The Conspiracy of Us Page 12

  I was standing on the end of the bar, hundreds of surprised faces turned up toward me. I dashed the water out of my eyes and looked around frantically, and, after a silent moment, whistles and catcalls erupted from all around. I tried to climb down onto a bar stool, and an overly tanned playboy type looked all too happy to set down his martini glass and grab me by the waist. He set me in the center of his group of leering friends, and I swatted a couple of grabby hands as I pushed out of their circle.

  An exit sign glowed in a back corner. I dodged a waitress with a tray of shots and hurried toward the door as fast as I could without drawing even more attention. The door opened on a dark street, and cool air rushed over me.

  I pushed it closed and ran. I bypassed hiding places that were too close and sprinted into a narrow alley across the street and around the corner. A nest of sleeping cats streaked away in flashes of gray and white and orange, and I huddled behind the Dumpster where they’d been, panting, dripping wet, shaking.

  I heard an echo in the quiet night as the door opened and, a minute later, slammed shut again.

  I let my head fall back against the cold brick wall and clutched my locket and oh my God the Circle and the mandate and the union and getting married and I was in so far over my head I could barely see the surface. I sucked in gasp after gasp of air.

  A year and a half ago. I was fifteen and we were living in New Orleans. The emptiness was bad that year. Lane was a senior with blue-black hair and a lip ring he sucked into his mouth when he smiled. I was wary, sure, but I thought he was bringing me into his group of friends until he had me alone at his apartment and I said no, even though all the “army brats” were supposed to be slutty. He told me to let myself out. A year earlier, Kansas. Mila Anderson and her friends asked me to sit at their lunch table and invited me to a party and walked arm in arm with me down the halls until they finally ditched me at the liquor store in the middle of the night when they realized not every teenager from New York had a fake ID.

  Way earlier. Five years old. Chicago. Two neighbors dared me to steal blue speckled bird eggs from a nest on the fire escape. I climbed out, they slammed the window shut, and it stuck. The ground was so far away, I hadn’t liked heights ever since. I’d huddled against the stucco wall and clenched my locket in my fist, and then my mom was there. She scooped me up in her arms and saved me. I remembered exactly how she smelled that day, like lavender and sunshine. Like home.

  Now I’d flown halfway across the world on a whim, like a gullible idiot, only to find out my family would take advantage of me in a second if they discovered who I really was. Even my own father probably would, if I could ever find him.

  I took one last panicked breath, blew it out through pursed lips, and then let my locket fall out of my hand. I was alone, in a wet cocktail dress and stilettos, in the middle of the night, in Istanbul. Maybe giving in to the panic and running wasn’t the brightest idea, but it was done. If I was going to fall apart, I’d have to do it some other time.

  Across the street, an engine roared to a stop, and I pressed back farther into the shadows. Getting ready to run again, I peeked out and saw a motorcycle at the curb outside the service entrance. Its rider pulled off his helmet.

  It was Jack.

  CHAPTER 19

  My legs were carrying me across the street before I could stop myself.

  “What are you doing here?” My hands still trembled, and now I’d added anger and wariness to the toxic brew.

  Jack whipped around and took in my wet hair and what I just realized was a wet white dress. I crossed my arms over my chest. His eyes widened a little, but he didn’t look as surprised as he should have.

  “Get on.” He handed me a helmet and gestured to the seat behind him.

  I pushed the helmet away. “You were planning to marry me off?”

  He dropped his arm with a sigh and got off the motorcycle. “I personally wasn’t planning to, but yes, that’s what the mandate means. I was going to tell you, but you went off with Stellan after Prada.” He looked irritated, which made me even more irritated.

  I pushed my damp hair behind my ears. “So are you here to kidnap me for the Saxons?”

  “Avery, God, no.” He paused. “At least, not immediately—”

  “Great. Perfect.” I stalked away into the dark, my heels clicking on the asphalt. Jack followed. “Leave me alone,” I said over my shoulder. Then I looked back toward the club, toward the dead end, toward the deserted, unfamiliar street. I swallowed.

