Summoning the Night (20 page)

“About the Snatcher investigation.”

I paused. “About the image in the Polaroid?”

“No. Something better.”

I watched him stare at the wallpaper for a long moment, then leaned in and whispered against his ear. “Tell me.”

Something mischievous danced behind his eyes as they met mine. “If it's not Bishop, then who would be able provide the Snatcher's real identity?”

Where was he going with this? I became frustrated, then realized what he meant. “Cindy Brolin. But she won't talk.”

“She won't talk to us. But what if someone . . . more persuasive . . . asked her nicely?”

WE ARE HERE
!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The text lit up my phone screen with thirteen exclamation points. Coming into the city on a Friday night might be mildly interesting to some kids. To Jupe it was like he'd been given shore leave. I untied my bar apron and told the new bartender that my half-shift was over. Amanda waved good-bye as I headed outside.

Just after ten and already freezing. I zipped up my coat as I climbed the belowground stairs to street level. Lon's SUV idled at the curb out front. Before I cleared the last step, Jupe jumped from the passenger seat and bounded across the sidewalk to greet me. “So this is what it's like at night, huh? Wow! The neon looks so cool lit up like that. How many people are inside? You look tired—is it busy in there? Who's working tonight? Is Kar Yee in there? ”

“Hello to you, too. You think you could maybe ask me about thirty more questions before you let me answer any of them?” I said, poking him in the stomach.

He laughed. “Oops.” Then he did the strangest thing. He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. Just a casual peck. Something most people would expect from a brother
or a friend. Only, I don't have a brother, and I certainly didn't have any friends who did that. Amanda often tried to hug me, but she once said I was unhuggable. That hurt my feelings, but not enough to start getting all free-love and touchy-feely.

Jupe, however, definitely had the potential to be excessive with PDA. He liked to hug—a
lot
—and that's fine, I suppose. We'd also cuddled up together and watched TV in his room, and yes, he fell asleep in my lap on the couch the other night. And once he'd tried to insert his big toe up my nose; if that's not affection, I don't know what is.

But he'd never
kissed
me.

And it was so casual, like he'd done it a billion times. I guess that's why he didn't seem to notice when I froze up on the sidewalk like some socially awkward recluse. He was too busy trying to peer down into Tambuku's stained glass windows from the top of the stairs. Meanwhile, I wasn't sure if I was mortified by the kiss, or if I was going to break down sobbing in some weirdo family-bonding moment. The horror of doing just that was enough to snap me back to reality. I tried to play it cool, like it wasn't a big deal.
This is what normal people do. It doesn't mean anything.
Thankfully, Lord Empath was in the car, out of range.

The door to Tambuku swung open and Kar Yee emerged, hiking up the steps. “You might need this,” she called out, holding up my cell. “You left it in your apron.” Her kohl-rimmed eyes fell on Jupe. “Well, well, well. Look who it is—my future boyfriend. What are you doing in the city? Couldn't stay away from me, huh?”

Jupe's eyes inflated into giant cartoon peepers in response. “I'm on a mission,” he managed to get out.

“A mission?” Kar Yee's voice flattened in genuine
suspicion. “Is that a religious thing? You're not one of those irritating door-to-door people, are you?”

“No! I'm—”

“We're going to the grocery store,” I said, covering up for Jupe's loose tongue as she handed me my phone. Not a lie, exactly. Dr. Spendlove wanted Jupe to practice his knack in supervised situations. I don't think what we were about to do was what he had in mind, but it
was
a situation. And we were supervising . . .

“Hey,” Jupe said to Kar Yee. “You speak Cantonese, not Mandarin, right?”

“Yes.”

“How do you say ‘beautiful girl' in Cantonese?”

Oh,
brother
.

“Leng lui.”

Jupe repeated it. She corrected his pronunciation, then added, “We would also say something more casual that translates to ‘your beauty shatters the mirror.'”

“Really?” Jupe was definitely into that colloquialism. It had just the right dose of violence for his tastes. “How do you say that?” he asked with great urgency, then added, “I
have
to know.”

“You say it like this: ‘Your beauty shatters the mirror,'” she deadpanned.

“N-o-o-o,” Jupe groaned. “In
Cantonese
.”

“Does this look like Hong Kong to you? No. It's central California. I didn't travel halfway across the globe to speak Cantonese.”

“Why did you move here, then? Hong Kong seems cooler than Morella, that's for sure.”

“My father is American. He moved to Hong Kong and became a permanent resident a few years after marrying my
mother. When I turned eighteen, I decided to go to college in Seattle. That's where I met her.” She tipped her head in my direction. “I liked the States, so I stayed. Cady and I moved down here because it's sunnier and we wanted to make money. End of story.”

“Your dad was American?” Jupe asked.

“A Jewish lawyer from Seattle.”

“What? Wait a minute . . . is he white?”

“As a snowflake.”

Jupe's mouth fell open. “You're biracial? Like me? Cady, you didn't tell me!” It was too much for him to process. Joy overload. Then his brow furrowed, as if he were checking himself; it was, surely, too good to be true. “You don't look it.”

She crossed her arms over her middle and held her head high. “I got my mother's good looks and my father's knack.”

“Wow,” Jupe raved, his eyes pinwheeling in happiness.

A car door slammed behind us; Lon emerged from the SUV and then stood near it in a manner I can only describe as hulking—I wasn't sure if he was pissed about being forced to wait, or if he sensed his son's overactive hormones from the car. Kar Yee watched him as he approached. “So that's your dad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm-hmph. Better looking than my father,” she observed.

