The Impossibility of Tomorrow Page 9

  “No, it’s fine.” My heart takes off like a horse, like a jet engine. I throw out a hand to brace myself. “When did this start?” I hear myself ask.

  “Ever since that teacher got killed,” she whispers. “And at first I could understand—we were all shaken up, you know?”

  “I know.” The sun shifts. The beam of light disappears from the window.

  “Anyway, we’ve been looking for another female singer. We were supposed to meet on Wednesday for auditions. He never showed, which is so unlike him.”

  Yes, there are a lot of girls, Julie had said in the hallway the night of the Nutcracker. Which is why there can be no mistakes. They were auditioning singers.

  “The worst part is, we’re playing tonight on Treasure Island. It’s our biggest show ever. I just hope he can get it together. If he can’t . . . well, we may have to replace him. He can’t even perform anymore. It’s almost like he’s become another person. I just hope he’s not, you know, on something.” She wraps her arms around her knees, looking even smaller as she pulls herself into a tight ball.

  Fear and certainty explode across me like a dying sun. An easygoing violinist is suddenly mean to his friends? Forgets his songs? I think of how he couldn’t remember loaning me his instrument at the party in Montclair. Destiny, he said, when I collided with him in the hallway. As if there was such a thing.

  Eli is Cyrus. I know it like I know that thunder follows lightning.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I say quietly, fingers losing purchase on the slick surface of the piano. “I can’t wait to hear you guys play.”

  “Thanks for letting me talk,” she answers, but I’m already halfway out the door.

  Tonight, on Treasure Island, I’m going to kill Cyrus at last. I’ve found him before he found me.

  I’m closing in. I just pray he isn’t doing the same.

  SEVENTEEN

  Outside, the sun lingers even while the sky roils with purple clouds. It’s my favorite kind of weather, my favorite kind of light. It’s just past four, and the late November sun will be going down soon, but for now it washes everything with gold.

  As Noah drives me home, I watch his profile. After tonight, there will be nothing to keep us apart. He pulls up to the curb outside my house.

  “Wait,” I say. “I don’t want to go home yet.” Something unspoken passes between us, some agreement, and we head silently down the street, our feet padding lightly over the leaves that stick to the pavement in an organic, earthy collage.

  Noah pauses and pulls me with him toward a stone staircase, a pedestrian shortcut up the hill to the next street over. I must have passed it a hundred times, but somehow I never noticed it before.

  I follow him, trees dripping leftover rain onto my forehead. At the top of the hill is an abandoned fountain surrounded by trees. He pulls me toward him, blue eyes sparkling in the gold light.

  When his eyes are like this, I want to tell him who I am, so badly. How can he look at me this way when he only knows a hundredth of my being, when he doesn’t even know my name?

  Noah pulls away from me. “What’s wrong?” he asks, searching my expression.

  “Nothing,” I answer. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “You’re happy, right? With me?” His eyes darken to a bluer shade.

  “You make me happier than anyone else I’ve ever known,” I answer, my voice low.

  “That’s all you have to say,” he answers, stroking my hair. I lean against his chest, hearing his heart beat under his sweater. “I want this moment forever. This light, you. This place.”

  I laugh when he pulls his camera out from the messenger bag he carries. He tells me to sit on the edge of the fountain while he fiddles with the lens and various aperture settings.

  He comes closer, closer, till he’s standing right in front of me, looking down. “Just look at me,” he instructs. “Forget the camera’s here.”

  I do as he says, looking past the lens to his forehead, to his hair. I love you, I think.

  Click. “Perfect,” he says.

  * * *

  Back at the house, I slip unnoticed into the garage. I’m hit with the smell of dirt from Mrs. Morgan’s gardening equipment and an acrid mixture of paint and cleaning chemicals. I run my hand over the nearest wall, recoiling when I touch a thick, sticky spiderweb, but then I find the light switch and flip it up.

  In the corner, on a shelf that sags beneath the weight of camping equipment and power tools, I see Mr. Morgan’s fishing tackle box. I hurry toward it, brushing against a rusty pink cruiser bicycle, staining my jeans with grease and rust. It must have been Kailey’s when she was younger.

