Descendant (Secrets of the Makai) (20 page)

Worse, the grasses fought with the lilies, jealous because the lilies bloomed on the surface, visible if the boy should walk by.

Dorian knew the underwater plants envied the land species at times for being more noticeable, but usually they all understood how their environments made them unique and gifted. Now, plants in the darkest crevasses wilted in their hopelessness.

She swam to the surface, her own anger and jealousy changing to complete bewilderment. The plants hardly ever cared about people. What was so different about this stranger?

She hopped out of the water and caught the words of a Myrtle. "Come now, we will not do him any favors by neglecting our duties. What if he calls upon us? We must stay strong! Vigilant! We must not become bitter with each other."

That was when the seriousness of the situation hit her.

* * *

"Oliver!" Dorian called as she ran. She spotted Gram sorting through stuff on a table just outside the back door of the shop and ran faster. "It's him! We need to get him off the island right now!"

Gram wiped her hands on a dishtowel and waited for Dorian to get closer. "I knew they wouldn't keep it from you for long." She transferred a stack of bowls to a cardboard box. "I'm sorry, dear. I put in the request."

"What are you talking about?" Dorian asked. "What are you doing?"

"Sabbatini…didn't the trees tell you?"

"No, but we have to find Oliver right away. I figured out the balance riddle from your song—the boy really is affecting the balance!"

"Slow down, there's something I need to tell you."

"It's the plants!" Dorian ignored Gram, desperate to explain quickly. "I admit it made me mad when the plants said they'd happily burn for him, if that's what he wanted, but it's gotten way out of hand. Plants in Arcadia are actually wilting!"

"Why don't you come inside? I'll make you something to drink."

"Don't you see?" Dorian scowled as Gram headed inside the shop. Maybe she wasn't making the situation clear enough. She stomped her foot, then followed. "Right now, the plants don't care about their duties or contributions to the world. All they care about is him. They're bickering because he can't be everywhere at once."

Dorian froze when she stepped inside. She gaped at the empty cupboards and drawers, then stepped into the pooling sunlight in the front half of the store, gazing up at the bright blue sky where the roof used to be. The scent of cleaning solution clung to the damp mortar around the rock walls, and years of wear and tear on the floor had been stripped to raw wood. A jumbled pile of lumber in the courtyard had to be all the shelving.

Dorian faced Gram with her hands on her hips. "Renovating? Now?" Half of the plants drying from the beams were less than a day old.
What was Gram saying when I arrived?
"What request did you put in?"

"I asked the trees and shrubs to keep quiet." Gram stroked her long braid, something she only did when she was troubled.

"Why?" Usually it wasn't so hard to get Gram talking.

"Sabbatini was here. I didn't want you rushing back."

Dread sank to the pit of her stomach. "Where's Oliver and Eric?"

"They're fine! Eric's plane went down, but he's okay. Oliver didn't know because, well, the cave wouldn't release him until Flynn could take his place. Or something like that."

Dorian's lips twitched with anger, hatred growing toward that cave and its demands. They should never have checked on it in the first place.

"Everything will be fine," Gram said, glancing around the empty room. "It's a major cleaning job, but weren't we planning to do it eventually?"

"But all the product, what happened to it?"

"Smoke, vapors, contamination…we can't keep it, not even for compost. I've kept everything else—the oils and creams, most of the pre-made items. They're out back."

"We are going after him for this, right?"

"No. Not if we don't have to," Gram said, turning away. "We don't have the resources."

Dorian clamped her mouth shut, massaging the tense muscles in her neck. She was sad for the plants who'd given parts of themselves for a greater cause, only to be wasted and thrown away with no recourse to make it better.

Oliver appeared in the courtyard with a toolbox and several long boards balanced on his broad shoulder. She'd almost forgotten what she needed him for and rushed out to meet him.

"Did Gram tell you about the boy?" Oliver asked, eying her warily, like he expected her to burst into tears. "If we had to choose again, I'd have treated him the same way."

Dorian glanced at Gram, wondering what else they weren't telling her. "You knew he was upsetting the balance before now?"

"No, nothing like that," Gram said, heading back outside with a load of glass dishes. "He showed up about the same time Sabbatini did. I met him."

"He was part of this?" Dorian couldn't believe it. Maybe she'd misunderstood.

"In a good way," Oliver said. "He's not here for Sabbatini, I was wrong about that. But I still stand by my actions to watch him like we did."

Gram left her load on the table outside and returned. "He's a nice boy. I've agreed to help him."

Dorian's jaw fell open. "Didn't you hear me? He's upsetting the very nature of the plants! Remember when we were trying to figure out what would change a plant's behavior? It's happening!"

Gram clasped her hands together and took a deep breath, keeping her eyes closed. "I don't know what to do with that information."

"Easy! Get him off the island before the plants forget their real purpose."

"If what you say is true," Gram replied, "then sending him away will merely give them cause to rebel, rather than the simple neglect they seem to be going through now."

"This is more than simple neglect." Dorian stopped and started several times, anger fighting logic. "It's not a phase they'll grow out of!"

"The boy saved my life," Gram said, as if announcing the time of day.

"What?"

"Sabbatini threatened me and the boy stepped forward."

Oliver growled, sorting through a selection of tools just outside the front—Dorian stopped short when she noticed the front door missing.

"His name is Tristan," Gram continued. "He seems like a very nice boy, just a bit uneducated. And Gwenna...." Her eyes began to well up with tears.

"Who's Gwenna?" Dorian asked.

"The only thing that matters is that an incredibly long list of coincidental events brought him here. I must help him."

