Rogue Page 7

  “Us?” her mom shrieked.

  YES! Last time Zara almost slit your throat, remember? But of course, they didn’t remember. Uncle Mort had Amnesia’d them. “Go somewhere else, get out of the house, okay? How about Aunt Veronica’s?”

  Her father let out an impatient grunt. Lex could picture him pulling at his goatee. “We’re not going to pick up and move to Oregon just because you say so, Lex.”

  “Although—” her mom interrupted. “There have been some strange people about.” Something rustled, as if she were pulling back a window curtain. “That guy over there with all the piercings—I’ve never seen him before.”

  Lex looked at Uncle Mort. “Lazlo,” he mouthed.

  Security detail. Elsewhere. Lex made a clawing motion at his face for not telling her sooner. Even though she felt a small stab of relief, Lazlo was only one person, and she’d seen what Norwood could do—

  “Exactly,” Lex said into the phone. “You need to get out.”

  “If we really are in danger,” her father said, “why don’t we call the police?”

  “No!” Lex said. She couldn’t imagine the heights to which non-Grimsphere law enforcement would complicate things. “No, the police won’t help. Don’t get them involved. Just leave, okay? How about the neighbors—go stay with them!”

  “Lex, enough,” her father said in the voice that always meant that, well, he’d had enough. “We’re not going anywhere. We’ll lock the doors and not open up for strangers, but that’s about as much as I’m willing to indulge in this nonsense.”

  Lex gritted her teeth. It wouldn’t matter if they locked the doors. Norwood could Crash right into their friggin’ living room. “That won’t help—”

  “Besides, if the son of a bitch who killed Cordy shows up on my doorstep, you can be damned sure I’m not just going to run away.”

  Lex sighed. She wasn’t going to win this, she could tell. “Fine. Just be careful, okay? Be aware of your surroundings, don’t go anywhere alone,” she rattled off, using the same safety speech her mother had delivered a thousand times.

  “I’m hanging up,” her father said. “Tell Mort to call me when he’s done running his cult and corrupting my daughter.”

  The line clicked off.

  “Mom?” Lex asked after a moment. Her mother hadn’t said anything in a while. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well . . . say something.”

  Another pause.

  “There’s nothing to say, Lex. We can’t protect you if you don’t want to be protected. We can’t bring you home if you don’t want to be found.” She let out a shaky breath. “And clearly, you don’t.”

  Lex was squeezing and unsqueezing the receiver so hard, her knuckles were turning all kinds of colors. “I have to do this, Mom. I know that you and Dad are worried, but trust me—it’s really, really important. Worth risking my life for, even. I know you can’t understand that, but . . .”

  She waited for a response, but the other end had gone silent once again. Lex couldn’t tell if her mom was thinking about what she said, or crying, or what.

  Finally, she spoke. And when she did, she sounded so small and weak that Lex couldn’t do anything but hang up without responding.

  “Come home, Lex. Please?”

  5

  Pandora brought the Stiff to a stop around ten o’clock. The Juniors’ heads bobbed up, still half asleep.

  “Where are we?” Pip asked.

  “Nowhere,” said Uncle Mort. “Specifically, the middle of.”

  It certainly seemed like nowhere. The Stiff’s headlights illuminated a wall of trees, the woods thick and heavy with snow. They were in a small clearing peppered with black mounds of rock. Except for a small lighted candle next to the biggest mound, the area was pitch-dark.

  “Grab your stuff,” Uncle Mort told them. “And flashlights on.”

  They piled out of the car, swinging the beams of light around, throwing creepy shadows onto the tree trunks. The big rock with the candle next to it was white, it turned out. And box-shaped.

  “Is that a . . . tomb?” Elysia said.

  It was. The lights darted to the other mounds, now recognizable as headstones. Most of the engraved names were too worn away to read, but Lex was able to make out a few of them: TAYLOR, SHAW, and the far too appropriate DEDD.

  “And now you’ve brought us to a cemetery,” she said. She’d gone from extreme anguish over her parents’ phone call to extreme sadness and was now just tired and past caring, which meant her sarcasm factory was operating at full steam. “The party rockin’ good times never stop rolling with you, Uncle Mort.”

