The Impossibility of Tomorrow Page 3

  What am I going to do? I can’t run, obviously. I don’t have the advantage of being in disguise anymore, and the only way I will switch bodies again is by force. I need to think of a plan more foolproof than my Swiss army knife, but nothing comes, and Cyrus’s firm grip on my hand makes it impossible to think clearly.

  The smell of sage cuts through the air, and I see Echo holding the promised smudge stick, sweet herbal smoke greedily snatched by the wind. It reminds me of the warehouse raves Cyrus dragged me to in the 1990s, electronic music pushing baggy-pants-wearing dancers into a delirious trance. Techno was Cyrus’s passion, not mine, but I’ve always loved to dance, to forget myself in the rhythm and the crowd.

  A chorus of applause erupts as the band finishes the song. I rip my hand away from Cyrus’s grasp to clap loudly, and the boy with the violin catches my eye, a sunny grin spreading across his face. His ice-blue eyes crinkle at the corners, and he tips his hat at me. I feel a blush rise in my cheeks, and I steal a glance at Cyrus. I don’t want this violinist paying any attention to me—Cyrus’s jealousy has proved deadly before.

  “Nice,” says Cyrus warmly, summoning his immortal charm. He’s not mad, I realize. Why would he be? He won, after all. He’s captured me.

  “Thanks.” The boy’s eyes flick between Echo and Leyla as they drift away across the quad; the music over, the crowd has begun to disperse.

  “ ‘Blackbird’ is one of my favorite songs,” I say tentatively to the violinist.

  “It’s a classic,” violin-boy says, his eyes bright. “It’s nice to meet another Beatles fan.”

  “Oh, we met before,” I correct him. “At Dawson’s party in Montclair. I borrowed your violin.”

  He cocks his head.

  “Are you guys talking about the party in the hills?” The tiny girl with the blond dreadlocks sets her conga drum down on the grass and throws an arm around her bandmate’s shoulders. “Because Eli here was high as a kite that night. Seriously, he almost fell into the canyon. Don’t believe anything he says about that party.”

  Eli chuckles, holding up his hands. “In that case, I plead the Fifth.” But I barely hear him.

  Almost fell into the canyon. The phrase ricochets through my mind. An idea takes hold suddenly, and I know how I’m going to kill Cyrus. Well, perhaps that’s too optimistic.

  I know how I’m going to try.

  I reach for Cyrus’s hand. I tug on it, and he gives me his full attention.

  I gaze into his deep blue eyes, making my face into a contrite mask, lifting my lips in a veneer of love and obedience. “I have an idea,” I say, ignoring the nervy ball of dread that sits in my stomach. “Let’s go hiking tonight in Tilden Park. Before we go home.” The word home feels false in my mouth. The coven’s San Francisco condo will never be my home. As long as Cyrus is there, it can only be my prison. “Just you and me,” I add.

  He looks at me for a long moment while my heartbeat thuds down to my toes. But he pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me. “That would be really great,” he murmurs into my hair.

  A flock of birds lands on the concrete, then takes off, one by one, dipping and swooping in the air, aloft on invisible streams. And free, like I could be if I succeed.

  “Not right after school, though.” I make my voice confident, breezy. “I have a few things to take care of first.” I need it to be dark when we set out on the path. I don’t want any witnesses to what I intend to do.

  I pull away and smile at him. “That’s allowed, right?”

  “I suppose so,” he says, cupping my cheek with his warm hand. Behind us, Eli’s band launches into another song, a traditional ballad that reminds me of something my mother used to sing, a mournful tale of love and loss.

  I turn away from Cyrus and set my lips grimly, watching Eli’s fingers dance over his violin strings. Cyrus agreed readily—perhaps too readily—to my plan. Perhaps he has no intention of taking me back to San Francisco, and I have just set the scene for my own murder.

  I can’t think like that. I’ve been losing to Cyrus for centuries, but this has to be the one game I win.

  You’re a killer, Sera. That’s what Cyrus always says. Now act like it.

