Page 18 of inevitablepub


  Chapter 11

  A few lazy clouds dotted the brilliant blue sky when I parked at Irvine Park. My cell phone buzzed with a text message from Brent letting me know he was running late. There was an accident on the toll road.

  Enjoying the sun on my face, I wandered around until I stopped at the railing overlooking a pond lined with lily pads and bright pink flowers. Something moved behind me, bringing with it a breath of air so cold goose bumps formed on my skin and the hairs on my arms stood on end. A ghost. I spun around, reaching into my pocket for ghost-be-gone.

  Grady hovered near me, his eyes flashing dark and light. He moved before I could free my hand. He howled in pain as his fingers touched my skin, and quickly withdrew.

  “Grady White.” Somehow I kept my voice calm.

  Clear blue eyes blinked at me. “What—”

  Before he could finish his question, a pulse of midnight blue flickered back into his eyes.

  I pulled out my phone and hit the song I’d had ready for this moment. A rap song that made my ears want to bleed poured from the speaker.

  The dark blue receded again, and he shook his head, clarity returning. I hoped and pressed on, reciting the poem he had written for the yearbook.

  The dark blue totally vanished. “Run! It won’t last long. I can feel Clarke pulling back; she’s still in my head!”

  “Can you tell me anything that will help?”

  He opened his mouth and his lips quivered, but didn’t move, and he shook his head.

  “Can you at least tell me why they killed you?”

  “They didn’t.” He shook his head, his eyes wide. “It was an accident. I mixed up my insulin shots, and they caught me before I could get into the light.”

  “Can you think of anything that might help me?”

  He grabbed the ends of his hair pulling hard and shook his head.

  “It’s okay. I’m here to help. Are you ready to cross over?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t want to be dead. I—” His eyes widened. “Please help me. She’s calling to me again!”

  My heart raced at his anxiety. I took a deep breath and rolled my shoulders. “Grady, are you are ready to move on? To find peace?”

  He nodded frantically, his fingers clenching, his arms quivering.

  A brilliant burst of light appeared behind him. I shielded my eyes as its warmth slid over me. The warmth turned hot and pulled at me, like a magnet, sucking me in. The council’s warning became a reality as my feet slid toward the light. I dug my heels into the ground and threw myself back, grasping the limb of a tree, my hair flowing past my face toward the light.

  He glanced behind him, his tension melting away. “It came back. She said it wouldn’t.”

  “She lied.”

  He drifted toward it but then doubled over, screaming, clutching the sides of his head. “She’s too strong. I can’t break free!”

  He convulsed and pivoted back to me, his eyes flickering between dark and light blue.

  “I’m sorry if this hurts you.”

  Steeling myself, I ran toward him and grabbed his wrist, throwing his arm around my shoulder, then secured my other arm around his waist. Like a soldier propping up a wounded comrade, I helped him stumble toward the light.

  He screamed. I wasn’t sure if his pain came from my touch or Clarke’s pull.

  At the edge of the light, its calming tendrils reached out, inviting me closer. I stopped short before I took what would have been my last mortal step. It wasn’t my time.

  Grady sagged at my side. I unwound him from me before shoving him forward. He half turned toward me, teetering at the brink of the light. I stretched out one finger and pushed his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” he said, stumbling back into its glow. His final smile reminded me of the one from his yearbook.

  Leaning back against the force of the pull, I clambered back to my tree branch, clutching at it until the light vanished.

  It wasn’t exactly my most graceful example of how to guide a ghost into the light, but it worked. Now Crosby’s Waker had one less spirit on her side, and Grady was at peace.

  The doorbell woke me from an afternoon nap. With a yawn, I stumbled from the couch and answered the door. A pretty girl about my age stood on our welcome mat. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

  “Hi. How can I help you?”

  “Can I come in?” She shifted from foot to foot, looking over her shoulder, tucking her curly dark blonde hair behind her ear. “Please.”

