Agents of the Glass (20 page)

“Folks, I just can't let something that stupid go unchallenged. And so, I am proud to announce the first annual Charity Is for Losers contest. That's CIFL for short, and I expect to see those letters splashed all over the Internets tomorrow. Winning is easy. We want your horror stories about what really happens when people ‘do good' but don't get paid for it, and what these charity cases do with all the dough us hardworking schlubs are handing out. Winners will be joining me in the front row of a very special concert featuring AS2, the legendary Air Supply tribute band that could teach Mizz Jellybean a thing or two about how to rock.”

“It's really important that you don't act any differently around her,” Silas told Andy over a root beer in the back room of YouNeedItWeGotIt! on a chilly Saturday morning. “A good spy has to set his personal feelings aside and do his job. Your job is to gather information.”

“She called me a
nobody.
”

“It sounds terrible, but it's actually
good
that she thinks that. It means that she doesn't suspect you at all. Which means that she might not be as careful as she ought to be. If she slips up, you're going to be there to catch it. Instead of being mad about it,
use
it.”

Andy sighed. “Fine. I'll try. It just…I mean, she is so nice to my face. How can she be like that?”

“It's in her DNA. She's wired differently than you or me. I've seen others like her—not as strong as her, but still plenty dangerous—and everything they say, everything they do, is
calculated.
She's looking for the maximum advantage for herself in every situation. And that brings us to your assignment, assuming you and Penny don't have any other big plans for the day.”

“I'm twelve. I don't have plans. I'm taking Penny to the park, and then I'm probably going to work on my ship model.”

“How's that coming along?”

“Slow. It's more complicated than I thought.”

“Maybe I can help. I'm pretty good with my hands.”

“Yeah. Maybe. So what's the job? Who do I have to kill this time?” he asked, flashing a smile for the first time all morning.

“No hits today, thanks. Surveillance work. You're going to accidentally run into Winter and her parents outside the Metropolitan Museum in about an hour.”

“Accidentally?”

“Mr. Neale is on the board of directors, and they're having brunch in the dining room later on, but first they're going for a little family outing. They'll be in the Conservatory Garden—are you familiar with it?”

“My mom loves it there. We go all the time.”

“How is your mom, anyway? Any word on when she's coming back?”

Andy shrugged. “The date keeps changing. First it was going to be this week. Then she said it might be a few more days. Sounds like things are kind of messed up over there.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Oh, yeah. We Skype two or three times a week, and I get emails from her. It's fine. I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me,” he added unconvincingly. “Now, what am I supposed to do after I accidentally run into Winter's family?”

“Well, first I want you to get close enough to get a good look at Mr. and Mrs. Neale through your glass in order to confirm what our earlier research tells us. We're trying to get a better understanding of how Winter came to be the way she is. Her mother, we know, is a Syngian, but we've never picked up any sign of the
lumen
on her father. And
that's
the strange part. You see, when a Syngian and a normal person have a baby, the kid is
always
normal. It's just the way it works out genetically. In the entire time we've been keeping track, there are no exceptions. Period.”

“What if they're both Syngians?”

“Then the kid is guaranteed to be a Syngian.”

“Maybe his
lumen
is just hard to see.”

“It's possible, but not very likely. From everything we know about him, he's one of the good guys, you know what I mean? Anyway, get a good look from a little distance, and then bump into them so Penny can have a look, and a smell, too. We've never gotten a dog close to him, so this is the perfect opportunity. When you get to the garden, be extra careful. Whatever you do, don't let Winter catch you spying on her.”

“What about Penny? Don't Syngians know about dogs like her? And what if Penny goes crazy or something?”

“They know that some dogs are able to identify them, but we still have the advantage because the dogs aren't all exactly alike. As far as they'll be able to tell, it's just a boy and his dog out for a Saturday stroll. As for Penny, there's a little secret I guess it's time you knew: If she sees a Syngian and starts to growl or act up, say the word Lapsang to her and she'll be fine.”

“Lapsang? What's that mean?”

“You'll find out soon enough.”

Sawyer Ascutney Neale III, Winter's grandfather, was one of the richest people ever to live in New York City. He had inherited a small fortune, money that came from the sale of bullets and grenades and mortar shells during the two world wars, but it was his brainchild—the decision to start manufacturing and selling land mines—that took the Neales from the merely rich to the much more exclusive neighborhood of the truly
wealthy.

