NIGEL BARNABY
LONDON, ENGLAND
NIGEL PUT HIS HAND ON THE WROUGHT-IRON GATE of the Saint John’s Wood house but couldn’t bring himself to push it open. Instead, he stood on the sidewalk in the damp English weather and pulled the collar of his coat tighter against a sudden chill.
This was the house where he grew up. Two stories of white brick with twice that many chimneys for the home’s multiple fireplaces. It looked like a country manor plunked down in northern London, but then most of the houses around here looked that way. The buildings were tightly packed together—this was still the city, after all—but what one couldn’t see from the sidewalk was the sprawling backyard that looked like a polo ground, lined with immaculate rows of oak trees to provide total privacy from the neighbors. From the sidewalk, people couldn’t see the basement addition, the pool and billiards table, the home theater. From the sidewalk, they couldn’t see the years of misery Nigel had spent there, thinking that things couldn’t get worse.
Until they did.
Nigel was in no rush to get inside. He shifted his backpack around on his tired shoulders. His eyes were dry and heavy, his limbs felt fuzzy. He hadn’t slept in . . . well, with the time difference, Nigel supposed that he technically hadn’t slept since the day before yesterday. He felt a little bit like he was dreaming.
The block was quiet now. In the early morning, it usually was. Clean and tree-lined with no pedestrians.
There was a black limousine parked at the curb. He supposed that would be their transportation to the funeral. Behind that was parked an unassuming brown van, which, at that very moment, rolled down its window so the driver could call to Nigel.
“Everything okay?”
The driver’s name was Ken Colton, an American, a UN Peacekeeper. He was in charge of the four-man detail assigned to accompany Nigel on his visit home. He had square features, salt-and-pepper hair, and reminded Nigel of a TV dad from some sitcom. Or maybe Nigel was just feeling sentimental. Nigel’s hesitation to go inside had raised an alarm with the Peacekeepers, but Nigel waved them off.
“It’s fine . . . ,” he said. “Just bracing myself, y’know?”
Colton nodded like he understood, gave Nigel that tight-lipped sympathetic smile that he’d been seeing a lot of lately, and rolled the window back up.
With a sigh, Nigel pushed open the creaky gate and trudged towards his home.
“I vowed never to go back there,” he had told Ran. “Those people are toxic. All of ’em. I’d like to forget they ever existed.”
“I know,” she replied softly.
“So you agree, then,” Nigel concluded. “I shouldn’t go. Tell Mum to piss off and be done with it, once and for all.”
“I didn’t say that.”
This was early morning on New Year’s Day. The two of them sat on a bench outside the student union, the campus quiet, everybody sleeping in or otherwise cozied up in the dorms. Nigel’s mouth still felt sticky and tasted bitter, even after he’d brushed his teeth three times. He had thrown up that morning. Nigel told himself it was from the drinking, but he hadn’t had that much. He tried to ignore the growing knot in his belly.
That old anxiety. Like he used to feel at his boarding school. Like he used to feel at home.
It hadn’t started right away. When Dr. Linda and Nine interrupted their beach party to break the news, Nigel had basically felt numb. The whole night seemed surreal, like it was happening to someone else. For months, Nigel had barely thought about his dad and he assumed the reverse was true as well. Hearing about his death was like learning that the dictator of some distant despotic nation had died—all Nigel could think was Oh, good.
The mounting sense of dread hadn’t really kicked in until Dr. Linda and Nine ushered him to a private room where his mom waited on the phone. Nigel had never known Bea Barnaby to tolerate being placed on hold, so she truly must have wanted to talk to him.
The conversation seemed like part of a dream now. A hazy memory. Nigel could remember only snatches of what his mom said. Her voice sounded brittle on the phone, tinny and far away.
“You must come home, love,” she told him. “You absolutely must. I know it hasn’t seemed like it of late, but we are a family. We need each other more than you know.”
Nigel recounted those details to Ran later that morning. He was already packed. The Academy had lined up a helicopter to fly him off campus and then a private plane to whisk him off to London. They had a security detail arranged for him. Now that it was all sorted—now that he had time to think about it—Nigel didn’t want to go.
“She didn’t even sound sad on the phone, not really,” Nigel told Ran. “More like desperate. Like I was the last caterer available on short notice. The funeral is sure to be a scene, all their colleagues and business partners and quote-unquote friends. Wouldn’t look proper if I wasn’t there.”
