Blackwood (13 page)

  "A colonist was murdered?" Phillips asked.

  The word murder rang in Miranda's ears.
My father was murdered.
Somehow it hadn't sunk in fully until that moment. Murdered meant someone killed him. He was so helpless. Why?

  Dr Roswell switched his focus to Phillips. Miranda welcomed the chance to listen without his eyes burning into her.

  "Yes, one of the local tribes killed a man named George Howe. They had their reasons for doing so, undoubtedly, having witnessed what the colonists were doing on the island."

  Did that mean someone from here killed her father? What had the tribe witnessed?

  "What does this have to do with Dee?" Phillips rubbed his thumb across the top of her hand. She wished they were alone. She wished them being together had nothing to do with the ancient history pouring out of Roswell's mouth.

  "I'm sure you've heard some of the legends about witches during the period we're discussing. They were thought to be people who signed a contract with the devil himself, to do his bidding. But," Dr Roswell paused, "according to what I've found, in England witches didn't make a deal with the devil. They made a deal with Dr John Dee. And witch meant something besides black cats and flying broomsticks."

  "I don't see how the murder's connected," Phillips said.

  "Of course, I'm being obtuse," Dr Roswell laughed. "I have found not a little support for my pet theory, which seems borne out by recent events."

  "The theory, Doc," Phillips prompted.

  "The colonists weren't witches, but alchemists, under the rule of John Dee. They came here to build him an empire, starting with a New London."

  Miranda's mouth opened and closed like a perplexed fish's. "The colonists were alchemists," she said.

  "In those times, witch was as likely a term as alchemist in certain quarters. These were people dedicated to unlocking the secrets of nature, of life and death itself. The discoveries alchemists made during this period are the foundation of modern chemistry. Dee may not have been known as a kind man, but he
was
known for his power and intellect. He wanted to rule, believed his achievements meant he deserved to. The colony was part of his plan to do just that. Men like these, they wish to live forever. Dee invented some sort of device that would allow him and his followers to do so, when combined with the right sorcery. Or, more accurately, the right manipulation of the natural world."

  "Doc–" Phillips started, but the older man had warmed to his topic.

  
He's treating this like a CNN appearance.
He waved Phillips silent, grabbing a book from the table and flipping through the pages until he came to a painting of a man with a thin face and long beard. And black, black eyes.

  Below the haunting face was a symbol. It was
identical
to the one on the phantom ship's sails, the one repeated on the grip of the gun. The circle, the curved arms and legs, the halfmoon on top… She sat up straighter.

  "This man secured the land rights to our coast, much of what was known of North America at the time. He arranged for Raleigh to be in charge of transporting his colonists here, along with their sacred artifacts. I believe Governor White left not to request help, but to fetch Dee back. Dee's great experiment was set to begin. He had forged this device and the colonists awaited his arrival. I haven't been able to identify precisely what the device
was
. But the coded information hidden in the documents left by those involved make clear that it existed." He paused for effect. "And what I do know is that on the shore of Roanoke Island, they planned to use the device to become the first immortals."

  Miranda didn't risk looking at Phillips. The man's explanation was crazy – except for the antique gun she'd found in the closet, handmade strikes showing in its metal. Phillips would be thinking the same thing.

  
Lucky I didn't immortal him with it.

  She'd lost track of the gun. Was it still at her house?

  "What stopped them?" Phillips asked.

  "I don't believe they were stopped. I believe they were delayed," said Dr Roswell, closing the book on that thin face at last.

  Phillips reached out across the small table like he meant to take the book, but just laid his hand across the surface. "You can tell all this from examining old documents?"

  Not at all the question Miranda wanted to ask. Hers was more along the lines of:
Are you nuts or not?

  "Yes," Dr Roswell said. "The code they used is a fairly simple cipher of the time. Finding the documents that contain the concealed information has been the harder part. Some of Governor White's personal papers and drawings, a few of Raleigh's, a handful of Dee's own letters from the period. It's been a painstaking process and I'm still missing key pieces, but I'm convinced of one thing."