  “As soon as you tell me where I know you from.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe waiting. With Crosby on the loose, it wasn’t the time to trust strangers.

  “I’m Faith Rallison, a Waker.” She gave me a wan smile. “We met at your meeting with the council when you came back from Brazil.”

  That’s how I knew her. She’d been the one crying at the meeting.

  I opened the door wide enough to let her in. “You know they don’t like me very much, right?”

  “I know.” She lifted her chin in the air. “It doesn’t matter. We need you.” Just inside the house, Faith stopped. “Um, I have a spirit with me, and believe me, you’ll want her to come in. You can trust her.”

  “Who?”

  Her hazel eyes moistened. “My mom, Janette Rallison. She . . . died recently.” Suddenly her tears at the meeting made sense. “Your wards are stopping her from entering. Being bound to me, she could probably force her way in to wherever I am, but it would damage the integrity of your wards. Besides,” she added with a grin, “it just seems rude.”

  “She’s welcome to come in, but I don’t know how to get her past the wards. Hold on. I’ll go get my grandma.”

  I escorted Faith to the couch and went in search of Vovó. I found her in her room, reading. As soon as I told her about our visitors, Vovó had me write Janette’s name on a small piece of paper and place it in a glass jar filled with similar slips, some dirt, and herbs.

  “Some soil from our yard,” she explained. “I also added rosemary, wintergreen, basil, ivy and garlic and some of your ghost-be-gone powder. The names inside are the spirits we will allow into our home.”

  “And you keep it in here?” I closed the jar.

  “Yes, but the other jars around the house work with it. That’s how the spirits got in that day; DJ moved some of them around, leaving gaps.” She took the jar from me and returned it to the shelf. “She is now welcome into our home.”

  Janette and Faith were both in the living room when I returned.

  “Thank you,” Faith said, clutching her purse on her lap. “My mom is a large part of why I came to see you today. We have some information to share with you.”

  I glanced between the mother and daughter. Even though Janette had chestnut brown hair, they looked a lot alike; Faith had her mother’s eyes. Based on the modern cut of Janette’s black tee shirt and jeans, I guessed she hadn’t been dead very long.

  “How long ago did you pass?” I asked.

  “I was murdered a few days before your first meeting with the council, by Crosby.”

  My mouth went dry as I sank onto the couch. “He murdered a Matriarca?”

  She nodded. “Yes, with his team of body guards and his own Matriarca.”

  “Is Clarke one of yours?”

  Janette shook her head. “Clarke came from Brazil to research something and Crosby recruited her. She’s the new leader of the Dias line.”

  But I’d met the Matriarca of the Dias line. She was my second great aunt, or something like that. I’d only met her a few times, but I couldn’t see her working for Crosby.

  “From the Dias line?” Vovó asked. I hadn’t even heard her come into the room. “But that isn’t possible. I’ve known Teresa for years. She wouldn’t have turned on her own.”

  “Not Teresa. Clarke. Teresa died.”

  Vovó sank down beside me and took my hand in hers. “Teresa died?” She asked in a frail voice. “I hadn’t heard.”


  “Teresa was killed because she would not help Crosby.” Janette gave Vovó a grim smile. “Hello, Ilma.”

  “It is an honor to have you here with us.” Vovó dipped her head in respect. “How did Crosby convince Clarke to work for him?”

  “He knew she was next in line and abducted her when she was here. Then he had Teresa killed. We don’t know how he turned her to his side.”

  Vovó raised her hand to her heart and I gasped. “Did you know Clarke, Vovó?”

  “Sim. I hadn’t seen her since she was a child, but yes, I knew her. When I first heard her name, I thought of our Clarke, but I didn’t know her mother had died. Or that Clarke had left Brazil. I thought it must be someone else.” Vovó took off her glasses and cleaned them on the bottom of her shirt. “I’m surprised that we hadn’t heard of Teresa’s passing.”

  “I think their line is in chaos right now,” Janette said.

