Broken Circle Read online

  Table of Contents

  ___________________

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 1.5

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 3.5

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 5.5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 7.5

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 9.5

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 12.5

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 15.5

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 20.5

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 24.5

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 27.5

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  List of Clans

  About the Authors

  Copyright & Credits

  About Akashic Books

  To Annie, Nora, Grace, and Owen. Thank you for making life fun! You kids have to go to bed now. I’ll read the book to you when you’re a bit older. Don’t forget to tell Aunt Jessica that she’s awesome next time you see her!

  —M.A. Powers

  To Matt, because this book wouldn’t exist without you. It’s been fun . . . with more to come!

  —J.L. Powers

  The space between dreams and Limbo is the width

  of a frayed hair strand. Tread carefully in the land of sleep

  lest your soul lose its way and you fail to find the warmth

  of the bed in morning light.

  —Marie-Balthioul Eshu (circa 1865)

  To Live is to embrace Death as friend.

  —Adrial Grim Reaper (circa 1488)

  The Soul is eternal. Love of the Soul is a brush

  with the infinite.

  —Antonio Mors (circa 1820)

  PROLOGUE

  It happens sometimes when I go to sleep, not every time but more and more frequently. My father is there. My father and the Monster and me. I know I shouldn’t be here but here I am, and it’s all so—it’s all so real.

  Dad’s back is tall and very, very straight. He weaves in and out between gravestones, always marching forward, one foot in front of the other—the way he walks the streets of Brooklyn. It feels like I’ve been looking up at those same black coattails all my life.

  He doesn’t know I’m here. I’m not sure where here is. A cemetery of some kind. It feels like we’re looking for my mother.

  The sky is drizzling. Our shoes slurp through mud and my short legs struggle to keep up with his long strides.

  We pass a series of moss-covered angels crying over a sarcophagus. Blackened gargoyles guard the tomb next to it, rusted bars covering its opening. Just looking at it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  The sun breaks through the clouds as we reach the heart of the cemetery. A marble monument flames orange and yellow in the setting sun’s reflected light. A woman dressed in rags huddles at the foot of the grave. I catch a glimpse of fish-white flesh and the dark hole of Her mouth, the shocking blue-black of a starless night. Her fleshless fingers, skin dangling off dry bones. She smells like rotten vegetables.

  She looks up . . .

  Through my father She looks . . .

  She

  our eyes meet

  She

  and I know and our eyes meet and I know . . .

  It takes only one second and then She’s coiling toward us, snakelike. Pebbles skitter away from Her as She moves, covering ground faster than a twister.

  “Dad!” I scream.

  He whirls around and recoils when he sees me. “What are you doing here?” he shouts. “Run, Adam! Run! Get out of here!”

  She melts right through him as She reaches for me.

  I shrink back against a tombstone, its grip hard and cold.

  She tries to gather me in Her arms. As if She wants to hold me. Or kill me.

  “Stop!” Dad commands. His hand shakes as he lifts it to halt Her embrace, his voice gaining strength as he repeats himself: “Stop! Stop! Stop stop stop!”

  A thin sliver of black smoke curls up from the crack of earth where the headstone is wedged. She and the smoke are one. She lunges at me, slips between skin and bone, and pierces me with sharp talons. We plunge into a pool of black liquid lapping the foot of the grave.

  I open my mouth to scream and lukewarm oil rushes inside, warm and wet, and chokes me.

  And now I’m falling through the dark.

  I fall

  and fall

  and fall . . .

  A woman screams—is it Her?—

  a breathless scream that gets fainter as we fall . . .

  Then after.

  After, when I can no longer resist the darkness, I sense light. Not light I see but light I feel. It surrounds me. Protects me.

  I know this light. It’s my father and suddenly I realize I’m not alone.

  Chapter 1

  I shiver awake, sudden and cold. The apartment smells like old garbage and was I screaming? Maybe it doesn’t matter because Dad’s out of town but the family next door might have heard. Damn it, how could I fall asleep? And how long was I out?

  The cell phone light illuminates the time—8 p.m., Friday night—and I’ve been stone-cold asleep for several hours. My whole body aches. Drops of blood seep through the sleeve of my shirt from gouges up and down my arms. Apparently, I beat myself to hell while I was sleeping.

  I turn the lamp on next to the couch and text Sarah to meet me in the basement of a Presbyterian church near her apartment. One of the things I like about Alcoholics Anonymous is that there’s almost always a meeting going on somewhere in Brooklyn. And those meetings always make me feel safer. Not safe—that’s impossible. But at least, when I’m there, I’m not alone.

  My name’s Adam, I’m fifteen years old, and I’m not an alcoholic. But there is something my body craves that I want—no, need—to avoid.

  * * *

  I slouch in late, still rubbing sleep from my eyes, and scan the room for Sarah or her shadow, whichever I notice first. She hasn’t arrived yet so I grab a cup of crappy coffee from the back table, shake some totally fake chemical creamer into my Styrofoam cup just to flavor it, and take the first available seat, smiling at the black guy sitting on the end of my row and the young mom type sitting just behind me. Puffy eyes betray her and her shadow is all jumpy, her hands tap tap tap against her thighs, and I want to tell her, It’s okay, everybody here is cool, you’re going to be okay. But of course I say nothing because she might not be okay. Everything might be on a downhill slide, that’s why she’s here. Still, when I smile at her, she smiles back, wobbly but genuine.

