Forget Me Not (3 page)

“That doesn’t sound good,” I mutter.

“It means there is indeed….”

He twists, angling himself toward my open bedroom door, and his gaze locks on my dresser. The back of my neck prickles, a sure sign something about this just isn’t right. What the…
? I step past him and pull the door closed, but he pushes me aside and slams it open. Panic shoots through me, but I’m fast enough to dart around him. Turning my shoulder and reaching for the box.

He lunges toward me, grabs me from behind, and his arm pins my neck to him with a shoulder crushing grip. He pushes me against the dresser, and the box falls open, its contents spilling across the top. Heart pounding, my throat burns with a scream. I’ve got to get him out of here. He must know about my pendant, the brooch. Dammit. I wriggle to escape his vicelike grip, but it’s no use
—he’s too strong.

My hand darts toward the pendant. I snatch it, but he grabs my wrist. Adrenaline tries to pound my heart right out of its home in my chest. If only I can get the jewelry on, I might be able to make its magic work and hide.

“Tech breech confirmed,” he speaks into his collar in a matter-of-fact tone; then he turns his gaze to me. “Give me the pendant.”

There’s a tiny ripping sound, like
Velcro torn open. A young guy in a black leather jacket flickers into my bedroom. A sharp gasp leaves me. I can’t escape one attacker, let alone two. Where the heck are these men coming from? I’m not going down without a fight, so I kick at my captor’s shins. The leather jacket guy wrenches the man’s grip from my shoulders and punches him square in the chin, knocking his head to the side. Shaking his head, the gas man stumbles backward.

The jacket guy raises his knee and drives a foot into the other man’s stomach. The straight, hard kick makes a loud thud and forces the dude to double over and curl in on himself. The leather jacket guy crouches and drives his fist straight up into the man’s chin. It knocks him flat on his back like a felled tree.

My chest rises and falls with my quickened breath. My heart thuds like a booming drum. The mysterious rescuer turns toward me, holding my gaze with intense, steady jade eyes. He grabs my assailant by the arm, and they both flicker out of my room.

My mind spins.

Legs, arms, body—I can’t move, but it doesn’t matter. Moving is the least of my worries. Who were they, and what just happened? The meter seemed to lead him straight to Mom’s pendant. Gas man, my ass.

I clutch my head in an attempt to stop my mind spinning, but my hand slides off my sweaty forehead and falls against my tightened stomach. What if they come back? The guy in the jacket…

What was that? The brooch, the pendant… my disappearing reflection. They wanted it. Damn.

Sweat trickles down my forehead and into my eyes. I wipe it away with a trembling hand. Questions hurtle through my mind, all jumbling together as they race faster and faster in my mind. Seconds, minutes, hours I don’t know, but a single thought emerges through the haze of my mind.

Will.

A deep drawn-in breath
brings the familiar smell of grease and car and Will, which weakens my tense muscles. I twist my hands together in my lap and stare out the front window of his beat-up car, unsure of how I got here. Here where it’s always been safe. Safe to run to. Safe to hide. The only place that eased the gnawing pain of Mom’s disappearance.

The passenger door squeaks open, and Will plonks himself onto the seat. He props a long leg on the dash, then his other leg over the first and shoots me a smile. “Hey.”

I unclasp my hands and raise a thumb to my mouth, chewing on the soft side.

Brow furrowed, eyes dark, he runs an idle finger round and round the gearstick. “What happened?”

I open my mouth and it all tumbles out—the magic, the gas repair dude, the young guy in the leather jacket. At the end of my story, I start to crack. Now it’s all out, and there’s nothing to hold me together, nothing to separate brave and terrified. I am shattered glass. But Will’s here, and I’m safe.

Tears roll down my cheeks, and my chest heaves with each racking sob. He reaches across the bucket seat and pulls me into an awkward, protective hug. My shoulders sag under his embrace.

After a few minutes, he pulls back and looks at me, his eyes steady and clear as still water. I’m so lucky to have a friend who looks out for me, someone who usually has all the answers.

