The Book of Fate

104

I know her shadow anywhere. I know it better than my own. I’ve watched it nearly every day for almost a decade. That’s my job: trailing three feet behind her, close enough to be there the moment she realizes she needs something, but far enough that I’m never in the photo. Back during White House days, even when she was swarmed by entourages of dignitaries and foreign press and our press and staff and crowds and Secret Service, I could still stand at the back of the horde, peer through the sea of legs, and find her silhouette at the center — and not just because she was the only one in high heels.

It’s no different tonight. Indeed, as I squat down in the shadowy graveyard and hide behind one of the meatball shrubs, as I clamp my eyes into paper-thin slits and try to squint through the braided crisscrossing branches and the nearly fifty yards of headstone-lined darkness, I stare down the crooked stone path and instantly recognize the thick calves, sharp shoulders, and pointed silhouette of Dr. Lenore Manning.

An aching pain swells like a balloon inside my rib cage. No… she — she’d never— I shake my head, and my ribs feel like they’re about to splinter. How can—? Why would she do that?

At the end of the path, stopping at the tree, she tips her umbrella slightly, and in the light from the distant flagpole, I see anger and annoyance — and even fear — in her face. I can still picture her leaving the White House — the President squeezing her fingertips as they walked to Marine One. She said it herself: When it came to staying in power, they would’ve done almost anything.

She barks something at the man next to her, but I’m too far away to hear it. She’s not happy to be here. Whatever she did, she’s clearly regretting it. I pull back, blinking violently. But Boyle… If the First Lady’s here, and the man next to her, with the bandages on his right hand (is that a gun?), if that’s The Roman… A rush of blood throbs up from my chest, all the way to my face. I hold my cheek, which burns against my hand, just like when I was shot.

Closing my eyes, I see it all, another black-and-white newsreel. Back at the Mannings’ house, she knew I was watching — when she was crying, showing me the letter from Boyle — and then the note on my car. That’s why the handwriting matched. She… and The Roman… oh, God.

I stare back down the path at Lisbeth, who’s in just as much shock as I am. It was her idea that we switch places before Boyle showed up: I’d be the lure to bring him in; she’d be the friendly reporter who’d give him more incentive to stay. But Boyle’s not coming. He never was.

The Roman steps toward Lisbeth, who straightens up, trying to look strong. But the way she watches his gun… and backs up, colliding with the tall clay-colored headstone… she knows she’s in trouble. We all are. Unless I can get some—

Spinning back toward the fence just behind me in the graveyard, I pull my phone from my pocket and sprint as fast as I can. But before I press a single digit, I slam face-first into the chest of a tall, slim man facing the distant light. He has thin expressionless lips, buzzed black hair, and tiny chocolate eyes that seem almost too close togeth— My cheek burns like it’s on fire. I know him immediately. From every one of my nightmares.

Nico snatches my phone from my hand, chucks it to the ground, and buries it in the mud with his heel. Reaching out and seizing me by the ear, he puts the barrel of his gun against my cheek, right against the scars he created all those years ago.

“You’ve been corrupted by the Beast, Wesley,” he says calmly, almost kindly. “Now tell me where Ron Boyle is, or you will again face God’s wrath.”