  I find myself wishing I was her kid. I mean, obviously she’s got problems—she’s at an AA meeting—but then, nobody’s perfect. When I think about my mom—which is every single day—I think she would have been like this lady. I imagine she had the same kind, wistful smile. I imagine she was always trying to do better than before, wanting what was best for her kid.

  An ex-priest is sharing his story when this guy with a death wish skulks into the seat next to me. He’s dressed all in black, heavy black eye makeup and ghost-white foundation smeared all over his face. I don’t understand people like him, people who want to die. Every time The Dream wakes me, it feels like I’ve come back from the grave. Death doesn’t seem peaceful or welcoming or something to desire—certainly not i
f it includes Her.

  The death-wish guy stares at the speaker but his shadow leers at me. Covertly, I give it the finger. He shifts and glances in my direction, as if sensing it. I give him a chin nod when what I really want to do is scoot over cuz he smells horrible but that would be rude so I just sink low in my seat, sweatshirt covering my nose, eyes focused on the front.

  Sometimes I play this game: if the zombie apocalypse begins now, do I need to worry? At the moment, I feel pretty safe. I can run faster than the death-wish dude, for sure.

  Sarah touches my shoulder lightly from behind and whispers, “I’m here, Adam.” She winks as she leans back in the folding chair.

  I’m relieved that she came. In all the world, Sarah is my favorite. Her shadow? Also my favorite. It’s light and bubbly, champagne, laughing and winking, like diamonds in the sunlight. She’s the only person who knows I don’t like to sleep. That maybe I’m afraid of it. I haven’t explained why but she hasn’t asked, she’s that kind of friend.

  Sarah: dark glossy hair, pretty brown eyes, skin freckled and browned a deep café au lait from the summer sun. She’s drop-dead gorgeous.

  I guess that’s an unfortunate choice of words. Sarah’s older sister died in June. I mean, she literally dropped dead. Of a heart attack. Came out of nowhere. Sarah’s been beat up about it ever since. Beat up.

  I wish I knew how to make her feel better. One time, she said, “I mean, you know what it’s like to lose someone, right, Adam? You know how bad it is?” and I just said, “Yeah.” I couldn’t tell her I’m not even sure I really remember my mom. All I have are fuzzy outlines. But I do miss her. Is that possible, to miss somebody you don’t really remember?

  The ex-priest finishes and we wait to see if anybody else is going to get up and share something. Somebody coughs. The kid next to me clears his throat.

  I’ve never stood up because what would I say? I imagine it now, rising to my feet. Hi, I’m Adam Jones and I’m not an alcoholic. My problem? When I fall asleep, a demon woman from Hades tries to hug me to death. She drags me into the bottomless pit of hell. And no, I don’t do drugs. Raise your hand if you also struggle with inappropriate demon abduction! Come on! Don’t be shy.

  Of course I don’t get up. Maybe I’m too frightened to ask for help. I mean, really ask. In a serious way. Where do you find courage when Fear is calling the shots?

  * * *

  Afterward, the young mom approaches me. “What are you doing here, a nice boy like you?” She sips from her coffee cup, then grimaces, squinting at its contents as though wondering if it’s really coffee.

  “What are you doing here, a nice mom like you?” I joke back.

  Her shadow—a clown with a happy/sad face painted on it, big fat teardrops rolling down and smearing the makeup—is making friendly faces at mine.

  “How do you know I’m a mom?” she says.

  I pause before I answer. When I meet women like her—mothers, nice ones, young pretty ones with kind smiles—I suddenly feel like I haven’t eaten in days. “How do you know I’m a nice boy?” I finally say.

  “I just do.” She glances around at the hall filled with people from all walks of life—the shifty homeless guy in the corner, the businessman in his nice suit, the ex-priest. “I’m real nervous about being here.”

  “First time to a meeting?” I ask, hopeful that that’s the cause of her anxiety. Because sometimes people get anxious just being around me.

  “Yeah,” she says. “But somehow, standing here talking to you . . . I feel better. Comforted.”

  Shit. That’s when I know why she’s hanging around me.

  “There’s just a warmth radiating from you,” she goes on. “I can’t explain it. It makes me feel good. It makes me think I can do this, I can quit drinking. That I can move from where I am to where I need to be and that everything is going to be all right.”

  She’s not going to have any problems quitting drinking, the smart-ass side of my brain says. The other side, the nicer side, the one that worries why I know she’s going to die tonight, speaks out loud: “Hey, be extra careful when you go home, okay? Do you have a long way to go?”

  “Oh, no,” she says. “My husband and kids are picking me up.”

  “I’ll wait with you until they arrive,” I say.

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to do that. It’s a safe neighborhood. You probably have to get home. Your friend is waiting for you.” She wrinkles her forehead toward Sarah.

