Doc Harrison and the Prophecy of Halsparr Page 8

  Voices send my gaze to the building sweeping over our heads. Someone shouts again from inside, and someone answers, their words echoing off into the jungle.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Come on,” I tell the grren as he sits there, spitting more poison from his brother’s wound.

  I cross to Cypress, her one eye still closed. The cat eye is still open, but it doesn’t blink, ever, so it’s hard to tell if she’s with me or not.

  The grren tore away a piece of her jumpsuit near the shoulder, and the puncture looks swollen and surrounded by circles of teeth marks. I shiver in sympathetic pain.

  “Cypress,” I say, tapping her arm. “Cypress?” I tap harder. Nothing. But her chest is still rising and falling, and I hold my hand above her mouth and feel warm breath.

  The next building looks pretty far off, but it’ll give us better cover than these trees.

  I come around, dig my hands beneath Cypress’s arms, and begin dragging her in that direction.

  One of the grren trudges up, carrying his wounded brother on his back. He sees what I’m doing and gets in front of me, forging the path ahead.

  I keep close, blowing at these tiny white insects swirling into my eyes. They’re like gnats, and the grren notices them, too. He clicks and moves a bit faster.

  Within five minutes we reach an alcove where a pair of entrance doors probably stood. They’re gone now, replaced by a tunnel of more vines that coils into the building and stretches off into the shadows.

  No, I’m not going in there. We tuck in tightly beneath the alcove and settle down. I put a finger to my lips and then gesture to the building above, as if to warn the grren that the other two assassins are still up there.

  The grren just looks at me and then lowers his brother to the mossy ground.

  * * *

  I wake up in the safe house’s living room, staring directly into Meeka’s eyes. I’m still multitasking, but it’s been a great relief to rest while I focus on my persona.

  Meeka sits on the couch beside me, and her expression has me worried. “You look even worse.”

  My voice cracks: “I’ve been busy.”

  “Us, too. We’re almost done with the engine.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Tommy borrowed a cell phone from one of his neighbors. He made a few calls. Zach’s been missing from the hospital, so maybe Solomon did take him. No answer from the rest of Tommy’s old security team. He’s worried that Solomon might’ve grabbed them for the experiments.”

  “Aw, man.”

  “Yeah. He did find Mrs. Bossley’s phone number and tried to call her, but she’s not answering. He wants to go over there, but we’re still worried about him.”

  “He can’t go now. We’ll just get back to Flora, and see what’s happening. I’m freaking out about Grace.”

  “Rific’s a badass. I’m sure she’s all right.”

  Tears slide across my cheeks before I can stop them.

  “Oh, Doc, don’t worry, everything will be okay.”

  “It’s just all this guilt. Cypress wants to help, but now she’s hurt real bad. Maybe it’s my fault.”

  “Look, put on your man pants and get over it,” she says, sounding just like Tommy.

  “Roger that.”

  “Promise me you won’t give up on yourself. And if you keep that promise, I’ll show you a secret when this is over.”

  “What kind of secret?”

  “You don’t think it’s good enough?”

  It hurts to laugh. “Just curious.”

  “Well, it’s good secret. So, do you promise?”

  “Yeah.”

  She leans down and kisses me softly—but then she pulls back, and her hand goes to my head.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re getting colder.”

  * * *

  Situation report: I’m sitting in the vine-covered alcove of a building demolished a thousand years ago on an alien planet. I’m breathing heavily, staring at Cypress, and screaming in my thoughts for her to wake up.

  Using her eye bling to generate that shield drained her. Some of the syncarr poison might’ve gotten into her system.

  Yes, she frustrates the hell out of me, but it’s still hard to see her like this. She’s weird and strong and kind of sad, too. And there’s a lot she’s not telling me. Serious baggage. I just know it.

  Come on, Cypress. Wake up.

  The grren who got hit remains conscious and continues to lick his wound. I try to connect, but his eyes widen, and if I’m reading his expression correctly, he’s insulted. Do I piss off everyone or what?

