Strange Alchemy Page 4

  I shake my head. But I have to admit, I’m curious, even if doesn’t involve Mom.

  The principal says, “You should see this.” His tone makes it clear he’s playing his trump card. He grips a remote and points it toward the TV mounted in the corner of the office. He turns it on and raises the volume.

  Some news network, with the standard breaking news crawl, blares to life. Everything seems to qualify as breaking news these days, but this time it’s true. The words Mass Disappearance in Outer Banks: Colonists Lost Again? roll across the screen.

  The network appears to be broadcasting the Norfolk affiliate’s coverage from Roanoke Island. My father steps away and off camera. According to the blond woman holding the microphone, they’re just finishing an interview with the chief of police, aka my dad. But hers isn’t the face I focus on now — it’s the girl standing to one side of the reporter. I drift toward the monitor, and every ounce of attention I possess is locked on the screen.

  The reporter turns and shoves her microphone at the girl. After a lead-in, she says, “Are you looking for someone? Is someone you love among the lost? What can you tell us?”

  In true Miranda Blackwood style, the girl snaps, “Leave me the frak alone,” before striding toward the camera and out of frame.

  I feel like someone threw cold water in my face. Miranda Blackwood — I haven’t seen her in almost four years. Obviously. But she still has the same too-serious eyes, long black hair curling around her pale, pretty features.

  Whatever’s happening on the island, she’s part of it. I know this the way I know my own name when I wake up in the morning.

  “I’ve seen enough,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  If Miranda is involved in whatever’s happening there, I have no choice. I owe her.

  I should have known I couldn’t escape. When I shut my eyes, the memory of the spirits around me is as clear as if I’m already back there.

  I shouldn’t have gotten so comfortable. The island always wins.

  *

  A few hours later, I flip up the collar of my jacket and lower my head, the better to fake invisibility. I navigate through the Norfolk airport terminal, skimming past people weighed down with overstuffed carry-ons they’re too paranoid to check.

  The TV screens I pass are all Roanoke Island, all the time. I catch a glimpse of what looks to be the same footage of Dad from earlier, but I don’t stop to watch.

  I expected the voices to start chattering as soon as my feet hit the ground, just from being so much closer to home. On the island, listening to music was the only thing that helped. When the plane landed, my phone was ready in my pocket, playlist cued up, earbuds dangling around my neck.

  But so far… nothing. Not even the vaguest of whispers of ghosts tickle the edges of my awareness. My vision is sharp and clear.

  Guilt finally forces me to a stop in front of an arrivals board. The situation on the island will have given Dad extra ammunition for special favors. I’m betting he’ll have done his best to get Mom clearance to wait at the actual gate, to make sure I don’t pull a runner.

  I find the flight number I’m looking for and backtrack, staying close to the wall. Not far, just a couple of gates.

  There she is. Mom sits in a chair, waiting for me. Her smooth brown hair is cut shorter than the last time I saw her, framing her face. I notice a few new streaks of gray. She has a tablet in her lap but stares ahead at nothing instead. She looks tired.

  I walk to the bank of holdover payphones, out of sight of the gate, and dial her number. Remembering that Dad also has access to GPS tracking, I turn my phone off.

  “Mom?” I say when she answers.

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  She isn’t too happy when I confess that I lied when I called her before I boarded in Lexington and told her I’d been switched to a slightly later flight on a different airline — the one she sits waiting for now, not the one I was actually on. She’s even less happy when I tell her that I’ll see her at home later.

  “Grant, how will you get there? Do you know what will happen when you’re back on the island? It’s been almost four years.”

  She’s always worried about me. I wish she didn’t have to worry so much. I wish for a lot of things.

  “There’s something I’ve got to do. I’m sorry,” I say.

  I don’t mention seeing Miranda on the news. I can still hardly believe that. I know how hard it is to get her to react, to shatter her protective shell. I did my worst, didn’t I? And she just stood there, soaking it in.