  “I know you’re mad.” Jack held out his hands like a peace offering. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you everything immediately. There was a bit of a time crunch, if you’ll remember. But I’m assuming you came to Istanbul to find Fitz. That’s where I’m going, too.”

  He took one step closer, and I took one back. A garbage truck stopped down the empty street and lifted a Dumpster with its mechanical arm. “How did you find me?”

  “With a tracker I put in your bag at prom,” he admitted without hesitation. “It’s how I found you at Prada, too.”

  I threw up my hands. “That’s supposed to make me trust you more?”

  He ignored me, glancing back at the club. “From the looks of you, I’d say you’re trying to get out of here, so let’s go.” He stalked to the bike and extended the helmet again. “I’ve already saved you twice when I should have been going straight to Fitz, so I’d really like to get there as soon as possible.”

  I flinched like I’d been slapped. “Go, then. I never asked you to rescue me.”

  Even as I said it, though, I knew it would be stupid to let him leave. Jack was by far my best chance of getting to Mr. Emerson.

  He set the helmet on the seat of the bike and walked back into the halo of the streetlight. “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry. This is difficult for both of us, but I am telling you the truth: I’m not going to force you to do anything. I still think going to the Saxons is the best plan, but . . .” He palmed the back of his neck. “I haven’t even told them who you are yet. Okay? They still think you’re distant family and that I’m currently retrieving you from a night of clubbing. For now I want you to come with me to Fitz’s, make sure he’s okay, see what he meant about you, and then we’ll talk through the next steps. That’s all.”

  His boots echoed on the asphalt as he turned back to the bike. He hadn’t told them? And . . . “Did Mr. Emerson actually say he was in trouble?”

  “No. But he’s still not answering his phone, and he left me some strange messages.” Jack’s jaw clenched in the way I was coming to realize meant he was upset. If it really was possible Mr. Emerson was in some kind of danger, that had to take precedence.

  “Tell me one thing.” I shifted my weight uncomfortably. “My father. You’re sure you don’t know anything about him?”

  Jack hesitated. “I’m not sure of anything.”

  He frowned in the direction of the club. I watched him tap his fingers on the motorcycle’s ignition.

  Going with Jack was the best of my limited choices. We’d talk to Mr. Emerson. He’d help me get back to Paris to find my mom. And maybe she’d be able to tell me something about my dad.

  “I believe you,” I said. “I still don’t trust you, but I believe you. I am only coming with you so we can make sure Mr. Emerson is okay, and so I can talk to him. Just so we’re clear.”

  “We’re clear,” he said.

  I took the helmet out of his hand, shoved it on my head, and climbed on the back of the motorcycle.

  • • •

  Istanbul at night was all color, like Mr. Emerson had said in his postcard. Bloodred lights along the river to our left, glittering streets rising to our right like the city was climbing a hill. The cold white gleam of a mosque’s dome in the distance, neon storefronts not yet closed for the night.

  Straddling the motorcycle in this short, tight dress wasn’t easy, but Jack h
ad shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over my lap. My hips pressed into his, and my arms wrapped around his waist, awkwardly at first, mostly because of the annoyance still lingering between us, but also because I wasn’t used to quite so much Other Person’s Body touching mine. I could feel the muscles in Jack’s chest contract when he turned, and smell his boy smell between his shoulder blades. It made me think back to when he was just a boy I liked. That seemed so far away, and still too close.

  Jack swerved around a truck piled high with fruit, and I tightened my grip. I’d imagined riding a motorcycle might be like riding a really fast bike, but it wasn’t. Every time he accelerated, it felt like we might fall off, but I’d dig my fingers in and then we were flying, the rushing air around us dragging against my clothes, my hair, my skin.

  We stopped at a light, and the smell of sizzling meat turning on a spit in front of a nearby restaurant wafted past.

  “Why do they think union means ‘marriage’?” I said loudly. It was quieter when we weren’t moving, but the helmets muffled our voices. “Could they be wrong?”