I made introductions between Grunt and Glare, two people with some of the worst social skills on the planet. They eyed each other silently. For several moments. They'd heard all about each other; I wondered what they were thinking. Finally, Kar Yee remarked to Lon, “Your halo is almost as strange
as hers.” To me, she simply said, “Good for you.” Then she retreated back down the steps to the bar.

Starry Market wasn't a chain. It was the largest and oldest independent grocer in the city as well as a hybrid of disjointed ventures—dry-goods liquidator (this summer's potato chip flavors that went nowhere), gourmet ingredient procurer, and international farmer's market. Amanda refused to shop there, claiming that all the produce was irradiated. I, on the other hand, had more to worry about than death by radioactive zucchini.

But we weren't there to buy vegetables. We were there to track down Cindy Brolin. Again. Though we'd failed the first time, we were determined to find out what she was hiding about the original Snatcher.

The market was in the middle of the university quarter. The squat, ugly building occupied a small block that also housed three businesses in a strip of leased storefronts on the sidewalk. The main entrance was inside the attached parking garage. Jupe was wary when we entered, remembering the last time we were in a city parking structure together, but I pointed out that the Starry Market garage contained only half the amount of hobo urine of the Metropark, which I have found to be a surprisingly accurate indicator of lower crime statistics.

Halloween candy, cinnamon brooms, and bins of pumpkins crowded the store entrance. Not many shoppers. Yacht rock from the 1970s floated over the aisles like a bad storm cloud, dumping torrents of Christopher Cross and of the band that gave me sweaty nightmares, Steely Dan. Once we'd meandered past the spicy scents of the seasonal display, the store's natural oppressive smell reared its head—day-old fish
and transpacific shipping containers, dusty and perfumed with petrol.

Lon left me with Jupe while he combed the store looking for Cindy. We wasted time waiting for him while perusing a selection of unusual canned-good delectables from Russia. Jupe was enchanted. “A cartoon squid? What the hell is in here?” Jupe murmured, turning a dented can in his hand and trying to guess the Cyrillic letters. “Is it soup? It says ‘herring' on the shelf label. That makes no sense. Squid-herring?
What is this?
” he whispered in wonder.

After he begged me to get a cart so that we could load up on grass jelly, silkworm pupae, and fish balls—which I refused to do—Lon stepped up behind me and spoke over my shoulder.

“Found her.” He grabbed a can of congealed reindeer meat out of Jupe's hand and set it on the shelf. “Listen,” he said in a low voice, heavy as steel. “This is serious—the first real thing I've ever let you do as an adult and not a kid. So stop screwing around.”

Jupe's mouth scrunched up in embarrassment as he blinked up at Lon. “Okay.”

“I'm having some serious doubts about pulling you into this,” Lon admitted.

So did I, but we were desperate. The fruitless Polaroid had haunted him like a bad dream, while the origin of the strange markings on the seven magical circles I'd photographed in the cannery continued to elude both of us. Lon said Jupe's knack would probably be less traumatic on Cindy than dosing her with one of my medicinals. I agreed.

“I can handle it, Dad. I swear.”

Lon frowned. “I hope so. This is not something I take
lightly. I'll say it one more time—you'll only use your knack exactly as we discussed unless one of us tells you otherwise.”

“Yeah, I understand.”

“And as you know,” Lon continued, “Dr. Spendlove can get the truth out of you whether you like it or not, so if I even
think
you've been using it for the wrong reason, like cheating on tests or getting some girl to kiss you—”

Jupe feigned offense, his mouth forming an O. What a liar. He'd definitely already thought about using his knack for that. He'd better not have tried.

“—I will take you in to see him and he'll find out exactly how many times you've used your knack and why.”

Jupe stuck a long finger into his curls, slowly scratching the side of his head. “All right, I get it for chrissake. What I
don't
get is why the two of you are doing all this. You aren't cops,” he challenged.

Lon paused, staring at Jupe with fire in his eyes, then took a deep breath and answered in a calm voice. “You know the code? How we keep the demon talk quiet around savages?”

“Yeah.”

“This is an Earthbound matter,” Lon explained, then added, “Ambrose Dare is asking us to help.”

“Mr. Dare? Whoa.”

“Yeah, whoa. And if you can't handle it, then we'll just go back to testing your knack with Dr. Spendlove's ‘favorite color' suggestion . . .”

“I can handle it!” Jupe insisted.

“And you can't breathe a word of this to people at school. You're going to want to brag—I know you. But you can't. Not even to your best friends.”

“What about Mr. and Mrs. Holiday?”

Lon shook his head. “Only the three of us.” He pointed for emphasis—one, two, three. “This is serious family business.”

Us. Family. I was included. My mind raced back to the promises we'd made in the kitchen the other night and lumped it in with Jupe's casual kiss on my forehead . . . and now this. Something fragile cracked inside me. My chest felt warm. I blinked away emotion as Lon's eyes flicked to mine.
Get it together, Bell.

“Can you promise me that you'll keep quiet?”

“I promise.” Jupe held his head a little higher and added, “You can count on me.”

“I know I can.” Lon gave him a muted smile and squeezed his shoulder. And that was that.

We followed Lon to the back of the store. Cindy Brolin leaned behind the fish counter, hosing it down for the night. I puffed out my cheeks as we approached, trying to banish the stench. When she saw us, panic exploded over her face.

“Hello, Cindy,” I said, holding my hands up like she was some skittish pony that might bolt out of the pen. “We only want to talk again for just a minute. Real fast, promise.”

“I'm at work. I can't talk.” With reddening cheeks and crazy eyes, she glanced around the area, maybe with hopes that her manager was somewhere nearby and could save her. The only person in sight was an old woman three aisles down pushing a cart filled with large multipacks of ramen noodles.