  I’ve never been able to forget that day, to forget her. The spirits had overwhelmed me. I wasn’t strong enough to protect her from them either. This time will be different. I need to see Miranda, and there isn’t time to make Mom understand why.

  But when I hang up the phone, I realize Mom’s right. How am I going to get there?

  I do the obvious thing.

  Mom always parks on the third level in the thirteenth row in the parking garage. That way she never forgets where the car is. I find her faithful maroon chariot and locate the spare keys, which she always keeps in a little magnetic box behind the rear right wheel.

  Then I steal the family car.

  *

  I’ve never been a good driver — judging by the horn blows of skittish drivers on I-64, my skills have not magically improved. I don’t even have a license, thanks in part to when I took Dad’s car during my reign of bad behavior and got apprehended by one of the island’s stalwart officers. Dad sure regretted teaching me about the gas and brake and steering on a country road when I was a kid.

  The long bridge that cuts across the Croatan Sound is dead ahead. Instead of going across at Manns Harbor, I decided to take the new bridge, since it bypasses downtown Manteo for the convenience of people headed to other islands. If Mom has already reported that I took the car, Dad and the rest of the police force will be on the lookout.

  I hope Mom will understand why I ditched her once I explain — if that’s even possible. Truth is, Miranda’s face — then, now — transformed the flickering uncertainty inside me into a strong, sure flame. I’m certain she’s in danger. Which means I have a chance at redeeming myself. A chance to help keep her safe.

  If only you had a clue why you’re so sure she’s not safe.

  I only have an inkling, thanks to how the spirits surged and the things they said about her back then. Like she was important, and I had to not only know, but tell her. The problem is, they made it sound like the bad kind of important.

  I suck in a deep breath, maybe my last peaceful one. Once I cross the bridge, there’s no going back. I’ll be home. I have no idea what’s going to happen.

  Three and a half years of quiet. They were nice.

  The bridge rises up in front of me, a green sign with white letters telling me exactly where it will take me. No turning back.

  I steer toward the bridge and floor the gas. The car surges forward and whips across the asphalt at dangerous speed. The other side of the highway crawls with cars inching forward like slow-moving bugs, but my side is nearly empty. The lanes go on for so long I don’t know how I’ll stand the suspense. I suffer for five miles of wide road over the choppy blue sound.

  The highway finally levels out onto land, tires separated from the earth by pavement alone. The familiar forest, thick treetops like green bubbles, comes into view, lining the highway. An idyllic glimpse of home. A lie.

  The backed-up traffic on the other side of the bridge continues onto the island. Honking tourist rentals and retirees’ fancy cars mix with a few older vehicles that probably belong to residents, all creeping toward the bridge. The mass disappearance is real — real enough to empty out a good portion of the Outer Banks at the end of tourist season.

  I brace for the spirits to sense my presence.

  No whispers. No screeching. No shadows.


  Other than horns and road noise and the traffic, I don’t see or hear anything. Huh?

  I pull off to the side of the road as soon as I find a wide spot and roll down the window. An insistent breeze sweeps through the car. It ruffles my hair and T-shirt, but it carries nothing else to me.

  I wait, just in case the sudden rush of spirits makes me unable to drive.

  The breeze tugs at me, but the only sounds it brings are natural ones. Finally, I shift the car back into gear and onto the road. I’m cautious in case the spirits show without warning. There was never any warning.

  Welcome to Roanoke Island, says the sign I drive past. No matter that it feels like someplace else. I’m back. Have I changed or has the island?

  The question is pushed aside by a more pressing one. If I’m not going to be sidelined by the dead, then I have an itinerary to keep.

  Where does Miranda Blackwood live?

  Chapter 5

  MIRANDA

  Once I make it home, I sink onto the sofa. My hands form a tight ball in my lap. Sidekick sits on the floor beside me, big brown eyes full of worry, an echo of what I feel inside.