  “They’re fairly certain about the translation,” he said.

  “‘Fairly certain’ is not a good enough reason to ruin someone’s life.” To ruin my life.

  Jack turned around, and his helmet smacked mine with a hollow thump.

  “Ow. Sorry.” I jerked back and so did he, and I was suddenly even more acutely aware of the ridges of muscle I could feel through his thin cotton T-shirt. I balled my hands into fists, but that was even more awkward, so I let my arms hover, not quite holding on, not quite not.

  “Sorry,” he said again. I inclined the ear hole on the helmet to hear him. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive. It’s just that it’s all been abstract before now. In the original Greek of the mandate, the word is gamos. It translates to ‘union’ . . . but it also translates to ‘marriage.’”

  Oh.

  The light changed and I had to grab on to him again as we took off, flying down a wide street flanked by rows of shops and restaurants. At the next light, people strolled across the street, and I met the eyes of a girl in robes that covered her from head to toe, wrist to ankle, so just her glittering eyes showed. Then I saw the Louis Vuitton bag slung over her shoulder, and I couldn’t help but smile at what to me seemed like a curious contrast but to her was just normal. Even more than Paris, being here felt foreign.

  Over the rumble of the bike and the distant low beat of drums and some kind of string instrument, I said, “Where exactly did the Book of Mandates come from?”

  Jack leaned back, careful to keep his helmet away from mine. “Oracles were important in Alexander’s time—like, have you heard of the Oracle of Delphi?”

  I shifted on the seat, pulling down on my dress. “Yeah.”

  “That oracle, others, various seers—they made hundreds of predictions,” he continued. “The ones about the future were collected and became the Book of Mandates.”

  I looked out over the river, where two lit boats passed each other, their reflections rippling in the dark water. “What’s the story of this particular mandate?” I said.

  The light turned again before he could answer, but after just a few blocks, we got stuck in traffic at a busy intersection. The patio of a nearby bar was filled with well-dressed people laughing and smoking tall hookah pipes, and the sweet scent floated through the night air.

  “Before Alexander died, he’d instructed the Diadochi to split his kingdom,” Jack called over his shoulder. I was starting to notice that he slipped into professor-speak when he talked about history, like it took effort for him to talk like a normal seventeen-year-old. “But he surprised them. Instead of declaring that he left it to all twelve of them equally, he said, ‘Krat’eroi.’ In English, that means, ‘To the one who is the strongest.’”

  The traffic moved a few feet, and the bike rumbled as Jack inched us forward. He raised his voice to be heard over a portly man in a long robe, selling the mirrored blankets draped over both his arms. “Since then, the Circle has ruled together, as a group of twelve, but the individual families have never stopped trying to determine the one who is the strongest.”

  He said it like it had capital letters: The One Who Is The Strongest. And then it hit me, and goose bumps rose on my arms. “The One. Like in the mandate.”

  Jack inclined his head. “Exactly,” he called.

  “People as powerful as the Circle just don’t seem like an ancient cult group who’d believe in a prophecy,” I said.

  “We’re not, exactly.” We hadn’t moved in a couple minutes and Jack sat up taller to look over the traffic before settling back down with a sigh. “But we leave no stone unturned when it comes to new avenues of power, and finding this tomb would be more than anything we’ve ever had. It’s supposedly far more than just wealth. It’s what made Alexander who he was. Whether that means a weapon, or some kind of instructions from him—we don’t know, but it’s meant to be huge. And with so many of the mandates having come true, we have to try. Plus,” he went on, “fulfilling the union—being the One—is so significant, it’ll make both the families a dominant force in the Circle no matter what, even if the tomb is never found. So if no one finds more about the mandate, the Dauphins will just pick somebody for a union with the baby girl and try to make everyone accept him as the One, so both families will gain that power.”

  Like Luc had said. So even if they didn’t figure out who was the One, it was true I wasn’t off the hook.

  The light changed, and we took off again. This time, we turned onto a less crowded street. Jack touched my hand like a warning, then sped up until the lights on the river smeared past. We didn’t stop again until we’d pulled up at a block of apartment buildings.