  I pick up the knife carefully and slip it out from its leather sheath. It’s sharp, serrated, and shines brightly in the overhead light. Perfect. From outside, I hear the familiar rattle of Mr. Morgan’s Volvo pulling into the driveway, so I slip the sheathed knife into my knee-high boots, slip through the garage, and turn off the light.

  I dart through the hallway and back into Kailey’s room, exhaling as I flop onto the bed. The weight of the knife feels comfortingly solid against my calf.

  Having it there reminds me of my early days with Cyrus. I used to carry a knife at all times. That was before Cyrus brought Jared and Sébastien into our coven, before I was told that keeping me safe was the men’s job. Before Cyrus stopped trusting me with my own weapons.

  I think through my plan for tonight. It won’t be too hard to find Eli backstage after their set. But what will I say? Oh, Eli, your music is so incredible. I’ve never felt more alive. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter what I say. Cyrus has never been able to resist flattery, especially from a pretty girl.

  I wonder if, in the last few moments, as I lean in for a kiss and pull the knife from my boot, he’ll realize his mistake. I want him to know that I’m the one who finally succeeded in killing him. I want him to realize how much he’s always underestimated me.

  EIGHTEEN

  The cold ocean breeze sweeps across Treasure Island as though we were on a boat tossed by salty waves. I’m glad I listened to Leyla and dressed warmly—even with my wool hat, coat, and scarf, I’m chilled to the bone when the wind gusts, but Noah doesn’t seem to mind when I lean into him.

  “C’mon,” Leyla urges us. “I see fire over there.”

  In the distance I spot the abandoned naval barracks, orange flames flickering up their graffiti-covered stucco walls and silhouetting the profiles of hundreds of kids who are here for the music.

  I take Noah’s hand and follow Leyla, Bryan a few steps ahead of us. The wet grass has been trampled to mud by hundreds of feet, and it tries to suck my boots off as I walk. According to the texts everyone has been sending, Reed and Rebecca have already joined Madison in the crowd, and Nicole is on her way with Chantal.

  We reach the barracks and slip through the crowd in a human chain. There’s a makeshift stage on the steps of one of the abandoned dormitories, and the first band is already playing. It consists of three bearded, skinny guitarists and a drummer. They don’t appear to have a singer but don’t need to, the guitars weaving a chiming wall of sound that’s as complicated as a Bach fugue.

  Madison’s standing on a crate so she can get a better view of the band, Reed and Rebecca stationed in front of her like guards.

  “This place is amazing,” Bryan admits, and Leyla grins triumphantly.

  “I told you. Broken windows, graffiti, spookiness galore. And all right next to San Francisco! You guys, we should pretend this whole crowd is a horde of zombies.” She cocks an imaginary shotgun.

  “You gotta aim for the head,” adds Bryan, doing the same. “Otherwise they won’t die.”

  Madison shakes her head. “You guys both know that zombies are scientifically impossible, right?”

  “Science has nothing to do with monsters,” Leyla retorts.

  Oh, how wrong she is.

  “You clearly haven’t read Frankenstein, if that’s what you think.” Reed shoots Leyla a smil
e that verges on a smirk.

  “Good point. Let’s toast to experiments gone wrong, then,” says Leyla, pulling a bottle of wine out of the voluminous folds of her coat—though it might be more apt to call it a cloak, the red wool falling around her like she’s Little Red Riding Hood. She passes it around, and we each take a long swallow. I feel its warmth reaching down into my chest as the song finally comes to an end.

  “We’re Firestorm, and we’re from Texas,” announces the lead guitarist to a roar of applause, before beginning the next song, his fingers coaxing an achingly sweet motif from the instrument that’s soon joined by a throb of drums.

  I lean over to Madison. “When is Eli’s band coming on?”

  “They’re next,” she informs me, with a wide smile. “I’m really excited to hear them play.”

  “Me too,” I respond. And I am, though not for the reason she thinks.