  The patterns on his forehead remind me of this kid I know in our neighborhood. He’s a few years older than me and a real punk. He got into it with Mrs. Bossley a few times. I also heard he got arrested last summer for fighting in school and selling weed. He drives around in this old Civic low rider with music blasting and his juiced up arm hanging from the open window to show off his tribal tattoos.

  So for now I’m calling this grren “Punk.”

  He snarls at me, as though he’s read my mind.

  Meanwhile, the other grren studies me like I cheated on my Earth science homework. The truth is I only half-cheated because Julie wouldn’t give me all the answers. The grren’s whiskers flare and his lips narrow…

  Yep, this one is “Mr. Gurdy,” definitely Mr. Gurdy, who wrote me up twice for “suspicious assignments, excessive talking, and unapproved phone use in class.”

  With a slight clicking of his teeth, he rises and creeps out toward the edge of the alcove, his long, floppy ears flinching a little. He stands there for a few seconds, just listening, observing, and then, satisfied with his recon, he faces me. With a quick nod, he turns and leaps away.

  I want to shout, “Wait!” but don’t. Operational security. Instead, I crawl to the edge and watch as he vanishes into the jungle.

  Now what? Has he just dumped us for better company? From the distance comes a rustling sound. I just sit there, growing more tense. At least two more minutes pass.

  And then the chopper blasts through the branches, its rear wheel dragging across the weeds. Mr. Gurdy has wrapped himself around the front wheel and rolls right into the alcove. The chopper settles down, and Mr. Gurdy uncoils from the wheel and returns to his grren persona.

  “Are they gone?” I whisper to him. “Can we leave?”

  He approaches and bumps me in the shoulder with his snout. He looks at Cypress and then at me.

  “You’ll get us back to her place?” I ask, already picturing her engine and me jumping through the portal.

  Mr. Gurdy’s eyes rotate and focus on me.

  I guess that’s a yes. I stand and try to wake Cypress again. She’s out. Nothing is ever easy. But as Tommy says, if things are easy, then the victory is not as sweet.

  I’d prefer easy right now, thank you.

  Biting back a few curses, I drag her over to the bike and struggle to swing one of her legs over the seat. Maybe I can use some vines to tie her to the handlebars.

  Punk staggers to his feet and then morphs into this half tire, half grren persona that’s really weird. He uses his front paws to help me guide Cypress onto the chopper while wrapping his tire portion around the back of the chopper.

  As Cypress begins to fall forward, he changes back into a grren and slides his legs completely around her, bracing her on the bike. He now looks like Scooby Do trying to ride a motorcycle, and I can’t help but smile.

  I’m about to climb on myself, even though there’s barely enough room for me to squeeze in front of Cypress—

  When Mr. Gurdy leaps around the front wheel and tears me off, leaving me lying there.

  Alone.

  “Are you kidding me?” I cry.

  I get up and charge after them… until I remember that I’m not in my body. I can jump. Still, I doubt I’m good enough to jump on a moving vehicle, so I picture the jungle ahead.

  Bang, I’m standing in front of them, but Mr. Gurdy
’s not slowing. He’ll mow me over if I don’t move. So I do, but then I whirl and jump again—

  This time I’m about thirty feet in front and waving. The chopper keeps coming.

  After another jump, I think Mr. Gurdy gets the idea that he can’t loose me, and that’s good, because the jumps are making me dizzy and really draining me now.

  He slows to stop, and I squeeze onto the chopper and clutch the handlebars. The rear wheel fishtails across leaves as we peel out.

  * * *

  Mr. Gurdy must know a shortcut back to Cypress’s place because I don’t recognize the valley we’re plowing through. Rocks like huge dull teeth jut from a field of much thicker but lower grass.

  We reach a hillside where a narrow hole appears beside a boulder draped in more creeping plants. I’m guessing someone placed the boulder there as a landmark, since the hole is easily missed.