Nigel paused. Ran waited, not pressing him.
“Dad actually told me once that they only had kids to keep up appearances,” Nigel continued eventually. “Like they needed ‘parenting’ for a cocktail party conversation topic. In their circles, leaders of industry and all that—he said it looked strange not to have a family. Wouldn’t want people thinking we’re queers, eh? He said that to me. I think I was twelve.”
Ran put her hand on Nigel’s forearm. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Thing that eats me up the most is that he didn’t live long enough for me to tell him what a shit dad and a wanker he was,” Nigel replied. “Now I’m supposed to go over there and pretend he meant something to me.”
“You do not have to pretend.”
Nigel looked up at her, that familiar cockeyed grin taking shape. “You saying I should put all this in my eulogy?”
“No. I’m definitely not saying you should make a scene,” Ran replied. “But you should look at this as a chance to find some closure. To pay your respects . . . or lack thereof. Let them see that you have become a great person in spite of them. Maybe there is a chance you can reconnect with your mom. If not, then you could put them behind you once and for all. But you will never know for sure if you don’t go.”
Nigel leaned his shoulder against Ran. “Been storing that up somewhere? Jesus. Most I’ve ever heard you speak all at once. You must be exhausted.”
“Shut up,” she replied.
When Nigel first set foot in the grand foyer of the Barnaby manor, no one noticed what a great person he had become. In fact, no one noticed him at all.
A swirling bustle of servants moved between the sitting room, the dining room, and the kitchen. They were in the midst of preparing for that afternoon’s funeral—setting out covered trays of food, arranging place settings, some last-minute dusting and polishing. Nigel recognized some of the servants—his parents employed a small retinue of butlers, maids, and groundkeepers—and quickly determined that they were in charge of supervising the temporary help—the caterers, waiters, and valets. None of them noticed Nigel standing there dumb and mute.
A framed photograph of Nigel’s father sat on an easel just inside the front door, surrounded on all sides by masses of wreathes and bouquets, the flowers growing with each passing second as a florist and her team added new arrangements. Nigel stared at the not-so-recent picture of his father; he looked dapper and serious. Nigel had to think where he’d seen that image before.
It was from his dad’s company website. The photo he used to advertise financial services.
Nigel stepped carefully around the throngs of people, feeling like they were all engaged in a complicated dance that he dared not interrupt. At least until he spotted Willoughby, the family’s longest-tenured servant. The man stood imperiously supervising a team of maids as they dusted the brasswork on the main staircase. Nigel touched his sleeve.
Willoughby turned with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Have you seen my mum, Willoughby?”
“And you are?”
“It’s me. Nigel. Heir to all this aristocratic uselessness.”
The older man squinted at Nigel for a long beat as if he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. However, as soon as things clicked, Willoughby bowed deeply at the waist and became appropriately obsequious.
“Master Barnaby, my sincerest apologies. You have . . . changed.” Willoughby took Nigel’s hand in his gloved one, clasping firmly. “Might I add, heartfelt condolences on the passing of your father. He was a titan.”
“He was a tit,” replied Nigel briskly. “My mother, Willoughby. Where is she?”
“Lady Barnaby has already departed for the cemetery, I’m afraid. Busy with some last-minute arrangements, I’m sure. Your sister is here, though. I believe she and her husband are downstairs . . .”
After thanking Willoughby, Nigel skirted around the activity and took the elevator down to the basement. Immediately, the tang of salt water hit his nostrils, reminding him in a vague way of California. But, no matter how hard he wished it, Nigel wasn’t back at the Academy. That was simply the smell of the belowground pool. The whole basement was cast in the water’s shifting light, flashing aquamarine and gold.
Jessa, Nigel’s sister, didn’t look back at him when the elevator opened. She sat with her feet soaking, already attired for the day’s festivities in an appropriately formal black dress. Her blond hair was tied back in simple ponytail. Jessa was eight years older than Nigel. Like him, Jessa had been sent off to boarding school when she turned twelve, so they barely shared any time in this house together. To Nigel, she often felt more like a friendly cousin than a sister.
“Hello, Jessa,” Nigel called.
Her head snapped around immediately. “Nigel!” she practically shrieked. She hopped up and ran to him, wet feet slapping against the marble tile. Jessa hugged him and Nigel felt suddenly at home in a way that he wouldn’t have thought possible.