  SIX

  I can’t stop staring at the girl’s hair. She sits with her back to me, headphone wires trailing from her ears, plugged into a sleek laptop. She has no idea I’m here, hunched low in the library’s poetry section, but I’ve been watching her for close to an hour, the minutes ticking by far too quickly. When I leave here, I will meet Cyrus, and I am scared. No—terrified.

  The girl’s hair is wavy, rippling down the back of her faded green sweatshirt, and veers between auburn and scarlet and brilliant persimmon, depending on the angle of her head beneath the fluorescent lights.

  From behind, she looks exactly like Charlotte, my best friend for two hundred years. But then she twists and bends to her side, pushing down her knee sock to scratch at a mosquito bite on her pale ankle. Her profile is nothing like Charlotte’s—her nose is strong, rather than pert, and she’s missing Charlotte’s light smattering of freckles.

  The illusion broken, I glance at the clock that rests on a sagging shelf of reference books—4:25 P.M.

  Reluctantly, I leave the safety of the library and make my way outside. The wind shows no signs of stopping. It lifts my hair, whipping it harshly around my face. The gusts are warm and dry, but the weather reminds me of le mistral, a freezing wind that rages across the south of France. In 1349, right after he made me into an Incarnate, Cyrus and I fled to Les Baux-de-Provence. Le mistral was in full force, ripping tiles from the roofs of houses. Local legend said it brought ill spirits and bad tempers, but I loved it. I loved the way it threw my long, dark hair above me like a banner. The way it blew away memories of my childhood in foggy London, of my mother and father. Losing them was too painful to think about, but the wind scrubbed me clean.

  Oh, California wind, please do the same.

  I reach our meeting place, the gnarled oak tree now backlit in the rapidly setting sun. Cyrus sits with his back against the trunk, his knees pulled up to his chest, poring over a thick text. My heart is pounding, but I force my face to remain impassive, to pretend that this is a normal afternoon. To pretend that this isn’t the afternoon when either Cyrus or I—or both of us—will die.

  “Hi there,” I say, a sweet smile on my face.

  He looks up, surprised, acting as though he wasn’t aware that I was standing in front of him. His expression is a lie, just like mine.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, his eyes steady and flecked with gold in the dying sunlight. Static electricity bridges the air between us.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.

  He stands, swinging his backpack over one shoulder. I am struck by how tall he is, how hard he will be to overpower.

  We walk toward the parking lot, arms brushing. I wish I could put some distance between us, but he has to believe I’ve forgiven him. If I am to avenge Noah, if I am to save those whose bodies Cyrus would eventually steal, I have to play this exactly right.

  There are only two cars left in the lot: Noah’s, and an Oakland police cruiser a couple of spaces away. A man sits inside the police car, leafing through a notebook.

  He rolls down the window. “Excuse me,” he calls. His gravelly, world-weary voice is a contrast to his youthful face. He’s got a shaved, tan head and a dimple in the middle of his chin. Mirrored sunglasses hide his eyes. “Do you two go to school here?” His lower jaw works on a piece of gum.

  Cyrus turns to me and raises his eyebrows. “Yes,” he answers the cop.

  The officer rolls up his window and climbs out of the car. He’s holding his notebook open to a page that is, I notice, covered in coffee stains and surprisingly elegant, cursive handwriting. “I’m Officer Spaulding,” he announces, walking closer to us. I can smell the spearmint from his gum. “I’m investigating the murder of a teacher here—Mr. Shaw—did you know him?”

  The hairs on my arms
stand on end. Cyrus’s posture straightens, and he fixes his eyes on the cop. “Yes,” he answers. “He was our biology teacher. Are there any developments in the investigation?”

  Officer Spaulding takes off his sunglasses. His eyes are a light green color that I can only describe as feline. “I can’t answer that,” he says, “but there were some irregularities, let’s say.” He smiles, revealing very white, very straight teeth.

  “What kind of irregularities?” Cyrus presses, narrowing his eyes. He must be worried that he made a mistake, left behind some pieces of evidence that won’t add up. Officer Spaulding doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks at me. “How about you? Did you know Mr. Shaw?” He reaches up to his head, as though to push back a mane of hair that’s no longer there, and awkwardly pats the back of his neck.

