Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure

“Poop,” Gazzy mumbled. “Dylan wouldn’t give me any of his, either. Neither would Nudge. Or Iggy.”

“And what have we learned from this experience?” I asked, raising one eyebrow.

Gazzy shuffled. “Um… everyone but me needs to work on their sharing skills?”

“No,” I said patiently. “We learned that if you eat half a pie, you get your pie privileges taken away. Capiche?”

I am such a good not-mom.

The Gasman started to say something else but was cut off by the sudden appearance of Fang, who had entered the living room like a freaking shadow.

Just like old times.

I glanced at Fang and was startled by how pale he was. His normally inexpressive face looked taut, and his lips were pressed into a thin white line.

“What’s wrong?” I said immediately, getting ready to do a head count. “Is everyone okay?”

Fang hesitated. “Can you come with me?”

I took one last bite of pie, then followed Fang down the hallway, past Nudge’s room, Iggy’s room, Gazzy’s, mine, Dylan’s, and Total’s. (Yes, the dog got his own room.)

Fang opened the door to the guest room and led me inside. His laptop was open and running on the bed, and I saw the page for his blog pulled up on the screen.

“Wait, this is about your blog?” I exclaimed, one part relieved and two parts annoyed that he’d gotten me all worked up for nothing. “From your face, I thought we were gearing up for Armageddon!”

He sat and motioned to the laptop. “Read the comment on top.”

Great. Probably another Fang fan-girl (Fang-irl?) gushing about how incredibly guh-orrrrr- geous he was. I sighed and sat down next to him on the bed.

What? My heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe.

Feeling completely numb—I refused to get my hopes up—I clicked on the image that came with the comment. Fang and I were both silent, waiting with bated breath, as the image loaded.

It was a blurry, grainy photo, maybe taken on an old cell phone. The background was dark and murky, with a couple of blocky shadows that looked a bit like hospital equipment. I ignored that and focused on the foreground, which had better lighting.

Better lighting that revealed a chunk of limp blond ringlets. A clump of dirty white feathers. A small, pale hand—the same hand I’d held a million times throughout the years.

“Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Oh, my God.”

Fang leaned toward the computer screen, gazing at the photo. “So you think it’s really her?” he asked softly. I caught the faint undercurrents of insane, wild, un-Fanglike excitement.

“Yeah,” I squeaked, hardly believing I was saying it. “Yes,” I said louder, looking into his eyes and seeing my own certainty reflected there. “Fang, I think that’s Angel.”

“What?”

It wasn’t Fang who’d spoken. The two of us turned to the doorway to see Nudge and Gazzy staring at us. Gazzy was holding the second pie, and Nudge was carrying two forks. Under different circumstances, I’d have whooped their conniving, thieving little behinds. But right now, all I could do was frantically process plans, ideas, possibilities, while I tried to contain the enormous hopeful smile that was threatening to take over my face.

“Angel,” said Fang. “Angel might be alive.”

The Gasman gasped and dropped the pie, which splattered all over the floor. None of us even flinched. “What?” he said again.

“Look,” I choked out, and he and Nudge hurried over to the bed. I watched as they read this Mazin Nourahmed person’s comment and studied the photo.

“Trap?” Nudge asked immediately. That’s my girl.

“Maybe,” I replied. Then I regretfully added: “Probably.”

“Do we care?” That was Gazzy. I knew how much he wanted to see his little sister again—under any circumstances.

Fang and I glanced at each other, then answered at the same time: “No.”

The four of us sat there for a few more moments, just letting the news sink in.

Then Gazzy hollered, “Iggy! Dylan! Fang’s room! Now!”

“Oh, my God!” Nudge yelled, bouncing on her heels in excitement. “Oh, my God, Angel!”

“Did I hear ‘Angel’?” Dylan asked, poking his head around the door.

“What?” Iggy demanded, coming on Dylan’s heels and skidding to a stop in the hallway.

Gazzy read the blog comment aloud. As before, we were all quiet for a bit as Iggy and Dylan processed the information.

And then—without any warning—we all leaped up, screaming and yelling and hugging until our voices and arms gave out. Nudge was sobbing; Gazzy kept chanting “My sister’s alive! My sister’s alive!” over and over; Iggy was laughing maniacally; Dylan stayed next to me, grinning, while I acted like my usual stoic, leaderly self (read: sobbing just as hard as Nudge). And in the middle of all of us, Fang was smiling with an abandon that I’d never seen him show before.

For the first time in my life, I saw tears in Fang’s eyes.

He squeezed my hand, and I knew right then that regardless of traps, regardless of risks, everything was going to be all right. The flock was about to be complete again.

Our baby was coming home.

50

THE VERY NEXT morning, all six of us—Gazzy, Nudge, Iggy, Fang, Dylan, and I—got up bright and early to leave on the first rescue mission in… how many months? Three? Four? Man, that might have been the longest period of time without a rescue since Jeb had whisked us away from the School. Impressive.

We didn’t bother telling the principal or teachers at Newton the small, insignificant fact that their precious bird kids were leaving on an impromptu trip to California, possibly never to return. After all, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: We’ve spent our entire, unglamorous lives not being controlled by grown-ups. Why start now?

“Okeydokey,” I said to myself, stuffing another bag of beef jerky into a backpack. “Provisions, check. Clothes, check. Enough explosives to pose a legitimate threat to multiple small countries”—I eyed the duffel bags that Gazzy and Iggy had packed—“check. Destination”—I glanced at the printed-out sheet with a marked map, courtesy of Mazin Nourahmed the Helpful (and Possibly Evil?) Blog Commenter—“check.”

Six backpacks were laid out before me, for six bird kids. Usually I’d have to pack one for Total, too, but following my recommendation, he’d agreed to stay behind for this one. I’d arranged for him to stay with Akila. If this mission didn’t go well, I didn’t want his canine ladyfriend to end up a widow.

“Ready?” Fang asked, sliding his arms through the straps of his backpack and giving me a warm, excited, anxious look—a look that betrayed way more emotion than I was used to seeing Fang display.

“Yup. Let’s bust this joint,” I said. Nudge and Gazzy exchanged smiles—we all had the same feeling about this mission. Just like old times.

Except, of course, this wasn’t old times, or just any mission. It was Angel. And it was probably a trap. And even if we did somehow manage to find her, she might not be as okay as we were all desperately hoping she was. A lot can happen to a seven-year-old girl all alone at a School.

I let out a long breath, my hands shaking as I fumbled with my bag’s zipper. Stay positive. She is alive.

“It’s okay,” said a familiar voice beside me. Dylan. “We’ll find her.”

I turned to face him. He looked serious and sincere. A lump suddenly formed in my throat, and I wanted to hug him. But Fang was right behind me, so I just nodded, knowing that Dylan understood, and praying hard that he