Although it was a business whose success was measured in agony, death, and dismemberment, he never lost a moment's sleep. To anyone who dared question his ethics, he was fond of pointing out that he slept like a baby no matter where he laid his head—his penthouse on Central Park South, the London town house, a ten-bedroom “cottage” in Nantucket, ski chalets in Chamonix and Aspen, or the family yacht. To his way of thinking, Neale Industries was merely providing products that the world wanted—no,
demanded.
“It's a simple calculation,” he'd recently told the
Times
. “If we don't do it, someone else will.”

Father and son, however, were as unlike as two humans who shared DNA could be, and on his twenty-first birthday, Winter's father, Sawyer IV, announced his decision: He wanted nothing to do with the family business. He was cashing in his shares in Neale Industries, giving up his future as an executive with the company, and dedicating his life and fortune to helping the victims of the very land mines his family sold. This, naturally, did not go over well with his father, and the two had not spoken in fifteen years. Despite that estrangement, Winter spent her summers with her mother and grandparents, flying back and forth between Nantucket and London on their private jet.

The Neales were right where Silas said they would be, and right on time. Andy and Penny were halfway into their second loop of the garden when he spotted Winter's unmistakable silhouette. He ducked behind the wisteria that formed a semicircle at the far west side of the garden, a hundred yards or more away, and set off on a path that would intersect with the family's and give him a chance for an up close look before the “accidental” meeting. Even at that distance, Penny knew something was up, and Andy had to add a second wrap of the leash around his hand, just to be safe. Andy found a perfect location for spying the moment before the Neales turned a corner and began coming toward him.

The first thing he noticed was how relaxed Mr. Neale looked. He was smiling, clearly enjoying the beauty of a fall day in the park, sauntering along a few steps behind the tense-looking Mrs. Neale and Winter, who had their heads down in a private, serious conversation.

Beside Andy, Penny emitted a soft growl.

“Easy, girl. It's okay.” He leaned down to look her in the eyes. “Lapsang.”

Penny's demeanor changed immediately. She licked his face and sat quietly.

“Wow. It worked. Good girl.” He handed her a treat from his pocket and removed the sea-glass pendant from beneath his shirt. Winter's
lumen,
even in the bright sunlight, was impossible to miss. Even though he was prepared for it, its vividness and liveliness still caught him by surprise. When Mrs. Neale stopped and turned to say something to her husband, Andy got a clear look at her
lumen,
too. It had some of the same characteristics of Winter's—the tongues of fire reaching out several feet from her body—but it was noticeably less intense in color and brightness.

Finally, he directed his gaze at Mr. Neale, who was walking past a dark background, an ideal situation for
lumen
spotting. Andy turned the glass this way and that, but there was nothing to see. Mr. Neale was
lumen
-free.

Andy tucked the glass back into his shirt, took a deep breath, and walked out from behind the trees, aiming right for the Neale family.

A few seconds later, Winter shouted, “Andy! Hi!”

He acted surprised to see her and, with one last reminder to Penny, waved and met them on the path.

“What are you doing here?” Winter asked. “Omigosh, is that your dog? She is beautiful. What's her name?”

“Penny. Thanks.”

“Mom, Dad, this is Andy Llewellyn. He's the new kid at Wellbourne. I'm his SA.”

“Hi, Andy,” said Mr. Neale, shaking his hand. “Call me Sawyer. I'm a Wellbourne man myself.”

“I'm Fontaine,” added Mrs. Neale. “Everyone calls me Taney. It is
such
a pleasure to meet you. Winter has told us all about you. And she's right—you are a handsome young man.”

Andy felt himself blushing but had a hard time looking away from Mrs. Neale. There was
something
about her that was oddly familiar, but he couldn't make the connection in his mind. Something about the eyes, he decided—but Winter pulled him away before he was able to get more specific.

“Mom! You're embarrassing him.” She reached down to pet Penny, and Andy cringed, waiting for her to snap. Penny, however, didn't flinch and even wagged her tail—a little. “We're headed down to the museum—do you want to walk with us?” Winter asked.

“Uh, sure.”

“Why don't you come to brunch with us? That would be okay, wouldn't it, Dad?”

“Fine by me,” said Mr. Neale.

“Thanks, but I can't,” said Andy. “With Penny and all…”

Winter put on a disappointed face. “Oh, right. Well, walk with us, anyway.”

She took him by the arm and pulled him a few steps ahead of her parents. As they walked, she stared at Andy for several seconds, as if trying the words out in her mind before blurting them out.

Finally, she said, “I
know.
”