  I bit my lip, considering Janette. “Do you know why Crosby went after you?”

  She shook her head. “It’s all so hazy. I know Clarke and Crosby were both there. They didn’t mean to kill me. They were trying to get information from me.”

  “What do you have that they’d want?”

  This time, Faith spoke. “My mom has a photographic memory. I do too. She’s the record keeper of all our Waker histories and stories.”

  I crossed my arms. “But you’re not sure what they were hoping to find?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t find it. We have something for you. A peace offering to make up for the way Kathryn and Rachel have treated you.”

  Faith dug in her purse and picked out a piece of handwritten notebook paper and handed it to me.

  Unfolding it, I saw an entire page of handwritten words. “What is this?”

  “This is what was on the scroll DJ destroyed.”

  “You’re serious?” I clutched the paper with trembling fingers.

  “Yes. I read it once. I remember what it said.”

  I read over it and frowned. It was a bedtime story my grandma used to tell me, the one about the first Waker. The same childhood story Vovó had read to me at night when I was a child. I tried to hide my disappointment. “Thanks.”

  “Not what you were hoping for?” Faith asked.

  “Not really. What about the story made you think it would help?”

  “Sophia Pendrell gave it to us.” Janette gave me a small grin. “Remember her?”

  “Yeah,” I said with a laugh, rubbing the spot on my scalp. “She made a lasting impression.”

  “It was something that her mother had given her, and before she died, she passed it on to her sister. She wanted to keep it from Christopher’s boys.” Janette moved closer to her daughter. “Something about their sickness. I’m not to clear on that.”

  “Do you know all about the Pendrell boys?” I asked.

  “Yes, Sophia’s stepsons were into so many things that they make that Thomas of yours look tame.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “I thought we knew everything they’d done.”

  She shook her head. “I doubt you do.”

  I looked again at the paper in my hand. “I appreciate you doing this for me, but why now? What’s changed?”

  “Nothing has really changed, we finally just realized that our family branch doesn’t need Kathryn’s approval to help. Seeing Kalina stand up to her inspired us,” Faith explained. “You and your grandma are strong, but you can’t do this alone. He killed my mom. We have a personal stake in this and we’re at your service. We’re yours to command.”

  I couldn’t find the words I needed. Her promise humbled me. “Thank you,” I finally managed. “Will the others help?”

  Faith shook her head. “They’re too afraid of the consequences. They don’t want to get involved.”

  I nodded. “Death is a scary threat.”

  “And sometimes not dying is even worse,” Janette said under her breath.

  I’m not sure what that meant, but her words sent a whisper of dread racing down my spine.

  The next afternoon Cherie and I decided to visit Headmaster Farnsworth again. We didn’t think he could help us, but he’d seemed lonely the last time we’d stopped by. Brent found out we were going and said he also wanted to be there. He hoped if he asked some questions from a different angle, it might help Mr. Farnsworth remember something important about Crosby.

  Mr. Farnsworth smiled wide when he opened the door to his personal apartment.

  “How are you doing, Sir?” Cherie asked.

  “I’m good. It’s nice to see you two beautiful young ladies again. I’m sorry but my memory isn’t what it once was.” He tapped his head with his index finger. “I can’t remember your names.”

  “No problem,” I said as I walked into his entryway. “I’m Yara and this is Cherie.”

  “That’s right.” He patted his belly. “Those cookies you brought last time were delicious.”

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. Farnsworth.” Brent followed us in. “I’m an alumnus as well.”

  Headmaster Farnsworth studied Brent as he settled into his recliner. “You look familiar. You were on the swim team. Right? And you had a brother who . . . I’m sorry about what happened to him. That was a tragedy.”

  “It was.” Brent laced his fingers together and cleared his throat. “I see that Mr. Crosby is doing well in his campaign.”