  Again with the pausing, until Miranda sighed, caught up in the story despite questioning their host's sanity, and said, "Which is?"

  Dr Roswell's chin tilted down and he regarded her over the top of his glasses. His beard didn't seem as neat as it usually did. Stray hairs flicked out from his cheeks. As if he'd gone a few days without trimming it. And there were dark circles smudged around his eyes.
I bet he's been staying up all night poring over these papers – all these years haven't been enough, not when it finally matters.

  "I'm convinced that the messages were meant to be found. To continue the project," he said. "The plan was disrupted, but it's been set in motion. That's the only explanation for the mass disappearance."

  Miranda climbed to her feet, bracing against Phillips. "I don't get it," she said.

  "It's a pattern. This is what happened last time, everyone gone. Or, rather, a certain number of people gone. I can't say yet what's next in the pattern," Dr Roswell said. "And there is one other thing."

  Dr Roswell had such a flare for the dramatic that Miranda wondered why he'd never come down to audition for the show. He obviously wanted to climb back inside history and live there. Discover its secrets. She waited for his next words, and so did Phillips – eyebrows rising to prompt Roswell with a silent question.

  "There was a name removed from the colony manifests that have been passed down through history. It belonged to an ancestor of yours, Miranda – at least, that's a logical assumption."

  "What?" she asked. The snake pounded like her heart had moved to her cheek.

  "There was a Blackwood in the party of colonists," he said. "Mary Blackwood, an alchemist."

12

Landlocked

Phillips wished he could read minds instead of hear spirits chatter as he watched Miranda's back. She hadn't looked at him since climbing out of the library and rushing outside to leave. Of course she was wigged by what Dr Roswell had told them – anyone would be – but he didn't know her well enough to know how bad. He didn't know the right thing to say. And he definitely didn't want to make the situation worse.

  Turned out Roswell's loser son had already done that.

  Miranda had parked her faded yellow car with the driver's side facing the doc's house. Phillips hadn't known what to say at her house that morning when he first caught sight of the moronic graffiti. Now, instead of washing off FREAK, Bone had decided to add to the message so it included Phillips. It read: FREAKS IN LOVE.

  "And tools doing graffiti," Phillips called, hoping Bone was near enough to hear.

  Without slowing her pace, Miranda held up her hand for him to stop. She levered open the car door and climbed in, the set of her features not promising.

  Phillips jogged across the lawn, curious if she'd actually leave him behind. But she waited until he got in before she started the car. "Miranda, it's not a big deal – what an idiot.
He's
probably in love with you."

  Miranda shook off the hand he tried to lay on her arm, and put the car in drive. Phillips was still watching her when she finally looked over – past him, out the window.

  Phillips should have expected the loser to put in a final showing. Bone lounged on the front porch where Phillips had left him before, the door open behind him. His whole head was flushed pink, and by Phillips' estimation not from the sun. Bone raised a hand and saluted them with a tight grin, and Phillips decided that he was
absolutely
burning some kind of torch for Miranda. Why else would he go to so much trouble to torment her?

  Miranda flipped Bone off and jammed her foot on the gas, throwing up dust and sand behind them as she angled onto the narrow road.

  The thing that worried him most was that Miranda hadn't seemed bothered by the graffiti earlier. She'd told him matter-of-factly that it was part of being her, giving no indication she was the least upset. In fact, he was convinced bringing her car had been a test. She wanted to see how he reacted to the stupid word. How he reacted to Bone's treatment of her.

  The graffiti pissed him off, because as pranks went it was stupid and inelegant. It pissed him off because it was directed at Miranda.

  "I know that was a lot to take in…" Phillips said, "But I need some help figuring out what's upsetting you the most?"

  "Witches," she said, teeth gritted. "Alchemists."

  She was forced to slow behind a pick-up truck hauling a fishing boat called
The Lucky Strike.