“You’re going to wrinkle your dress,” he said, peeling free of his sister.
“Sorry, sorry,” she replied. “I just—well, I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“It’s dad’s funeral,” Nigel said. “Thought I should put in an appearance.”
Jessa rolled her eyes. “As if the old man did anything for you. For either of us. Went and died on one of his business trips. Mom tell you that?”
“She didn’t tell me much.”
“Heart attack in some third-world country while he was doing God knows what. Call girls and cocaine, probably.”
Nigel stared at his sister. It had been more than a year since he’d seen her and even then their last visit hadn’t been for any substantial length of time—just the usual cold Christmas at Barnaby manor. For the first time, he realized that Jessa had eight more years of experience dealing with their parents than he did. No wonder she had married young and moved away from London.
“Hell, Jessa,” Nigel replied with a shocked laugh. “I didn’t realize I’d missed you.”
Jessa pinched his cheek. “Good to see you, too. Like I said, I wasn’t sure . . . if I didn’t show, Mother would disinherit me; I’d never hear the end of it. But you? You had a ready-made excuse. Important business. Can’t get away. I’m a bloody alien now.”
Nigel blew out a sigh. “Not an alien.”
“You know what I mean.” She took a step back from him. “Go on, then. Don’t keep me in suspense. Let me see something.”
It took Nigel a moment to realize what Jessa wanted. Then, he casually reached out with his telekinesis and levitated a nearby vase filled with multicolored sand. Jessa clapped, then waved her hands above and below the vase as if to check for strings.
“Marvelous. Simply marvelous,” she said. “Owen? Did you see this?”
Nigel turned to see Owen, his brother-in-law, emerging from the nearby lounge where a muted soccer match played on the wide-screen television. Nigel had only met Owen a handful of times and he’d never failed to remind Nigel of a grown version of a Pepperpont boy. Nigel tried not to hold that against him. Owen was generically handsome, clean-shaven, chestnut hair immaculately combed, his black suit slim and perfectly tailored to his rugby player’s frame. He was, in Nigel’s experience, perpetually attached to his phone, always checking stock prices. Even now, he had to slip the device into his jacket pocket before he could give Nigel a firm handshake.
“Nice to see you again, Nigel,” Owen said. He eyed the still-floating vase. “It’s just like on the telly.”
“Isn’t it?” Jessa agreed. She put her hands on her hips. “So, lads, what should we do now?”
Nigel smiled; he could tell his sister was joking. But Owen looked flummoxed.
“We’ve got to get going, love,” he said. “You know. The funeral?”
“Oh, right.” Jessa tapped her forehead. “That.”
Owen glanced from Nigel to Jessa. “He’s supposed to change, isn’t he?”
“Change?” Nigel asked.
“I think you look cool, brother,” Jessa said, flicking one of the frayed strings on his hooded sweatshirt. “Like some conquering rock star returning home after a yearlong bender, but with superpowers.”
“That’s what I was going for.”
“But mother dearest gave me strict instructions to outfit you in the suit she left in your room. Better change or else she’ll have them dig an extra grave, eh?”
Nigel didn’t see his mother until the cemetery. She stood out, even at a distance, as Nigel made his way along the path between mausoleums, flanked by Jessa and Owen. She sat in the front row, right beside the empty pit where they’d be lowering his father’s gold-detailed coffin. It was drizzling, so maybe Nigel’s mom had just grabbed the closest garment at hand, but Nigel sort of figured the bright white raincoat his mom wore over her black mourning dress to be some kind of statement.
“My son, don’t you look nice,” Bea Barnaby said as Nigel took a seat beside her. The uncomfortable wooden chair was dry thanks to the row of umbrella-wielding well-wishers situated behind the family.
“Thanks,” Nigel replied, even as he pulled uncomfortably at his shirt collar.
He wore the simple black suit, white dress shirt, and tie that his mom had left out for him. His discomfort at being dressed this way wasn’t at all due to the clothes themselves—they fit perfectly, his mom somehow knowing his exact measurements. No self-respecting punk would wear this monkey suit. In a very small act of rebellion, Nigel had left his shirt’s top button undone and tied a knot sloppy enough to earn demerits back at Pepperpont.
Surprisingly, his mother didn’t seem to care. She slipped a hand through the crook of his elbow and leaned against him. That was a pretty huge display of affection for the Barnaby family.