  Although excited is not quite the right word for how I feel, this wrenching combination of dread and anticipation. I’m not looking forward to killing Cyrus, to watching his stolen body disintegrate into dust.

  I never wanted to be a killer, even though I’ve killed countless times, just to stay alive. But this is different. Cyrus has already killed Eli. How many more will have to die before he’s satisfied?

  I throw my head back as the next song begins, the tops of the buildings looming over me like trees. Noah’s hand finds mine. He squeezes my fingers, then hands me the bottle of wine. I take another drink, watching his profile in the flickering light, before passing it along to Reed.

  It’s amazing to think how much has changed since I first heard Eli’s band play at Dawson’s party. It was only a month ago, and Kailey’s friends were strangers to me. I wanted to escape, I wanted to die. Her life was a prison that I’d unwittingly locked myself into.

  Now I can’t imagine leaving this life. I would fight for it. I will fight for it.

  The song ends, and my heart floats back to earth. The band waves good-bye, and the crowd sends them off on an eruption of cheers and applause.

  Silence descends as people bustle around on stage, changing out instruments and adjusting wires.

  “Their set went by so quickly,” I say.

  “Don’t worry,” Madison replies. “The next act is going to be even better.” She wraps her arms around herself. A chill of danger bubbles through me. As soon as Eli’s band goes offstage, I’ll make my move. Lure Cyrus into a shadowy corner, and end it.

  Rebecca nods. “The Travelers are really good.” I stifle a laugh. Looks like Madison’s found the perfectly obedient assistant. I don’t think I’ve heard Maddy say one thing that Rebecca hasn’t agreed with.

  Reed takes another swig of wine, his teeth slightly purple when he smiles. “You know, I don’t usually go in for this indie rock scene, but that last group was pretty good.”

  Just then the crowd cheers as Eli’s band walks out on stage. I see Julie, a fedora perched on top of her hair, and the boy with the stretched-out earlobes who plays banjo. There’s another boy I haven’t seen before who sits behind the drum kit with an inexplicably sad expression on his face.

  I don’t see Eli—Cyrus—anywhere.

  My heart starts to thud.

  “Where the hell are Nicole and Chantal?” Madison muses. She pulls out her phone and begins texting furiously.

  Julie straps her accordion to her chest slowly, her back to the crowd. She looks at each of her bandmates, who nod to her in turn. She turns around, walking up to the microphone. She adjusts it down for her size and offers a wan smile to the audience as she does so, earning her a cacophony of claps and cheers.

  “Hi,” she says into the mic. The crowd welcomes her with more applause.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” she continues. Everyone falls silent. “Our lead singer, Eli, is missing.”

  No. Not again.

  A low murmur of concern rumbles through the crowd. The wind is nothing to the cold that runs through my veins.

  “We talked about canceling our set, but we know that’s not what he’d want.” She takes a deep breath, and I can tell she’s holding back tears. “So we’re going to play anyway.” The crowd cheers. The sound is poisonous. “And we’re going to start with a song that he just finished. Eli, if you’re out there, this one’s for you. Please come home.”

  The banjo player walks across the stage to stand next to her, putting his arm around her and taking the microphone out of its stand. She backs away, tears shining in her eyes.

  The banjo player holds the mic to his mouth. “Julie forgot to tell you the name of Eli’s song.” She nods gratefully, and he continues. “It’s called ‘Seraphina.’ ”

  My heart nearly stops.

  “I wonder if Mr. Shaw told Eli about Seraphina, too,” Noah murmurs in my ear. I am too stunned to answer. The band starts playing. Julie’s accordion emits a low, mournful hum as the boy plucks out a melody on his banjo in a minor key. After a few bars, he leans into the microphone and sings:

  She gave me poison wine

  She climbed the stair at night

  She set my blood on fire

  Before she took flight

  Seraphina, I know you’re still there

  I know the light that falls upon your hair

  At the chorus, Julie leans in and harmonizes with him, her thin soprano wavering above his warm voice. I force myself to stay calm and listen, though every muscle in my body is telling me to run.