  And the hole, it turns out, is another pipe. We plunge inside, with the back wheel clattering across the stone.

  Three turns and four pipes later, we arrive at the engine station that Cypress calls home.

  Meanwhile, back at the safe house, Meeka’s about to give me a little more mirage.

  I clear my throat and say, “Ask my grandmother if she knows about the syncarr and how to treat a wound.”

  “I’m on it,” Meeka replies. “But you’re getting the mirage first…”

  Back on Halsparr, Mr. Gurdy slips off the wheel and resumes his grren persona, the flesh-and-blood grren trot up, and the room grows dimmer as their personas vanish into their bodies.

  Punk limps off toward the kitchen as I catch Cypress and pull her away from the chopper. Her heels drag as I carry her across the room, toward her six-sided bed. I lay her down and tuck a pillow beneath her head.

  Back at the safe house, Meeka tells me that Keane asked my grandmother about the syncarr, but she has nothing on how to treat those wounds. Of course not. Meeka says she even sifted through her data cube of records from the First Ones’ lab at Brandalynn, but again, there’s not much there on Halsparr.

  However, she does offer something else:

  According to the records, the grren are not native to Flora but to Halsparr.

  “So how’d they get to Flora?” I ask.

  “The First Ones relocated a lot of them. But Halsparr is definitely their homeworld. According to what I read, the grren were there long before humans.”

  “I believe it,” I tell her. “But the grren here are different. I think they only have one persona, but it can change shape…”

  For a moment, the world grows dark, and I almost pass out. Meeka says the mirage has just hit my system. No kidding. Time for me to relax in my body and focus on my persona on Halsparr.

  I check Cypress’s forehead, and she’s even warmer now. A cold rag might help her feel more comfortable. Grace always gave me one when I was running a fever.

  Wandering into the kitchen, I glance around for a pitcher or jug, something that might hold water.

  I open a few of the crates and just find more food. I turn back for a cabinet that resembles a wardrobe with crooked, mismatched doors. I’m about to search it when something in the far corner catches my eye.

  “Huh,” I mutter and then drift over there. I fold my arms over my chest and frown.

  It’s one of those rolling suitcases that people drag behind them at airports. It’s black, covered in heavy dust, and has an ID tag dangling from the telescoping handle.

  I glance to the bed, where Cypress is still unconscious. The grren are off near the chopper, sitting on a wicker-like mat. Punk’s nursing his wound, and Mr. Gurdy’s purring softly as though trying to comfort his brother.

  The coast is clear.

  Gently, I tug out the suitcase and wipe off the ID. There’s nothing for my wreath to translate. The words are printed in English on a faded white label:

  Property of Drs. Edmund and Margaret Devonshire

  Along with the names is an address in the United Kingdom… and this:

  Institute of Cognitive & Evolutionary Anthropology

  University of Oxford

  I lower the case onto its back and unzip the main compartment.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Doke! Don’t touch that,” Cypress yells, leaning on the kitchen counter and clutching her shoulder.

  I slam shut the flap and bolt to my feet. “Sorry. It just… it comes from Earth.”

  “Yes.” She moves slowly toward me, and I tense.

  “Hey, you’re okay.”

  She glares. “Not okay.”

  “Look, I’m sorry again, I just—”

  She winces as she picks up the suitcase.

  “Let me help you with that,” I say.

  She glares and drops the suitcase on one of the counters. Dust flies. She smacks open the flap and begins recklessly tossing items on the counter:

  Framed photographs, spiral notebooks, a snow globe of London, and even a stuffed bear from a place called Harrods, with the date stamped on the bottom of its foot: 1996. I spot a pair of cuff links shaped like cars that have the Union Jack stamped on their sides. There’s a wallet, a purse, a pearl necklace, and a key chain with a button that says Talk to the Hand. Some hardcover textbooks have the name Devonshire on their spines.

  Cypress’s lips tighten. “Mum and Dad’s stuff.”

