank you, but no, ma’am. I’m sorry to barge in on Thanksgiving, but I’m afraid that my business is far more important than good manners.” He pulls a chair out from the kitchen table and sits across from me. We all jump when Luna, who was hunkered under the table, explodes with an angry yowl.

  “Oh!” Officer Spaulding exclaims. “I’m so sorry.” He peeks under the table and appraises Luna, who rewards him with a furious hiss before darting out of the room. “I think I set my chair on your cat’s tail,” he explains, his face pale. “Should I go see if she’s okay? I can’t believe I did that—I love cats.”

  I want to run after Luna and make sure she’s not injured, but Mr. Morgan shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he replies. “And I think she just learned not to hide under tables with a room full of people.”

  Officer Spaulding nods. “Is she still a kitten? She’s so small.”

  “We’re not sure,” Mr. Morgan answers. “We’ve only had her a couple of days. She was a stray.”

  “Good for you,” the policeman says. “So many animals without homes. Anyway,” he continues, rubbing his head, “I’m here as part of the investigation into the disappearance of Eli Macgregor. And today Eli’s family isn’t, I assure you, celebrating Thanksgiving. Those poor folks don’t have much to be thankful for.” Mrs. Morgan blanches.

  “I’m not sure how we can help you,” says Bryan, leaning his back on the sink. “None of us were friends with Eli.”

  “You’re sure?” says Officer Spaulding slowly. “Not even you, Kailey?” He turns to me, and I’m overwhelmed with the smell of his spearmint gum. I hate how it invades the kitchen, overpowering even the strong scent of onion and sage from Mrs. Morgan’s cooking.

  “I liked his music,” I say softly. “But Bryan’s right. We weren’t close. I wish I’d known him better.”

  “What can we do to help, Officer?” Mrs. Morgan wipes her hands on her apron, and I sense her guard going up, like a mama bear who will do anything to protect her cubs.

  “Oh, no, you don’t have to do anything. I just wanted to check in. And Kailey and Bryan—you know we have a counselor on staff down at the station, in case either of you wants to talk about anything.”

  “I’m fine,” I answer quickly. “Sad, but fine.”

 
; “Me too,” says Bryan.

  Officer Spaulding stares at each of us, then nods his head. “Well, I’ll let you fine folks get back to your holiday. If any of you start to feel depressed, please don’t hesitate to call up the station. Especially the girls—much more prone to emotional distress.”

  Bryan nods, earning a jab in the ribs from Leyla.

  “Aren’t you going to open that?” Leyla asks, turning to me and eyeing the yellow envelope in my hands. I notice that Officer Spaulding pauses halfway to the door.

  When I make no move to open it, she plucks it from my hand. “May I?” she entreats, looking to me for permission.

  “Go for it,” I reply, and she gleefully rips into the envelope, removing a thick, ivory card with a deckle edge. “Oh my god!” she squeals, reading to herself.

  “You want to share with the rest of the class?” asks Bryan with a wry grin.

  “Sorry, yes. It says we’re all invited to Reed and Rebecca’s family’s winery this weekend—for an overnight trip.” Leyla’s eyes sparkle—she’s clearly elated at the prospect of a weekend away with her idol Rebecca. But the idea of spending a night on Cyrus’s turf fills me with dread.

  “Let me see that,” I say, pulling the card from her hands.

  Sure enough, in the same fine handwriting as the front of the envelope, it reads: “To: Bryan and Kailey. CC: Leyla, Chantal, Nicole, Noah, Madison. The Sawyer family requests the pleasure of your delightful company this long weekend at the Looking Glass Winery.”

  I set the card down. “Why couldn’t they just invite us over e-mail, like normal people? Or ask us in person?”

  “I think it’s cool to send a paper letter,” counters Leyla, her cheeks rosy. “No one does that anymore. Totally classy.”

  “Yeah, but then they had to write ‘CC’ on it and ruin the illusion. That’s an e-mail thing.” I know I sound petulant, some irritating combination of a whining student and her schoolmarmish teacher.

  “Fine by me,” Leyla answers. “’Cause now I know I’m invited, too.”