  “Yes,” I answer quietly. “He was the biology teacher, like Noah said.” It feels absurd to use Noah’s name.

  “And did you ever notice anything strange about his behavior? The way he interacted with female students, for example?” The cop narrows his eyes, studying my face.

  Does this mean that the police found Cyrus’s yearbook? The one with X’s through the faces of the female students he had ruled out as being me? What other evidence might they have?

  “Absolutely not,” answers Cyrus. “What are you trying to imply?” He sounds angry. He nods his head to me, reminding me to stay in line. “Did Mr. Shaw ever act weird around you?”

  “N-n-no,” I stutter. “Of course not. He was a great teacher. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “Sorry, kids. I’ve got to follow up on every lead. It’s my job.” Officer Spaulding tucks his pen behind his ear, where it perches precariously. He smiles again, no longer chewing his gum. I wonder if he swallowed it. “Thanks for your time. Please give me a call if you remember anything—anything at all—about Mr. Shaw. Especially,” he adds, looking at me, “if your girlfriends have anything they want to say.”

  I shiver and take the business card he’s holding out. I wish I could tell him that Mr. Shaw was nothing but a mirage. That the man who “killed” him is standing right in front of his squad car. And that if I succeed, that killer will finally, finally meet his own end at the base of the canyon in Tilden Park.

  SEVEN

  “I got you something,” Cyrus says when we reach the trail-head, and holds out his hand. He is smiling shyly, as though we’re any human couple on a date.

  It’s only five in the afternoon, but darkness has fallen quickly, like a curtain on a stage. The first cold needles of starlight shine above us, piercing the faded azure sky. I was on edge the entire drive to the park, the road winding around the Berkeley Hills. Cyrus drove fast, taking the turns with practiced speed.

  I force myself to smile, to say, “What is it?”

  He opens his palm and reveals a necklace on a silver chain, pooled in the center of his hand. He holds it up so I can see the small birdcage charm that hangs from it, complete with a tiny bird inside. It glints in the light of the full moon that rose when I wasn’t looking.

  A bird, caged in silver. Like me.

  It’s the silver cord that binds your soul to your body, Cyrus said to me when he made me what I am. This potion is unraveling it. You’ll soon be free.

  Free. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  “I love it,” I lie. He gestures for me to turn around, and I oblige, lifting my hair from my neck so he can fasten it. The chain is like ice against my skin.

  The wind shakes the eucalyptus trees that grow here, releasing their minty oils into the air. Cyrus wraps his arms around my waist, and I feel heat, the sun of six hundred years’ worth of summers.

  “Should we walk?” he asks softly. “Don’t get me wrong. We can just stand here if you want. I kind of like it.” I can’t see his face, but I know he’s smiling. He tightens his grip on me, but I pull away.

  “Let’s go,” I answer, turning to him, a smile painted on my chapped lips. As I move forward along the path, I have the sensation that I’m leaving one world for another, from a dream to waking life. Two places with different logic, different rules.

  We set off, and I match the speed of my steps to his. I don’t like having him behind me—I don’t trust him. It’s been too easy to appease him, my brain tells me. He knows what you’re going to do, it says. He always knows.

  So what if he knows? I argue back, fiddling with the knife in my pocket. One way or another, this ends today.

  The trail tangles up the hill in front of us, littered with eucalyptus leaves and thick strips of its flammable bark. I hear a rustle in the trees ahead of me. I stop abruptly, a chill raising goose bumps on my arms.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Didn’t you hear that?”

  “No,” he replies, cocks his head, listens. “There’s no one else here—the parking lot was completely empty.”

  “Are you sure?” I say. I don’t need any heroic witnesses trying to save the life of someone who should have died centuries ago.

  “I’m sure.”

  We wait, but there’s nothing except the breeze working its way through the forest. “Do you want to go back?” he asks, his eyes trained on the trees.

  “No, it’s okay,” I say, setting off again. I walk faster, determination tensing my muscles.