Bea looked good for a woman in her early fifties. She wore her blond hair in a jaw-length pageboy with a sharp side part. Her eyes were vivid blue and prone to dissecting looks. Bea’s face was smooth, only a tasteful wrinkle here and there. Nigel was sure she’d had work done, but it was good work.
“You look tired,” she said to him.
“Whirlwind twenty-four hours,” Nigel said dryly. “Lost Dad and all.”
Bea cleared her throat, as if getting ready for a prepared remark. “I know it might not have seemed like it, Nigel, but your father loved you very much—”
Nigel snorted. He felt his mother’s steely gaze upon him but didn’t dare meet her eyes. Ran was right. There was no point in making a scene, of making this any more miserable than it already had to be. Just get through it. Let his mother have her delusions.
He was surprised when she leaned close to him, her lips to his ear.
“Fuck it, then,” Bea whispered. “The man was a bastard and we’re better off rid of him. That’s the bloody truth of it.”
Nigel nearly burst out laughing. The crass admission from his mom was just so out of character. First Jessa, now her. Nigel had to admit to himself that maybe he’d built up just how terrible his family was. Maybe closure—or a new understanding of one another, like that two-faced Dr. Linda liked to say—was actually possible. He warmed to the feeling of his mom’s hand on his arm.
“I want to hear everything,” Bea said. “About your new life. Once all these dreadful formalities are over, we need to catch up.”
“Yeah,” Nigel replied. “That’ll be good, mum.”
Eventually, a priest showed up and said some words, read a few Bible verses. Nigel zoned out. He found himself doing that throughout the rest of the day. He was overtired, it was hard to focus, and a big part of his identity had been called into question. He’d always imagined himself as the great rebel, running off on his family, leaving all the bastards behind. But now, they didn’t seem so cruel and distant. Instead, their lives seemed complicated and sad.
The funeral director handed out roses and everyone took a turn tossing one onto his father’s coffin. Nigel tossed his rose. After him, his mom picked up a handful of damp dirt and sprinkled it on the casket. She made a dramatic show of looking for somewhere to brush off her hands.
They went back to the manor, a whole procession of cars, many of them operated by hired drivers. The house filled up. There were more people there than there had been at the actual funeral. Waiters escorted around trays of hors d’oeuvres. People Nigel could barely tell apart stuffed their faces while having grave conversations.
Nigel stood to the side with Bea and Jessa. They let the room come to them, as was appropriate and expected. Handshake after handshake, sometimes paired with a squeeze of his upper arm. Dozens of dainty air-kisses to his cheek.
“Condolences, lad.”
“Truly sorry about your father.”
“He’ll be missed.”
And on and on. Nigel’s neck was sore from all the nodding, his mouth dry from saying thank you over and over again. It was a bombardment of sympathy. As the afternoon went on, his collar and tie got looser and sloppier.
At some point, his mom handed him a glass containing a few fingers of Scotch, neat. “Look like you could use that,” she said.
Nigel stared at her for a second, then shrugged and took an indelicate sip. The Scotch certainly didn’t help him focus, but it did blur the edges of things, made it easier for him to force smiles.
His mom didn’t have any problem with that. Bea was in her element. At some point, the reception turned into a networking event. She mingled, worked the room. There was a steady procession of men—usually the ones who hadn’t showed up with wives, but not always—who kissed Bea’s hand and professed their heartfelt sympathy. If she needed anything or, say, wanted to get a coffee and just talk, they were available.
“Can’t tell why most of these people are here. Certainly not to honor our father,” Jessa said to Nigel out of the corner of her mouth. “I’d say a good chunk showed up so they could hit on Mom, but then I also think there’s a sizable crowd here to catch a glimpse of the Garde.”
The back of Nigel’s neck prickled. “Huh? Really?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Been kind of . . . in my own head.”
“Up your own arse, you mean,” Jessa said with a laugh. “Look at those two,” she said, gesturing at an older couple across the room. “Right now they’re saying how they thought you’d be taller and glowy-er.”
Nigel pushed his fingers through his hair and found that he was sweating. Now that Jessa mentioned it, there were an awful lot of people staring at him. Waiting for him to do a trick, maybe.
“They did not . . .” Nigel paused. He saw black spots for a moment. “They did not say glowy-er.”