  I wouldn’t have believed Dad could leave, let alone disappear. Everyone else thinks we’re cursed with bad luck, but our family legend is more specific — Blackwoods are doomed to Roanoke Island. That knowledge lives deep in my bones. None of us have ever lived anywhere else. I’ve never even been anywhere else. “Blackwoods are bound to walk this patch of Earth.” That’s what my dad has always said, ever since I was kid, underlining it with spooky stories about what happened to Blackwoods who dared try setting foot off the island.

  But if all those other people have disappeared, if my Dad has, who’s to say I won’t be next? Even if I’m doomed to spend my life in a place that doesn’t want me, that doesn’t mean I’m ready to vanish. And where have the missing people vanished to, exactly? I can’t imagine it’s anyplace good.

  When I was younger I might have hoped differently, but now I know the truth. There are no waiting fantasylands, no sudden entries to worlds where wizards and unicorns frolic under glittering waterfalls and everything magically becomes perfect.

  Wherever all those missing people are, I bet they aren’t any safer than I am. Which doesn’t feel safe at all.

  Maybe I can do something about that. I remember the closet in my dad’s room, which he stuffed full of boxes the day we moved in. He caught me going through it soon after, and pulled me aside, shaking my twelve-year-old shoulders. “Don’t ever go in there,” he told me. “There’s a gun in there.”

  When I got older, I thought about going through the closet when he was out and getting rid of the gun. I worried about it, cold and metal and there, about Dad and his bad days. I never liked the idea of it, some firearm of unknown shape and size and origin, just waiting to be fired. But Dad told me not to touch it, and I didn’t.

  Now I walk up the hall and into Dad’s room, careful not to look too closely at the messy bed and discarded clothes. The stale smell of boozy sweat makes it feel like he’s home. Not missing. Not gone.

  Holding the closet’s contents with one hand to prevent an avalanche, I slowly open the door wider. I reach up and pull the string that lights the bare bulb, then begin to carefully rummage. I move out a box crammed with the button-down shirts Dad used to wear when he held a straight job, and another that proves empty. Three more boxes follow, filled with dust, old newspapers, and forgotten neckties.

  I empty about half the closet’s contents, enough so that I can lean inside and look around. Stretching to see behind the remaining cardboard boxes, I spot a thin wooden box about the size of a briefcase, crammed in sideways behind the rest. I make a fist and rap the edge. A hollow echo of the rap replies… almost like I knocked on a door.

  Behind me, Sidekick whines.

  “I’ll be careful,” I tell him. “Shh.”

  I wedge myself into the closet, perching on the unstable stack of boxes, and reach over to pull the wooden box up and out.

  The case is made of dark wood and has a brass catch. I’ve never seen it before. At my touch, the clasp springs open easily, and I lift the lid. It takes me a moment to identify the object inside as a weapon.

  The dull gleam of hammered metal, the surface as long as my forearm, wavy with the memory of the strikes that created it. A thick base gives way to a thicker barrel, like a small cannon. Jewels encrust the handle, and even I can tell they are the real, glittering thing.

  I puzzle over the heavy object in my hand as I shut the closet. This has to be some sort of antique. The bizarre weapon must be worth a small fortune. I can’t fathom the fact my dad never pawned it for a bottle. Can this really be what he meant when he told me there was a gun in the closet?

  Then I spot the strange symbol nestled between the gems, an engraved sort of stick figure with a circular head, curved legs and straight arms, and an open half moon on top.

  I freeze. I’ve seen that symbol before. The same one was stitched at the center of those three black sails, whipping in wind that didn’t exist, flying above the decks of a black ship that didn’t exist either.

  I shiver with recognition.

  Just then a knock sounds at the door, and I go stiff. But then I wonder, could it be Dad?