  "I know it all sounds crazy, but the gun – it's got to be Dee's missing object, right?" If he could get her talking everything would be OK. "Did you see that symbol? The caption said that's Dee's personal mark. The
monas heiroglyphica
."

  Her eyes flicked over to him, and then she veered around the fishing boat. "It does sound crazy, that's for sure. Did you leave that thing at my house? Maybe we should throw it in the Sound."

  "No," Phillips said, qualifying when that earned a scowl. "What if we need it to… save the people? Or you? We don't know enough yet."

  "Where is it?"

  He hadn't told her what he did with it. She hadn't asked. Maybe that would help calm her. "I left it in the trunk of my mom's car. I didn't want Mom or especially Dad to see it. He's an antique firearms nerd, remember? But I didn't figure it'd be smart to leave it at your house."

  A nod. "Of course. The long lost alchemists – of which my frakking ancestor was one – could come to retrieve it at any time."

  Miranda turned at the next major intersection, heading back toward Manteo. Phillips made another attempt. "Where are we going next?"

  Her mouth opened as if she meant to speak, to answer him, but she didn't say anything. She sped up, the hula girl on the dash shimmying hard with the force of the pressure. "Where are we going?" he asked again.

  "I'm going to see," she said, "whether I can get off this island."

Phillips let her drive on in silence for a while before he chanced speaking. "We're just going to abandon everyone?"

  She laughed, but without humor.
You don't really know this girl.
He knew her well enough to know
this
wasn't her.

  "Why wouldn't I? What have they ever done for me?" she asked.

  "I can't just go." He hadn't wanted to come back, hadn't wanted to get involved. But he couldn't leave without seeing this through.

  She gave that little laugh again. "You believe what he said?"

  Phillips didn't want to answer Miranda's question yet. She'd breezed through town way over the speed limit, and now headed on past the turn-off to Fort Raleigh. He wanted to understand what switch had flipped inside her to send her running.

  He opened his mouth to say something innocuous and she shocked him into keeping quiet with her next words. "You know I've never been off the island? That's part of the family 'curse' supposedly. Our feet 'are bound to walk this patch of earth.'"

  She was quoting something, but not anything he'd ever heard. There were plenty of whispers and rumors about the Blackwoods. He'd heard a good share of them in his short time on the island, after he went raving psycho on her in the lobby. Nothing like this though – just that they never amounted to much, that her dad was a drunk, that her mother had been soft-hearted, that Miranda was bad luck just because she was born a Blackwood. The stories had always struck him as local legend, the kind of reputation that accrued to families who made the mistake of hanging around Roanoke Island too long.

  
Like the Rawling family 'gifts.'
But this… was it possible?

  He struggled to keep his voice level, to betray no skepticism. "You're saying that you've
literally
never been off the island?"

  Her head bobbed in a fierce nod and she looked over at him, engaging with him fully for the first time since they'd left Roswell's. "That's exactly what I'm saying. I grew up–" she slowed Pineapple a little, the dashboard dancer weaving to a more peaceful melody "–being told I could never leave. Being told stories that gave me nightmares… that
were
nightmares. If I ever left, my feet would burst into flame. My body would disappear and I'd become a ghost. Stories about how my grandmother walked off the island toward the mainland once and lost her mind at the tenth step exactly. She sat in a rocking chair for the rest of her life picking grains of sand off beach glass."

  What kind of lunatic had her dad been? "This island is eight miles long. About two miles across. You've
never
left it?"

  "I tried when I was a kid. I waded out to my waist in the Sound and nothing happened, so I started to swim and then… then, I've never been so sick. My whole body hurt. It was enough to convince me. After that… until my mom died I stopped trying to even want to leave."

  "Maybe it was psychosomatic? Maybe you freaked yourself out. You said your dad told you that you couldn't leave."

  "He told me those stories, and I don't know if I believed them. I told myself I didn't. But I guess I believed them enough not to chance trying to do it for real. Not after that one time." She shook her head, black curls jostling. "You must think I'm crazy."