  Jack offered me his hand, and I slid off the bike as gracefully as I could.

  He stashed both helmets in a compartment under the seat as I attempted to smooth my hair, and we crossed the street toward a modern white high-rise.

  “Does the Order fit with the Alexander stuff, or are they separate?” I stepped over a cracked section of sidewalk, careful not to get my heels caught.

  “They go back as far as we do,” Jack said distractedly. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked it, and we turned up the walk to the apartment building. “Alexander had a child who would have been his heir, but the boy died young. Some people—mostly those who were in cahoots with Alexander’s mother, Olympias—thought the throne should be passed to a member of his extended family. They disliked the Diadochi, so they set out to take them down. They became the Order, and they’ve grown to hate us more than ever. The Circle do what we feel is best for the world. The Order thinks there should be more autonomy.”

  As awful as the Order was, they might have had a point. Jack would never speak badly of the Circle, but the notion of such a small group of people controlling so much of what happened in the world still seemed wrong somehow. Probably. I still knew so little about them, I wasn’t sure what to think.

  Jack ushered me into a sparse but tasteful lobby, and my heels clicked hollowly on the tile.

  As we headed to the stairwell, I looked around at the ferns, the seating area, the bank of mailboxes.

  Mr. Emerson checked his mail here. Here and in Paris. My sweet pseudograndfather, who let eight-year-old me try on his reading glasses and spent countless flour-covered afternoons teaching my mom and me to make biscuits and cakes and homemade pasta sauce. Who talked with little Avery about books way too old for me, and never treated me like a kid.

  Who had known what I was, and the danger I was in, for years. Suddenly, I was a little nervous about seeing him. What did it mean? And what had his text to Jack meant? I didn’t doubt he had my best interests at heart, but I couldn’t believe the first time I was going to see him in years would be in this context. Assuming he actually was here and everything was okay. I’d feel a lot better once we saw him
, for a lot of reasons.

  “You said he’s your mentor?” We started up the stairs and I thought about taking my heels off—they were killing the backs of my feet—but it couldn’t be that far.

  “He’s a tutor for the Keepers.” Jack paused one landing up to wait for me. “I keep forgetting you don’t know any of this. Stellan and I are called Keepers. Technically, Keeper of the Keys. It grooms us to be Keeper of the Watch later. The Keeper of the Watch is the family head’s right-hand man. He’s security, he’s an adviser, he helps run the estate.”

  I nodded. And they were all men, as Stellan had said. In the world of the Circle, even though a purple-eyed girl was so valuable, women generally seemed to be good for marrying off, having babies, and being staff, unless they happened to be needed for something very specific, like Elodie was tonight.

  Jack slowed when he realized I was falling behind. “Sorry, it’s a fifth-floor walk-up. Anyway, each family has a tutor for their Keepers. That’s what Fitz is, but over time he became more of a mentor to me.”

  Knowing Mr. Emerson, I wasn’t surprised.

  Jack knocked at a door on the right side of the hall, and when there was no answer after a second knock, he produced a key, slid it into the lock, and swung the door open.

  The first thing I saw was blood.

  CHAPTER 20

  Jack pushed me back into the hallway and pulled a gun from his waistband. “Stay here.”

  I stared at the blood, a hand clapped over my mouth. The scene from Prada replayed in my head. All the blood. The killer’s blood. My blood.

  Mr. Emerson’s blood.

  I ducked inside the apartment, pulled the door shut behind me, and locked it. “Mr. Emerson!” I started to yell, but the words died on my lips when I realized the blood was dry. This hadn’t just happened.

  Next to the stain, a cell phone was smashed to pieces. I looked around frantically, but at first glance, the room looked just as pristine as Mr. Emerson’s apartment had always looked, with the same clean lines and dark colors he favored when he lived in Boston. Not even the magazines on the coffee table had been disturbed. So there wasn’t much of a struggle, but they’d hurt him, and now he was gone. Oh God, who would do that?