placed the muzzle above his right eye, and pulled the trigger. Sartori was a native of Italy, 18 years of age. He was remaining in the City pending the outcome of the investigation into the death of a young woman at the Sutter Mansion some days past.
“Did you know him too?” Rayne asks as I finish reading.
“Yes,” I say quietly. It feels like I just lost them both. I remember the handsome boy with the black hair and the kind eyes. “He was so in love that he couldn’t live without her.”
Mom pokes her head into the living room. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says. “Veronique and Giacomo are due in about an hour.” If keeping your enemies close means inviting them to dinner on a Saturday night, then we’re all safe. Mom wants to thank Veronique for saving my life, and what better way to do it than with a giant pan of lasagna?
“Okay,” I say, looking up from the book that I’ve been pretending to study. I haven’t seen Veronique since the day of the accident—until my arm heals, not only cello practice, but all lessons are off. I have the pages from the newspaper printed and stuck in my desk drawer so that when the time comes, I can prove that I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s right there, in black and white.
Griffon glances up from his book and smiles at me. I feel a little bit guilty about not letting him in on all of my research, but I want to talk to Veronique first—to prove to him that I really can take care of myself, that I’m smart enough to figure things out on my own. He’s sprawled in the small chair by the fireplace, and all afternoon I’ve wanted to climb in there with him, but under Mom’s watchful eye we’ve stayed on opposite sides of the coffee table.
“I’ve got a pan in the oven,” she says. “Can you check on it in about ten minutes?”
“Sure,” I say.
“If you need to take it out, have Griffon help you,” she says, looking pointedly at the big black splint that covers most of my left arm. “It’s too heavy to lift with one hand.”
“Got it,” I say, inwardly begging her to leave the room already.
The minute I hear her door shut, I bounce off the couch and walk over to him, taking the book out of his hands.
“Um, I’m reading that,” he says, but the grin on his face says something different.
“
“He’s a great Nigerian novelist,” he says. “Don’t mock.”
I lower myself onto the arm of the chair and lean toward Griffon, dropping the book onto the floor. “I would never mock great literature,” I say. “Plus, you’re not really reading it. All you’re doing is flipping pages every few seconds.”
“That’s how I read,” he says. He lowers his eyebrows like he’s hurt.
“Seriously?” I lean over and look at the book. The print is tiny. “Nobody can read that fast.”
Griffon shrugs his shoulders but doesn’t say anything, just touches my hand and laces my fingers carefully through his.
I pull my hand away, wincing a little with the pain the sudden movement causes. “Okay, smart boy,” I say. I walk over to Mom’s packed bookcase and run my finger over some of the titles. “Have you read this one?” I hold up
Griffon nods. “Yep.”
I put it back and look at another title. “How about
He laughs. “Everyone’s read that.”
I scowl and turn back to the bookcase. “‘In the Penal Colony,’ by Kafka?”
“Yes,” he says. “Look, Cole, for a lot of the years I’ve been alive there wasn’t much else to do for fun but read.”
“I’ll find something.” I grab a thick, black book. “How about Poe?”
“Depends,” he says. “Which story?”
I open up to the middle of the book. ‘The Spectacles.’
“Ding! You win. I haven’t read that one.”
I look at him closely and can sense that he’s telling the truth. “Great.” I open the book wider to the second page of the story. “I’m going to give you ten seconds to look at this page, and then you have to tell me what’s on it.” I don’t know why I’m pushing it—maybe I still want evidence. I want being Akhet to be something I can see and touch, something physical and knowable. Provable.
He reaches for my hand again. “Are you sure you want to start this now?”
“What? Are you scared you can’t do it?”
He tilts his head in my direction. “Fine. Ten seconds.”
I flip the book around so he can see it and count ten Mississippis in my head before turning it back toward me. “Okay. What’s on this page?”
Griffon groans. “I really hate doing stuff like this. Come on, Cole, I’m not some circus act. Let’s just forget about it.”
I smile at him. “So you can’t do it. I knew it.” Putting a chessboard back together is one thing, but I’ve caught him with the speed-reading.
He sighs. “Fourth paragraph, page 863. ‘The magic of a lovely form in woman—the necromancy of female gracefulness—was always a power which I had found it impossible to resist, but here was grace personified, incarnate, the beau ideal of my wildest and most enthusiastic visions.’ Griffon glances up at me. “Is that enough? ’Cause I can do the whole page, but it’s probably going to get boring.”
I stare at the words on the page, printed exactly as he’d said them, right there in black and white. Proof. It’s what I’m after, but it gives me a shiver up my neck so violent I can’t help but shake my head to try to get rid of it. “No. You don’t have to finish.”
“Well then, I guess you’re going to have to trust me on the rest.” He reaches up and pulls me into his lap, our teeth bumping as I laugh in the middle of the kiss. He’s amazing, and here he is with me. Griffon brushes the hair away from my face and kisses me harder, pulling me into him so tightly it takes my breath away.
“You,” he says, “are driving me crazy.”
I toss my head and look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Good,” I say, and lean in to kiss him again.
Griffon pulls away and watches the doorway. “Not good,” he says. “Not with your mother in the next room.”
“Relax,” I say, trying to refocus his energy. “She can’t hear anything.”
“Wrong thing to say,” he says, making a growling noise and nuzzling the back of my neck until I squeal.
“Okay, okay, I give up,” I say. I twist in the chair to try to minimize the tingling sensation that’s running through my body. “I’m totally ticklish.”
“Ooh, duly noted,” he says. “And filed for later.” He picks me up around the waist and sets me back on the arm of the chair. “Much later.”
He nods to the cello cases that are propped up in the corner of the room. They’re just out of my range of vision, but are a large presence in the room anyway. They’re a little dusty by now from being neglected for over a week. “Have you tried to play?”
I shake my head. “No.” It seems like every time I pass this room, my eyes go automatically to the cellos. I don’t want to admit that I’m afraid of what will happen. It’s always been so easy. My fingers have always found the notes without my even having to think about it. The fear of not being able to play has taken over the idea that my gift is nothing but a lie. Part of me just doesn’t want to know.
Griffon walks over to the cello case and holds it out to me. “Then would you show me?”
I raise my eyebrows. “How to play cello?”
He shrugs. “Sure. You promised to give me lessons back when we first met.”
I walk over to the cello, almost afraid to touch it. Griffon lifts it out of the case and balances it gently against