  While Brent started his gentle questioning, I stared at the family tree picture hanging on the wall. It used to be in his office at the school and it showed how he was related to Sophia and Christopher Pendrell. Something about it looked different. I tuned back into the conversation to hear the end of one of Mr. Farnsworth answers.

  “ . . . a lot of the seniors are working with him this year for their internships.”

  “And you think that’s a good idea?” Brent asked.

  “Of course.” Mr. Farnsworth crossed his ankle over his knee. “It’s a wonderful opportunity for the students to rub elbows with such a great man. He’s a testament to what a fine institution we run.”

  “And what about all that happened with the Clutch?”

  Cherie and I had asked an almost identical question on our last visit, but I still held my breath hoping for a different answer.

  The Headmaster sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “The clutch? Do you mean the car accident he had with his father? I suppose it could’ve been a clutch problem.”

  Brent, Cherie, and I exchanged disappointed glances. There was a lull in the conversation.

  “That was a shame about his father,” Cherie finally said.

  Mr. Farnsworth nodded. “It really was. Family is important.”

  My eyes went back to the family tree and it finally clicked what was different. The whole branch that lead back to Lee Pendrell, Sophia’s son, was missing. Someone had removed it.

  “Speaking of family . . .” I tilted my head toward the picture, hoping Brent and Cherie would notice the change.

  “Jamie Crosby is a wonderful man,” the Headmaster said when my voice trailed off. “He was the ideal student and will make a fine governor. We were lucky enough to have him work at our school a few years ago.”

  “So you don’t have a problem with his astral projecting?” Brent asked.

  “What’s that?” The old man’s forehead wrinkled. “Projecting? You mean his economic projections?”

  “Never mind.” I swallowed hard before asking a question that suddenly seemed very important. “You were related to a Sophia Pendrell, weren’t you?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

  Cherie gasped and Brent sat up as straight as an ironing board beside me. Bile rose in the back of my throat as I considered a horrifying theory.

  “I think we know enough,” Cherie whispered. In a louder voice, she turned the topic to less sensitive subjects.

  We made small talk for a few minutes and then excused ourselves. We made it as
far as the benches near the parking lot before I had to sit down.

  “I know Alzheimer’s is a tricky thing, but didn’t that seem a bit odd to you?”

  Brent ran his fingers through his hair. “Uh, yes. Forgetting our names isn’t so unexpected, but it seems like he’s been drinking the Crosby Kool-Aid, and that’s creepy. He didn’t remember projection or the Clutch; that was . . . not natural. Watching over the Clutch was like his family legacy.”

  “Did you see his family tree?” I asked. “Lee Pendrell has been erased.”

  Cherie tucked her hands under her thighs. “So Crosby got to him first.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “But how did he do that to his memory?”

  “I don’t know.” Brent let out a long breath. “I’m starting to think this isn’t Alzheimer’s at all. He remembers everything except Crosby and the Clutch.”

  “And us,” Cherie said. “He remembered you, Brent, but nothing about your abilities. He knows Yara and me from our last visit, but nothing about our time at school. You could be right, but is what you’re suggesting even possible?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I think we need to talk with Vovó.”

  “I’ve never heard of someone erasing memories,” Vovó said. “We know the Clutch could use mind control and Crosby has had three years with Pendrell’s research journals. Who knows what’s in those?”

  “So you’re saying we could be right?” I asked.

  Vovó put down the capsule she was filling with crushed herbs. “You might be.”

  “How do we fix Mr. Farnsworth’s memories?” Cherie asked.

  Vovó rubbed her temple. “You may never be able to fix them. If it is some kind of brain injury, it could be permanent.”

  I shivered and goose bumps rose along my arms. “That’s horrible.”

  Vovó’s eyes softened. “Especially since watching over the Clutch was a major part of his life. It would be like having an arm or leg cut off. He might not remember, but the some part of him would still be aware of the loss.”

  “We need his help.” Cherie opened her laptop. “He knows more about the Clutch than probably any other person alive . . . well except for the members, and they’re in jail, still not talking.”