“What are we going to do?” I ask.

“It has to be the brooch, the invisibility.”

I shake my head. “This is
—I mean—magic doesn’t exist, Will. This isn’t possible.”

“It can and it does, Mae. Show me how it works.” His gaze darts to the brooch now pinned to my shirt.

“You’ve got to be kidding. They might come back.”

“And they might not. Magic
—”

His eyes widen, and my chest loosens. The realization hits us at the same time. Our words tumble together, “No refunds without magic.”

“Crazy Al,” he says. “Better take the back streets, just in case.” In case of what? He thinks it’s not safe. Damn. I should have thought before I ran here. Now I’ve put Will in danger too, and—damn it—his parents, his sister, his whole family.

He yanks the car door open. “Come on, Mae!”

I slide across the seat and tumble out, making a beeline for his beloved motorcycle. He climbs on the sleek, red bike and twists the accelerator, revving the engine to life.

I grab my helmet off the handlebars and pull it on. After I throw my leg over and grab hold of the grip bars by my thighs, we zoom off down the street. The ride’s only a few minutes, but they seem to drag on forever.

Finally, the bike slows, and we pull into the empty parking lot behind Crazy Al’s. I jump off and stride through the backdoor into the store, winding our way between tall piles of junk. Pushing a stack of old magazines out of my way, I silently curse Al. There’s way too much stuff jammed in this tiny space. I know the back of the store isn’t really for public viewing, but still.

Al sits on a wooden stool at the counter with his back to us, blue tweed pants so high on his waist they could double as a shirt. We make our way through the shop, but he doesn’t look up from tinkering with the innards of an ancient cuckoo clock.

“Al, what can you tell me about this brooch?” I slam my palms onto the counter. Springs and parts jump into the air.

“They don’t make ’
em like that anymore, Love,” he says. “One of a kind.”

“Al,” I say, but Dad’s friend doesn’t look up. Pay attention! I rub my thumb over the brooch’s yellow center. Nothing happens. The pendant. My hand darts to it, and I run a thumb over the cool metal, sending a ripple through me like tiny waves from a stone thrown in a pond. Good. It worked.

I hear a sharp gasp, but it’s Will, not Al. Al finally looks up. He scratches his temple, and his brow furrows, registering I’m gone but failing to notice the significance. Seems he missed seeing me vanish. He grimaces at the place where I was and casts a curious glance at Will. Running my finger over the two flowers makes me reappear. Al’s mouth drops open then closes in a tight line. Good. He darts a glance to the doorway, his face a pale mask of shock. “Holy—it’s one of those.”

My heart stutters, and coldness washes over me. This reaction isn’t good.

Will leans in toward Al. “Have you ever—”

“Quiet, boy.” Al springs to his feet, and the stool topples to the ground. With a few quick strides, he reaches my side and grabs my arm; then he ushers us, like little kids, to the back of the store and up the narrow staircase which leads to his living quarters. If kind, gentle Al has his breeches in a twist, there’s got to be more to this brooch and pendant than I’d thought.

We’re prodded into his sparsely furnished living room. I’ve been here many times before. I’ve watched his old, boxy television, sat in his shabby-looking armchair with my feet on the couch, and even looked through the cabinet full of odds and ends against the back wall. I glance around, nerves dancing in my tummy, spurred by Al’s weird behavior. It’s not like him at all.

He calls out, “Hoi, Bertie, come here.”

Dressed in a purple knit dress, with hair the same color, and fluffy, high-heeled slippers matching the layers of aqua beads around her neck, Al’s wife, Bertie, prances through the door from the kitchen. She looks just as crazy as Al, but that’s normal.

Al gestures to the brooch still clutched in my hand. “Show her.”

I hold it out for her to see.

She snatches it from my hand and cradles it close to her chest, then looks up at me with over-round eyes. “Where did you get this?”

“We got it from Al this afternoon.” I frown. “What’s going on?”

Bertie whirls around and wags her finger at Al. “What the hell are you doing, selling one of those?”