  He wisely ignored her. “This place is called Grave,” he told them. “It’s a burial ground for any Grims who wish to be laid to rest here. Besides Croak, DeMyse, and Necropolis, this is the only other Grimsphere locale in the country. But there’s no city attached—just the graveyard. Oh, and this.”

  He picked up the little candle next to the large white tomb and held it next to the name carved on its face, BUNKER. After a moment the door slowly began to open, making a cringeworthy noise of stone grating against stone.

  “In we go,” Uncle Mort said, disappearing into the doorway.

  Elysia’s fingernails never left Lex’s arm. “I saw this in a movie once,” she said, her voice still high as they walked into the tomb. “This is the part where our intestines come out.”

  Lex watched with vague alarm as Grotton wandered off—he seemed to be very excited by all the ambient death—but she relaxed when she remembered that he was bound to the Wrong Book, which was tucked firmly under Bang’s arm. He couldn’t go far.

  They stepped down a narrow set of stairs until they reached a closed door. The flashlight beams danced around the space, but there was nothing to see other than Uncle Mort fumbling for something. “Just a sec,” Lex heard him say. “Should be right around—here.”

  With a loud click the door swung open. Uncle Mort stepped in and flicked on the lights.

  Lex frowned. Lights? In a tomb?

  “Oh,” she said as they all walked into a kitchen lined with metal shelves full of canned goods. “A bunker. An actual bunker.”

  “Nothing gets by you, kiddo,” Uncle Mort said, dropping his stuff on the wooden kitchen table. “Only a few Grims know about this place, and Wicket is right behind us to keep watch, so it should be the safest place for the rest of you to stay while Lex and I go on to Necropolis.”

  All the air seemed to leave the room at once. “What?” Elysia cried.

  Uncle Mort’s brow furrowed, as if he were trying to choose his words very carefully. “I cannot overstate how dangerous Necropolis is going to be. Remember: We narrowly escaped a life sentence to the Hole. We are in open rebellion against the government. Lex Damned the mayor’s wife. Most citizens of the Grimsphere think we are ruthless criminals, and they won’t hesitate to nab us on sight—and with all nine of us running around the city, we’d make that all too easy for them. I can’t in good conscience ask you to hurl yourselves into a deathfest like that.” He took a vial of Amnesia out of his pocket. “Which brings me to this.”

  Lex didn’t think his expression could become any graver, but it did. “You won’t remember anything,” he told them quietly. “Not me, or Lex, or any parts of your life as a Grim. But you’ll be alive, which is more than I can promise if you continue on to Necropolis.”

  He placed the vial in the center of the table. The Juniors wordlessly stared at it, then at each other. No one moved.

  Until Elysia stood, picked it up, and removed the stopper.

  Ferbus grabbed the edge of his hoodie, pulling her back. “Lys!”

  But without blinking an eye, she emptied the Amnesia onto the concrete floor, tossed the vial over her shoulder, and sat back down with a perky grin. “Oops!” she said. “It leaked.”

  Uncle Mort looked around the circle at the rest of the Juniors, all of whom wore the same look of defiance. He gave them a bleak smile
. “Okay then,” he said, nodding. “Although I wish you’d asked before destroying what would have been a very useful few drops of Amnesia, Elysia. We are heading into a deathfest, after all.”

  When she looked stricken with guilt, Uncle Mort smiled. “Just kidding. I have extra.” He opened his bag. It was overflowing with identical vials.

  “We’re just past the halfway point to Necropolis, so we should arrive by the end of the day tomorrow.” He pointed at the darkened doorways shooting off from the kitchen, then started to head back up the stairs. “Three rooms, one bunk bed each.”

  At the word “bed,” Lex and Driggs exchanged glances of the lascivious variety.

  “Get a good night’s sleep,” Uncle Mort went on, “because once we get to Necropolis . . .”

  “We might have to stay awake and fight for our lives or slay an ogre or something,” finished Ferbus as Uncle Mort left. “Yeah, we know the drill.”

  Pip hurried into one of the rooms and flicked on the light. “I call top!” he said, hurling his bag to the upper bed and scaling the ladder before anyone could protest.