  We reach the cliffs, breathing hard. The whole Bay Area is spread out below us in a shimmering sprawl, like a topographic map brought to life. We can see the Golden Gate Bridge, arcing toward the Marin headlands. The cities of Berkeley and Oakland twinkling in the clear air. The Bay Bridge, just a ribbon of light cutting across the choppy blank water.

  “It’s beautiful,” he says, taking my hand.

  Below us, the land falls away sharply. I let go of his hand and edge closer. “Come see,” I say, only a few feet from the lip of the drop.

  “That’s okay,” he says. “I’ll stay right here.”

  I shrug my shoulders and move closer, closer, till I can see down. The moon bathes the chasm in milky light. There are rocks at the bottom. I close my eyes, just for a second, and picture Noah’s body lying at the bottom, twisted and broken.

  No, I remind myself. You won’t have to see it. He’ll turn to dust as soon as he hits.

  “I want you to come here with me,” I say, my voice unwavering.

  He waits, then appears to come to a decision. “Okay, but only for a second.” And then he’s at my side. I watch his profile in the moonlight, half lit and half dark. Like Cyrus himself. Half passionate alchemist, seeker of truth. Half killer.

  “Look at San Francisco,” I say. “It doesn’t seem real. It’s a toy town.”

  “I’d rather look at you,” he says. I feel his hand on my cheek. It’s rough and warm. I take a shaky breath. “You look so pretty.” I feel heat rising to my face and curse myself for being so weak as to blush at a moment like this, when I’m supposed to be an avenger.

  “I thought you didn’t usually like blondes,” I say lightly. His weakness is long, chestnut hair.

  “That’s idiotic,” he says. “I like you. Beauty is a fringe benefit.”

  I take another step toward the cliff, pulling him with me. We are only a foot away from the lip of the canyon. I can do this. I can. I will take the fall with him if need be. We will turn to dust together, two old souls with too much blood on our hands.

  “Thank you for coming up here with me,” I say, wrapping my arm around his back, trying to find the best position for my hand. I raise my elbow behind his back, for leverage.

  “I really needed to get away,” he whispers.

  I coil the muscles in my legs. But just as I am about to shove, he turns to me. I suck in my breath when I meet his lake-blue eyes. They stop me cold. I’m not sure why at first. They are the color of water when shards of sun hit the bay.

  They are Noah’s eyes.

  But this is Cyrus . . . isn’t it?

  I hesitate. I hesitate again. I’m reeling. I’m muffled in cotton. Dear God
, forgive me if I lose my chance. But I need to be sure.

  “When . . . did your feelings for me change?” I ask.

  “You already know that,” he answers, stroking my hair.

  Doubt creeps into me. It tingles, like I’m waking up from anesthesia.

  “Tell me again,” I say urgently, grasping for something—for someone—that my brain tells me is gone. But another part of me, maybe the illogical part, isn’t so sure.

  He laughs. “Okay. Right after your car accident. Something was just . . . different. It started that night that I found you sneaking out of your house.”

  “And what happened right after that?” I press.

  He puts his hand thoughtfully to his chin. “I seem to recall you acting really weird. Kind of like now. And then you went back inside to go to sleep. Wait.” His voice grows tense. “Are you having some kind of concussion relapse?”

  It’s not possible. It’s not possible. There’s no way Cyrus could know that. “No,” I whisper. “The other night—you played a word. On our game.”

  “Yeah. And you never played your turn.”

  “Why,” I ask slowly, “did you play that word?”

  “Because I had the letters for it, genius.” His brows are furrowed, his confusion clear.

  “Tell me why,” I say.

  He sighs. “And because I had just found out about Mr. Shaw. Okay? I know you didn’t like him. But he was teaching me stuff before he died. About . . . I don’t know, esoteric stuff. He used to talk about alchemy constantly.” His voice grows sad.

  The wind buffets me, but I am granite. I am listening.

  “And I was just sitting there, upset, thinking about him,” he continues. “And I don’t know why, but I pulled out my phone. I think I was trying to distract myself. And I was staring at my letters—and the word just jumped out at me. Alchemy. I mean—it was like a sign, like he was okay. It was like . . . his ghost was telling me not to worry about him. So I played it. And I felt better.”