  I creep out of the room and quietly up the hall. I’m almost to the door, the strange gun still in my hand, when I realize it can’t be Dad — he would never go with a simple knock if he couldn’t get in — and we never have visitors. When I’m not working, I sometimes hang at the Grove with Polly and the crew, but wouldn’t dream of inviting anyone over. I prefer to keep what little privacy I have intact.

  I have no idea who’s out there.

  I wait to see if the person goes away. Instead, another knock sounds. I grip the metal of the antique gun. Any weapon is better than nothing. I can use it as a threat or to hit someone with or…

  A muffled male voice speaks, interrupting my train of thought. “Mr. Blackwood? Or Miranda? Miranda Blackwood?”

  There’s something familiar about the voice, but I can’t place it. The familiarity makes my fingers tighten around the gun. Whoever is out there, my instincts say they’re somehow a danger. To me.

  Could it be Bone or those idiots he hangs out with? I’ve never considered any of them dangerous, but I’ve never been all alone like this either.

  Sidekick’s body brushes the side of my knee where he stands beside me. His tail thumps a steady rhythm against the coffee table.

  Breathe, I tell myself. You have a weapon. Sort of. Just point the gun with the right amount of menace.

  I open the door in one quick motion, stepping back and raising the weapon. I do my best to imitate a movie stance, to show confidence. My hands tremble, giving me away.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Miranda?”

  Suddenly — click — I place the voice, match it against the tall boy standing in my doorway. It’s early evening and not anywhere near dark outside yet, but his face is in shadow. Still, I know him. I take in his messy black hair, the glint of eyes that would be more black than brown if I could see them. I never expected to see him again.

  “Grant Rawling?” I blink in disbelief, but he doesn’t vanish. My fingers loosen, and the gun clatters to the ground between us.

  Grant lunges forward, bending over the antique weapon.

  “Careful,” I say.

  “You be careful. You’re the one acting like a CIA assassin.” He would say something like that.

  Grant doesn’t even look at me, instead leaning forward to check out the gun. “Anyway, I’m safe — at least I think I am.” He pauses. “Is that a matchlock? Awfully ornate. And it has a trigger. Hmm…” He shifts the gun with the toe of his shoe for a better look.

  “What’s a matchlock?” I ask, mostly to say something. Anything.

  I can’t figu
re out what he’s doing here. At my house. Or on the island, for that matter. He got away from here. He’s supposed to be off at some reform school. And even if he has come home on purpose, that doesn’t explain what he’s doing on my doorstep.

  Grant glances up at me, then looks immediately back to the gun. “Matchlocks were the precursors to modern guns, more or less. Ones like this — although not exactly like this, because this one is weird — were developed during the Elizabethan period, and they’re not easy to use. You have to light the barrel, essentially.”

  The Elizabethan period? That’s when the original colonists were here. I might not know about matchlocks, but I know that much. Our family legend has always claimed some connection to the original settlers — is that why Dad has this gun? I can’t make sense of it. I also can’t help being impressed at Grant’s recitation of facts.

  “How do you know all that?”

  He straightens, and finally looks at me. There isn’t much distance between us, just the space of the threshold I haven’t invited him over yet. There’s just enough light to see that the years that he’s been gone have been kind… to his face, anyway.

  I resist the urge to smooth my hair. I am so not interested in Grant Rawling. We couldn’t be more different. He has a great family, and he still left.

  He’s back, though.

  Grant shrugs, finally. “My dad’s really into antique firearms, and I grew up around the Outer Banks. I’m surprised you don’t know. Don’t you still work at The Lost Colony?”

  “I’m an intern, not the prop master,” I say, on more solid ground. “Wait. How do you know where I work?” I put a hand up to stop him from answering. A couple more inches, and I’d have touched him. “And, um, why are you here?”

  “Why are you answering your door wielding a valuable historical artifact?”

  The gun is worth money, then. I stoop to pick it up, dangling it by the barrel. “I just found it looking for… never mind. Answer my question.”

  He doesn’t. “Can I come in?”