“It was lying on the dusty floor, you stupid old bird.” he says. “Of course I thought it was of no consequence.”

“You’ll have them all after us now, you crazy fool.” She hits Al with the damp tea towel she was clutching.

Al dances out of its reach, bouncing from foot to foot, but his eyes sparkle. “It’s been ten years since we’ve seen a cover-up.”

I pat the pendant under my shirt. It’s safe and sound. Should I tell them about it? I’m not sure. Bertie already has the brooch, so maybe. Will gives me a small smile. It wavers. I’m not sure I want to keep it, but I don’t want to bring trouble to Al, either.

I hold out my hand to Bertie. “Please, can I have it back?”

She places the brooch in my hand. I take a deep breath; time to trust Al. “When I used it, the…
.”

“Cover-up.”

“Yeah, that. A man appeared at my door within minutes. He seemed to know it was there. I think he would’ve killed me to take it.”

Bertie sucks in a sharp breath.

“A scout from The Collective,” Al says.

A scout? The Collective? What the heck is he talking about? Sweat prickles the back of my neck, and I glance at Will who stares at Al with a blank expression, his skin ashen.

Bertie dashes to the small balcony window and inches a corner of the drapes back, peering into the street. “We can’t stay here, Al.”

“I know, dear, we’ll take them to Beau.” Al grabs her trembling arm with a steady hand and places his other palm-down on her shoulder.

“They’ll track her, know where she is.” Bertie drops the drape, shuffles over, grabs my arm, and pushes me toward the door. “Come on, Al.”

I glance at Will. His eyes are wide and fearful.

With a series of prods, Bertie ushers me down the stairs and out of the shop. We rush straight to their old pickup with a silent urgency that makes the hairs on the nape of my neck rise. What’s this all about? What’s happening, and where do they think they’re taking us?

We come to a stop in front of the rusty dual-cab pickup. Will digs in his heels, grabs my hand, and tugs me back. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Bertie pulls open the back door. “You have to, for your own safety. The scout is just the beginning. You’re in great danger.”

“Danger?” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

Al jogs round to the far side of the truck and pulls open the driver’s side door, which cuts the air with a squeal like it’s never been oiled. “There’s a safe house for situations like this. They’ll explain it better than us.”

His words rush out so jumbled I have to concentrate to understand him. I spin from Al to face Will. His mouth is set, and his head shakes. No. But Will doesn’t know Al like I do.

“Get in the truck,” Bertie nearly yells.

Al’s gaze is on me, and although his words are urgent, his face is kind and gentle. He’s the same Crazy Al I’ve always known. “Anamae, you need to trust us. I’ve been friends with your father for years. You’ve known me since you were little. We’re trying to help. I’d never let anything happen to you. We’re like family.”

He’s right. All those trips into the store when I was only just old enough to see over the counter, Al was always so kind, so gentle. At every visit he’d give me something small out of his collection to take home and treasure. Then there were the poker nights. Kids really shouldn’t have been there, but Al… well, he always made an exception for me. I’d sit on the couch and watch television. If he says we’re in danger, and he knows where we can get help, then I have to trust him.

I glance toward Will. His hands are bunched in tight fists by his sides, his eyes set straight ahead. I deliberately don’t meet them. “Okay. I’ll go.”

Al slides onto the bench seat behind the wheel. Bertie gestures toward the open back door and climbs into the front seat, muttering about agents. Her eyes dart all around, searching every alley and corner and shadow.

After sliding into the back seat, I beckon for Will to follow.

“I don’t like it, but you’re not going alone.” He glowers as he follows me into the pickup and slams the door.

I slide into the middle seat so I can see out front, and my glance lands on the ancient dash, which is all exposed wires and cracked speedo. I hope to God this rusty truck doesn’t break down. My thumbnail finds its way to my mouth. Anxiousness roils inside me, much like the time I crashed Dad’s car. The loud bang, the white powder gushing into the air, making it difficult to breath. And the feeling of panic. So much panic.
Breathe, Mae, breathe. Now, the strong burned chemical smell rushes back to me like it clings to my clothes once again.