  “Sarah won’t mind, she’ll wait with us.”

  She smiles again and says, “That’d be really nice. Thanks.”

  So we go outside and wait for her husband and kids at the corner streetlight. Sarah stands close, shivering in the night breeze. If only I had the guts to put my arms around her, warm her up. But they just hang there, all awkward, perfectly useless limbs. I curse them in my head. Stupid arms.

  “I’m Desiree,” the nice mom says as we wait. “Do you guys come to this meeting often?”

  “Sometimes,” I say.

  “First time,” Sarah says. “Adam asked me to come.” She puts her hand on my arm and I get instant goose pimples all over.

  “I don’t know why,” Desiree says, “but you seem familiar, Adam.”

  “I hear that a lot,” I respond. “I must have a ‘boy next door’ face. Familiar but kind of forgettable.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re too tall and skinny to be the boy next door. I’ll remember you next time.” She waves at a BMW station wagon pulling up to the curb. She grins, relieved, like she wondered if they’d really come pick her up. I’m already sad about what’s going to happen to her.

  I watch the car pull away.

  “Walk me home, Adam?” Sarah asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go the long way.”

  I lead her in the direction Desiree’s car is heading, keeping my eyes on the retreating bumper lights.

  It happens quick. As the husband pulls into the next intersection, a car flies out of nowhere and smashes into the passenger side. The car doors cave inward and little bits of metal and paint spark upward.

  Sarah screams but I don’t. It’s not that I don’t feel it. It’s just that I know—instinctively—it’s all over anyway. Death is instantaneous. There’s no fight, no wait. Desiree’s shadow—the clown that was making funny faces at me just minutes ago—floats up and out, lingering above the car for just a second, and then disappears.

  Chapter 1.5

  He cleared his throat and said, Are you sure the Synod is ready for what I’m about to tell it?

  Her Excellency gestured, impatient. Get on with it, she said.

  He said, Look, I wasn’t there. But if I were to imagine the story in excruciating detail, it would go like this:

  The sky was a puckered scar of darkness on the night the Grim Reaper escaped Rome and boarded a boat headed for North Africa. She and her companion, shrouded and shaking, clasped hands tightly under their cloaks. Yet their steps were steady as they disembarked and fled to the home of a local priest, an elderly man faithful to an ancient faith, unafraid to chant the vows that would unite them, one flesh forever.

  They held hands in front of a fire. They gazed into each other’s eyes. Eyes lit by an eternal desire.

  If the priest had any idea who he was uniting, he—

  Her Excellency interrupted: Come now. It didn’t happen like that.

  Oh? he said. Well, if you know, Captain, why don’t you tell the story?

  Elder #2, rolling her eyes: Just tell us what you know.

  The longer I live, the less I know, he said. Let that be a lesson to you.

  Yet he continued:

  Later, after her demise, her consorts would ask why she had been in Rome. Had her purpose in the Eternal City been one befitting the Handmaiden of Death?

  And what of her companion, the one now united to her, in death as in life? Would he gladly fulfill her duties in the new world or would he succumb to the gentle tugging desire of his family to return
to his duties in the Eternal City?

  CHAPTER 2

  Biology is actually my favorite class and I usually follow Mrs. Feldman’s lectures religiously. Today her whiny voice is a mosquito hovering just above my head then suddenly shutting off. The silence is blessed and wonderful, a calm oasis in an otherwise turbulent sea, as I slowly

  drift

  pillows some pillows would

  be soooooooooooo

  sooooooo niiiii . . .

  “Mr. Jones! What is wrong with you?”

  Her knife-sharp voice jerks me awake. “What?” Act normal, Adam! Just be cool!

  “You were mumbling something,” she says. “Do you have a problem with my lecture?”

  “No!” The word warms the edges of my lips. “I’m sorry. I had a late night.”

  She drops the volume of her voice as if she doesn’t want the rest of the class to hear. “Adam, any scientist will tell you sleep is essential. If a person is deprived of it for too long, they can literally go insane . . .”

  She’s still talking but the rest of what she says floats off into the air, wisps of smoke breaking apart until it’s gone.

  * * *

  I’m walking down a hallway. Where am I? Oh. Right. School.

  Did the bell ring? I don’t remember leaving biology but class must be over because everybody else is also here, walking somewhere.

  I head toward the cafeteria. Is it lunchtime? One of the clocks on the wall reveals that force of habit is propelling me in the right direction at the right time.

  For some reason, this strikes me as funny. I think I’m laughing out loud because people start edging to the other side of the hall to get away from me.

  God, Mrs. Feldman is right. This insomnia is going to drive me crazy. I have to figure out how to sleep without going to hell. Hell. That’s right, hell! Hell. Hell. Hell. Hello. Hello!

  Hello, Sarah . . .

  Sarah’s standing on the other side of the cafeteria, talking to Dominick. Why is she talking to him? We hate him. He hates us. He’s a Cool Kid. We are not. At least, I’m not and Carlos isn’t and Jeremy isn’t. Sarah could be, if she wanted. Who knows why she hangs out with us three losers.