  “As usual,” Bang signed. She took an empty mason jar from the shelf, sniffed at it, then brought it into the room along with all of her other stuff—including the Wrong Book—and closed the door.

  Ferbus gave Elysia a smarmy smile. “Top or bottom, honeybunch?”

  “Ew.” She stomped into the room, dumped her stuff onto the bed, and sat on the mattress with her arms crossed.

  Ferbus winked at Driggs. “Bottom it is, then.” He dove into the room and slammed the door. Fighting commenced shortly thereafter.

  Not that Lex or Driggs were around to hear it. As soon as that door clicked shut, they ran into the last room without even bothering to flick on the light switch. Laughing, Lex climbed to the top bunk, and Driggs followed her so quickly she had to wonder if he had floated up in his ghost form.

  Nope—solid, Lex thought as he landed on top of her. Definitely solid.

  “Sure you’re okay with this?” he asked. “I mean, the call to your parents—”

  “Believe me,” she said, holding on to his arm as tightly as she could to make sure he stayed solid, “I’m thankful for the release. I mean distraction. I mean . . . whatever it is that I’m supposed to mean. You sure we’re not going to get in trouble?”

  “Mort left us alone to claim rooms. What did he think would happen? Besides, the others did it first.”

  “The others are not his niece, whose life he has solemnly sworn to make a living hell.”

  “No offense, Lex, but you seem to be doing a pretty good job of that yourself.”

  “Touché.”

  “Merci.”

  That French exchange led to a very different kind of French exchange, one that went on for several minutes and resulted in much slobber coating each other’s faces, as they both kept trying to insert all the unsaid things they’d been wanting to say to each other—since now, evidently, was the perfect time to do so.

  “I lovf you,” Lex said, her tongue halfway out of her mouth.

  “I uve you koo,” Driggs replied, his teeth otherwise occupied.

  “I don’t even care that you’re a freak now. Doesn’t change a thing.”

  “And I don’t even care that it’s partially your fault.” Horniness had given them both the gift of bluntness, it seemed. “Got that? Please don’t sweat it anymore. We’re cool.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Does this bra open from the front or the back?”

  “Back. And you’re sure nothing hurts at all? I mean, your hair’s still soaking wet. Think it’ll be that way forever?”

  Off flew his shirt, which landed on an outstretched arm of the ceiling fan. “Beats me. God, is there a padlock on this thing?”

  “It’s not rocket science, Driggs. It’s a bra.”

  “It’s a Rubik’s cube of diabolical proportions, is what it—ha! Suck it, evil underwear!” Triumphant, he flung the unfastened conundrum across the room, where it gracefully sailed to a resting place atop the head of—

  “There’s that pesky light switch!” Uncle Mort blared as he swept into the room, bathing the half-naked forms of Lex and Driggs in a harsh, unforgiving light.

  The ceiling fan turned on as well, as if happy to be invited to the party.

  Mortified, Lex and Driggs fumbled with the blankets to cover themselves, but they succeeded only in poking each other in the eye. “Please, carry on,” Uncle Mort said, calmly placing his bag on the lower mattress as the futile attempts at modesty continued above. “I believe you were discussing my niece’s undergarments.” He held up the bra in question, which Lex snatched out of his hand from beneath the covers, allowing a bevy of swear words to escape.

  Driggs’s shirt continued to twirl on the ceiling fan above, a festive little carousel amid the carnival of embarrassment.

  “Good thing you’re sharing a bed,” Uncle Mort shouted up to them over more whispered grunts of “That’s my shirt, idiot,” and “Oh, God, panties. These are PANTIES.” “With the Juniors in the other two rooms and Pandora keeping watch in the car, there was almost no space left for me.”

  Driggs’s tousled head popped out, panting as he adjusted something beneath the blanket. “Uh, we could take the car, and Dora could stay in here with you.” A drop of sweat fell from his brow onto Uncle Mort’s shoe, which they both looked down at, then back at each other. “Just a suggestion.”