  She burns in different colors

  She sees with different eyes

  Her body is a vessel

  for different colored skies

  Seraphina, I’ll love you till I’m gone

  I’ll search the world till you’re where you belong

  She’s an old soul by starlight

  with my blue book beside her

  She’s made a mistake

  and it fills me with fire

  Seraphina, don’t you dare kiss another

  I’ll kill him myself if you take a lover

  At this, I suck in my breath, looking at Noah out of the corner of my eye. The wind shifts, sending a column of smoke into my face.

  She’s my past, she’s my future

  She’s my Renaissance bird

  I won’t rest till she’s back

  Take me at my word

  Seraphina, be faithful. Be true, little girl

  I won’t stop with him. I’ll destroy your whole world

  She loved me in the garden

  She kissed my silver soul

  Without her, I am nothing

  So I’ll never let her go

  The crowd explodes with approval as they finish. Every muscle in my body is rigid, my blood running thick and slow. I briefly wonder if I might faint, might sink into unconsciousness the way a stone drops into deep water.

  “Are you okay?” Noah asks me, his turquoise eyes flickering with worry, his eyebrows pulled low over them.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me. The wind blows, lifting his crow-colored hair behind him, individual tendrils backlit by fire.

  “Your eyes are wet,” he says.

  “I . . . I think it’s the smoke from the bonfire,” I lie.

  “Do you want to go get some air?” he asks.

  I shake my head. I want to run. But I can’t. It would reveal me to Cyrus, whoever he is now. I have no doubt that he’s close by, scanning the crowd to see which girl trembles, which girl is obviously shaken.

  I feel Reed’s hand on my arm. “That song was beautiful, wasn’t it? It reminds me of traditional murder ballads.” A bomb goes off inside me. Shrapnel pumps in my heart.

  “I don’t think threats are beautiful,” I say.

  He smiles. “Whoever this Seraphina is, she’d better watch out.”

  This conversation just became very, very dangerous. “Maybe she doesn’t love him anymore,” I whisper weakly.

  “I don’t think that’s an option,” Reed replies, never breaking e
ye contact. “He said he’ll never let her go.”

  The flames from the bonfire dance in his eyes. And for just a moment, they look ice blue.

  NINETEEN

  The rest of the set passes in a nonsensical wave of static. I wait as long as I can stand it before tugging on Noah’s hand. “I need to get some air,” I murmur, choking on my own voice. When we turn to leave, Reed grabs my shoulder once more.

  “Where are you going?” he demands.

  “She needs a minute away from the fire,” Noah says roughly.

  “I’ll see you later.” I force myself to sound casual.

  “You better come back,” he says, tightening his grip on my upper arm, then smiles warmly to show he’s only kidding, to disarm me.

  Noah pulls me away, shoving his way through the crowd with ease, his broad shoulders clearing our path, till we reach the edge where San Francisco is visible.

  “I need you to take me home,” I tell Noah. “Now.”

  “What’s going on, Kailey?” His forehead is furrowed, his lips tight.

  “We can talk in the car,” I answer, my heart breaking. Cyrus’s message is clear. I know what I have to do.

  * * *

  I watch Noah’s profile as he drives us back to Berkeley in silence, remembering the night we hiked to the top of the cliff, the night he saved my life, the night I almost killed him. If I hadn’t stopped when I did, he’d be dead now.

  But he’s alive. And I need him to stay that way.

  I look out the passenger side window, the world passing in a blur of lights. I open the window, and the wind stings my eyes. I wish I were high above the Arctic Circle, where the winter air would freeze my tears, where I’d suffer some frostbitten consequence on my face to match the way I feel inside. I want to be in a place where the winter solstice means darkness twenty-four hours a day, the sun only circling the sky, keeping far away from me like the curse I am.

  I remember the cramped jazz club in Paris that I used to drag us to, back when the coven lived there in the nineteenth century. I’d insist that we stay out till dawn, till everyone else’s eyes were drooping with exhaustion. It was tucked away behind an old stone façade on Rue des mes. Look at the street’s name! I said to Charlotte. Yes, she agreed. Street of the souls, the perfect place for Seraphina Ames to drink pastis.