"But Gram!" Dorian bit her lip. This probably wasn't the best time to tell her she was too old for such a job.

Gram straightened herself when Oliver reentered the room.

"How did he save you?" Dorian asked. Though 'why' might have been a better question.

"He merely stepped forward."

"That's it? Sabbatini's destroying the place and some kid steps in…The End?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"Still doesn't make sense," Oliver snapped. "Something's up."

Gram fiddled with her silver braid and didn't say anything, drawing Dorian and Oliver's attention. "What aren't you telling us?" Oliver finally asked.

"Gwenna was the guardian of a Seraphim Emerald. I don't know for sure what that means, but some stories say the faerie races sealed certain gifted children—one male, one female—inside mystical gems, so that they may remember their past and repopulate at a future time, if and when the dragons thought it safe to release them. A different version says the dragons gave each race a special power to keep them protected, and each race merely stored that information in the gems for safekeeping in case there came a time when it wouldn't be handed down their line of generations.

"I don't know what happens if they're all destroyed, or how many might be left, or if the power can be absorbed by humans. But they say each stone has a curse to protect itself. Gwenna gave the boy a map, just before Sabbatini murdered her and stole the emerald. Which means Sabbatini will need the map if he intends to find other stones, which leads me to believe someone has been protecting Tristan from Sabbatini all along his journey to our island."

"What makes you think Sabbatini had anything to do with her murder?" Oliver asked.

"Tristan recognized him. I suppose I should tell you he suspects he's wanted by the police for Gwenna's murder."

"Tristan murdered her? I thought you said—"

"The fact is, Tristan didn't arrive here by accident. Someone kept him in one piece and brought him here on purpose."

"Who's your best guess?" Oliver asked. "The Makai?"

"No. The Seraphim Council."

23

-
S
EVEN OF
S
PADES -

TRISTAN ALTERNATED BETWEEN walking and jogging along the shoreline, energized by the thought of playing with the cards. He hadn't had time or reason to play with them before. Maybe they really did hold the key to everything? There had to be some hidden meaning to the word "play" or "focus".

The rock at the base of his trail looked a lot like a dock from a distance. The fishing pole and jug were right where he'd left them. He emptied the jug over the nearest bush and carried it to the end of the dock-rock, kneeling carefully to reach the deeper water.

Before the jug touched the surface, Tristan caught sight of his reflection and froze. The whites of his eyes and his teeth nearly glowed in contrast to his skin, which was completely black with soot. He wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry as he sat back on his heels. The smooth lake reflected everything perfectly. Beautifully. No wonder the old woman couldn't stop laughing at him.

He shook his head and got back to the business of filling the jug, then took off his shirt and dunked it to scrub his face and arms. He could've sworn he'd done a better job earlier, but the black on his shirt was proof enough. How embarrassing.

Half an hour passed in the cliff house before Tristan could remember the rules to solitaire. Discouraged by a continuous losing streak, he'd resorted to cheating. Bored with that, he shuffled several times and spent the next three hours doing everything from games to tricks. Disappointed that the cards appeared to be completely ordinary, he made a fire in the woodstove and went to bed hungry.

In the morning, Tristan rolled out of the hammock, deciding to unpack and stay awhile. He headed outside to restock the firewood and discovered a basket on the porch with food and necessities wrapped in a thick blanket.

"Thank you, Gram!"

Ecstatic at having real food, he carried the basket inside and sampled everything as he unloaded. He put fruits and vegetables in a pile, along with a bag of nuts and loaf of bread. He lined up the other items: some sort of oil in a dark bottle, a long knife and cutting board, a bar of soap, towels, a box stuffed with wooden matches, and a blessed roll of toilet paper.

Tristan used the soap and a hand towel to wash his face and arms again, glad he didn't have a mirror to see the state of his hair.

With a major boost to morale, Tristan tucked his hair behind his ears and went back to playing cards. He forced the ends into cracks in the table to make a stable foundation for a tower. Cards balanced against each other, forming an awkward structure, three stories tall. He concentrated on the fourth layer while his hand shook with the final card.

A quick breeze came through the window as the falcon landed on the sill.

"Don't!" Tristan watched the tower topple. With the exception of one card. The seven of spades—the last card he'd placed at the top.

He stared with his mouth hanging open. It seemed real enough, hovering a foot above the table's surface. He reached out to take it, surprised to see his fingers slip through. Like a mirage. In the time it took to glance at the falcon, the card disappeared.

"Did you see that?" Tristan almost tripped over the stump of a chair in his haste to stand.

The falcon didn't do anything out of the ordinary except eye the basket of food.

"Hungry? Take anything I have." Tristan took a few steps back from the table, allowing the bird room to fly, but it stayed perched on the sill.

Tristan tore a chunk of bread from the loaf, careful to not make any sudden moves, and set it as close to the bird as he could reach. The bird merely eyed Tristan with what might have been mild curiosity.

"Don't want it?" Tristan picked up the bread, unable to resist taking a bite for himself, and cautiously walked around the table, closer.

The bird had to be at least a foot and a half tall. Its curved beak looked freshly sharpened, but it had never given him anything to fear. Tristan held the bread on his fingertips, locking eyes with the falcon, taken in by the depth of golden-orange.

An intelligence far greater than any bird at the top of the food chain stared back at him. Tristan blinked first and the bird snatched the bread from his hand before flying away.

Tristan watched in awe, then sat on the stump and stared at the scatter of cards. He picked up the seven of spades for closer examination. Growling pleas from his stomach begged for more bread, but he set up the cards again instead, saving the seven of spades for last. When everything balanced nicely, with the final card in place, he blew them all down.