  “Nah, Dora’s a snorer,” Uncle Mort replied as Driggs dove back under the covers. “Trust me, we want as many walls between that epiglottis and us as humanly possible. Plus, I thought it might be fun for all three of us to bunk together. Party rockin’ good times, huh, Lex?” he said, banging on the bedpost.

  She gave him a look that could have easily set him aflame where he stood. “I will end you,” she growled through clenched teeth.

  “Welp!” he said cheerfully, crossing back to the light switch as the scrambling above grew ever more desperate. “I’m bushed. What do you kids say we hit the hay?” He switched off the light and with one last yank, Driggs tumbled clear off the bed and plummeted to the floor.

  As if on cue, the shirt fluttered down from the ceiling fan, draping itself over Driggs’s moaning, crumpled form.

  Lex pulled the last of her clothes back on and looked over the edge. “Driggs? You okay?”

  A weak thumbs-up emerged.

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix. Sweet dreams, kids!” Uncle Mort heartily slapped Driggs’s back, then jumped into the bed, eliciting a high-pitched groan from the rusted metal. “Uh-oh! Sounds like we’ve got a squeaky one!”

  Lex could only grip the blankets in horror.

  ***

  Poor Lexington Bartleby had been through a lot in the last year. She’d buried her own sister, strangled her former nemesis, and started an international war of epic proportions.

  But staying absolutely still in a twin bed next to her boyfriend and above her uncle was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

  Once, Driggs inched his hand toward her leg, but the resulting coughing fit from the bed below put a quick stop to that.

  “How does he do that?” Lex hissed.

  Driggs could only groan-sigh in reply.

  But while he managed to drift off to sleep after an hour or so, Lex wasn’t as lucky. She tossed. She turned. She shut her eyes and ordered herself to fall asleep, thus ensuring that she would never be able to do so. Eventually she sat up, climbed down the ladder, and made her way to the kitchen. After snapping on the light, she sank into the chair at the table and sat there for a minute, thinking.

  Her escapades with Driggs, doomed as they were, had still taken her mind off the myriad of problems they were facing. She was glad for the rest stop, but staying in one place for so long was making her uneasy. Norwood knew they were heading to Necropolis. He could easily guess the routes they might take. Who was to say he couldn’t just barge into the bunker right then
and there, Damning them all where they slept?

  Lex looked at the front door.

  Nothing happened.

  She sighed and rubbed her eyes. If Uncle Mort thought it was safe to stop, he was probably right. He usually was. He’d even been right about calling her parents to warn them, although that hadn’t gone quite as well as she’d hoped . . .

  With a sharp breath, Lex looked around the kitchen, wanting to focus on anything other than that little nugget of misery. The floor was a dirty concrete, and the shelves held a variety of provisions, the type of doomsday scenario stuff that kept forever—dried beans, canned soup, and Twinkies. More disconcerting was the counter, atop of which sat a pile of rusty knives. At least Lex thought it was rust. It could have been the other thing.

  Now even more agitated, Lex got up from the chair and ducked back into the bedroom to grab her bag; there had to be something in there to distract her. She plopped it on the table and began to rifle through it, taking care to ignore her Lifeglass—the hourglass-shaped device that stored her memories—as it eagerly tried to replay that night on the cliff, displaying Lex’s wet, freezing hands wrapped around Zara’s wet, freezing neck.

  “Great idea, Lex,” she sarcastically muttered to herself. “This is helping already.”

  Uncle Mort still had all their Sparks in his bag, so Lex couldn’t look at her own, but she always had Cordy’s on hand. She held up the smooth glass sphere, squinting at the bright light radiating from its center. After a moment she put it back, wrapping it safely within the plush tentacles of Captain Wiggles, Cordy’s old stuffed octopus.

  Then her hand brushed against something hard. Frowning, she pulled it out to reveal the big hole punch.

  She rolled her eyes. Uncle Mort may as well have armed her with a rubber chicken.

  With nothing left to entertain her, she absent-mindedly turned over the device in her hands, then grabbed both its arms and squeezed, just for the hell of it. But as soon as her hands met, an invisible force caused her to fly back in her chair and topple to the floor.

  Slowly, she put one hand on the table and pulled herself up. Hovering above its surface was a perfect gray circle.