  And then she lowers her head, covers her eyes, and begins to weep.

  “Aw, I didn’t mean to...”

  Warm air rushes across my shoulders—

  And now both grren are literally breathing down my neck. I turn slowly toward Mr. Gurdy. “I’m not hurting her. Well, I mean, she’s not, well, aw, man…”

  Cypress looks up at me. A tear slips from her brown eye, but the cat eye remains blank, with the ring rotating steadily. “I don’t look at this stuff anymore.”

  My first thought is to ask why, but I catch myself in time. “Your parents are from England. You’re from Earth.”

  “Yes. No.”

  I hesitate. “You’re not sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  I take a long, deep breath. “Your parents are obviously from England, but you’re not from Earth.”

  “I’m from here. I’m woven. My Mum and Dad found me when I was a baby after my real parents died.”

  “Woven means you’re from here, from Halsparr.”

  She nods. “But not Halsparran.”

  “There’s a difference between Halsparran and woven.”

  “Yes.” She glances to the grren. “We are their brothers and sisters.”

  “You’re related to the grren.”

  “Yes. Similar blood. What Mum called D-N-A.”

  I curse in surprise.

  She repeats it.

  I laugh.

  She laughs and curses again. I’m a bad influence.

  Shifting away from the grren, I pick up one of the framed photos featuring a heavyset, bearded young man with thick glasses and dark-haired woman who also wears glasses. They look very much like young professors standing before that famous clock in London, Big Ben.

  “This is Mum and Dad,” I say.

  “Many years ago.”

  “They went back to Earth.”

  “No. They died here when I was still…” Cypress gestures with her palm to show how tall she was—about a foot shorter and maybe five or ten years younger.

  “If they raised you, then I think you’d have a stronger accent.”

  “No, it’s very rude to steal someone’s voice. And I spend most of my time talking with my grren. Maybe I have their accent now, but I don’t steal it. That just happens.”

  “Yeah, I sort of get that.”

  “I’ve been hiding here since Mum and Dad died. They told me to protect the engine and the batteries. They said more people will come, and your grandmother did.” She regards the table. “There’s more stuff, but these were my favorites. Now they make me cry.”

  I nod and let that hang for a moment before saying, “Your Mum and
Dad came here for a reason.”

  “They were sent here.”

  “By someone,” I add, widening my eyes.

  “A man named…” she struggles to remember, “Thadd-eee-usss. He sent them.”

  Now it’s my turn to hesitate. “Thaddeus Harrison.”

  “You know him,” she says. “Same name.”

  “He’s my father.”

  She draws her head back. “Very interesting, Doke.”

  I need a moment to let this this to sink in.

  So here we are again: more secrets being revealed. My father recruited scientists from Oxford and used his engine to send them to Halsparr. What the hell were they doing here? Biological anthropology…

  Cypress looks at me, waiting for a response.

  Finally, I say, “The face in the sky. The Masks of Galleon. My father was forced to join them before he died.”

  “I’m sorry, Doke. Your grandmother taught me about the masks. She said they might come.”

  “And they tried to take you.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Because…”

  “Maybe they think we’re sick. And the grren, too.”

  “They think that because…”

  “My head hurts with all this talk.”

  “Sorry, but there’s so much I don’t know.” I glance around the room. “So you’ve been here all alone. I don’t see anymore woven. Do you connect with them in your persona? Back on Flora, we have a community where everyone talks and shares things. Plus, we have this virtual place called the Hood. It’s mainly for teens, and we create it with our minds. It’s pretty cool.”

  “I stopped connecting with most people, Doke.”

  “Because…”

  “Because maybe I’m the last woven in Grrethos. And I don’t want Halsparrans to know about this place because it’s dangerous.”

  “The other woven left.”

  “No, they were killed.”

  “By more assassins,” I say. “That’s terrible.”

  “Yes, but I’m not really alone.” She puts a hand on her chest and then winks at the grren.