“I’m an excellent lip reader; maybe that’s my Legacy,” Jessa replied, then narrowed her eyes at him. “Nigel? You all right?”
Nigel steadied himself on a nearby end table. It had all hit him like a ton of bricks. The sleepless trip to London, the jetlag, the Scotch.
“Think I might need to lie down,” he mumbled.
His mom was at his side, her cool hands pressed against his cheek and forehead. When had she popped up? Nigel hadn’t even noticed.
“Go on up and rest, love,” she said gently. “You won’t be missing anything down here.”
Nigel nodded and did as he was told. As he stumbled out of the sitting room, he got the odd sensation that everyone in there had turned to watch him go.
When he woke up, it was night and the house was quiet.
Nigel sat up in bed—his bed, the firm mattress with the wooden frame that he always banged his gangly knees against—drenched in sweat and with a splitting headache. He felt like he might be coming down with something.
Someone had placed a glass of ice water next to his bed. He drank greedily.
Even though this was his childhood room, it had never really felt like his space. The walls were covered in bookshelves filled with musty old editions of classics he’d never read. There was a globe in one corner and an antique train set in the other. The wallpaper was a snowy woodland print, all big-eyed owls and foxes darting around trees. No records. No posters for punk bands. Not even an anarchy symbol. This place wasn’t him, it wasn’t—
Wait. What was that smell?
Nigel sniffed the air. He could swear that he smelled gasoline.
He swung his feet out of bed, crossed the room on wobbly legs, and poked his head outside. The hallway was dark, but the smell of gas out there was stronger.
“Mom?” He called. “Jessa?”
The floorboards creaked. It sounded like something was being dragged around. The noise came from downstairs. There were lights on down there, a faint glow on the nearby staircase.
“Oi,” Nigel said, rubbing his eyes. “I miss the funeral pyre?”
No answer.
Something wasn’t right. Nigel regretted calling out now—like a dumb-ass in a horror movie. He crouched low into a fighting stance that Ran would approve of, ready to pounce if a threat came lurching out of the shadows. He crept to the top of the stairs.
There was someone lying on the floor down there. Was that . . . ?
Ken Colton. His Earth Garde escort. The man’s eyes were open, staring straight up at the ceiling. Open and unblinking. Dead eyes.
The front door was open, the portrait of his father knocked aside. Two men in black body armor walked through, carrying the body of another Peacekeeper. Nigel didn’t remember her name.
Their outfits were familiar. Just like the men Nigel had fought in Iceland. Blackstone mercenaries.
The armored men dropped the woman’s body next to Colton and went back outside. One of them was whistling.
A third mercenary came around the corner carrying a red canister of gasoline. He dumped some of it on the Peacekeeper’s body, then moved on, splashing it on the curtains and on the picture of Mr. Barnaby. Nigel could see the gas now, glistening and pooling all over the hardwood floor.
“Nigel?”
It was his mom. She stood in her bedroom doorway, head tilted. Nigel motioned for her to be quiet, to stay back, but she came towards him anyway. Nigel took a step in her direction, trying to intercept her before the mercenary noticed her.
“Get back, Mum, there are bad men here,” Nigel said, using his Legacy to direct his voice so only she could hear.
“You weren’t supposed to wake up so soon, love.”
“Huh?”
Before Nigel knew what was happening, his mom had stuck a syringe into the side of his neck. Nigel’s eyes widened. He grasped at her, then flailed backwards. His limbs already felt heavy, his vision blurry. It was like a more intense version of how he’d felt after she gave him that drink before.
He looked into his mother’s eyes and the truth hit him, piercing the fuzziness that was overtaking him.
An older British woman with blond hair. That’s how Taylor described the lady at the Foundation who Einar reported to.
She’d even signed her letter B.
What were the bloody chances?
As Nigel reeled backwards, he spotted another mercenary. This one came out of his mother’s room carrying her luggage.
“Well? Don’t let him fall and hit his head, you daft bastard!”
At his mom’s order, the mercenary dropped the luggage and looped his arms around Nigel’s chest. He was too weak to fight. He tried to use his Legacies—to scream, to shove with his telekinesis—but he couldn’t focus. All he wanted to do was sleep.
Bea gently stroked his cheek with the back of her hand.
“There, there,” she said. “Sleep now. When you wake up, we’ll have that chat.”