I wonder why she always says that. “Down,” I say, and the glass bridge lowers.
“Stars don’t guide,” I mutter to the librarian, with a glance at the constellations painted on the ceiling above. “They witness.” Stepping off the bridge and onto the floor, I add, “Let’s hope they witness Sabine’s death. Soon.”
A ghost of a smile touches the librarian’s lips. But her eyes seem worried behind her square frames. “Tread carefully!” the librarian calls. “Sabine’s familiars are always watching.”
I look upward, through the circular window, and I catch a glimpse of two large ravens perched in the sunlight on a nearby branch. “They can watch,” I say defiantly. “I won’t bow down to ravens or witches.”
CHAPTER FIFTEENMalcolm DavenportALCATRAZ ISLAND, 1974
Dear Emma,
Philadelphia was restless this afternoon, or maybe it’s me. I couldn’t stop thinking about your letters. When the battle training gets tough, just picture your grandma wearing a silly clown costume with big red dots. It will make her throwing those punches a lot more entertaining. Also, I’ve decided that we are more than allies. We are knights in shining armor—or, in my case, vintage Jordans and a fly collection of magic suits. We are ready to ride into battle against this curse so we can save ourselves and protect others in our families from being Tethered in the future. That’s some warrior shit. You’re a soldier now. Think about that when you need to fend off the battle-training blues. Trust me… combat training is hard on everybody. My sister Jayla can be ruthless as hell when she thinks she’s making me a better fighter. She watches me with those cat-eye glasses a lot lately. Maybe she wants to know whose letters I’ve been getting that make me grin like a Kardashian with new makeup. Don’t worry… I hide the notes. She won’t figure out that you’re the reason for all this Black-boy joy that I’ve found. She can never know… She’d be pissed, and then she’d tell Big-Mama, and I’d rather fight the Devil than deal with Big-Mama when she’s mad. But even if working with you could make my whole family upset, I’m open to facing some of their rage to protect them. I’m doing this for their own good. And for us.
Your mention of Grace’s diary excites me. Keep trying to figure out her codes. Maybe she knew something that could help us end the Tether. I’ve been reading old books that Pop-Pop had and looking into the history of the family and the curse here too. I’m going to visit one of my ancestors to find out what they know, right after I mail this. We’ll figure out all the mysteries of the past and build a better future for everyone we love. See you in my thoughts… until our paths cross again,
Malcolm
I spent all day searching for clues at home, but I didn’t find anything useful. So I mailed Emma another update. I keep feeling like I haven’t said enough. I want to share everything with her. It’s strange because I barely know her. And she’s a Baldwin. But it feels like we’ve known each other for ages. We’re so cool and comfortable in our letters. When I saw her in person, the curse and the bloodlust made things awkward and hard. But our writing feels more natural.
As much as I hate to, I push the thoughts of her out of my mind. I’m on a mission and I need to focus. My arm has finally healed up enough to remove the sling, but it still aches if I’m too rough. The heart-thumping chill of the damp air ain’t helping it much. I stand on Alcatraz, an island caged under a ghostly haze. The guardhouse looms ahead. Its concrete walls are weathered and scarred by years and time. Each crack and chip in the paint tells the story of the jail’s dark history, the days when this place incarcerated broken souls before becoming a museum of misery. I walk through the rusted metal gate and take a shaky breath, steadying myself for what’s to come.
I head into the ragged guardhouse. With a quaking voice, I call, “Billy Lollis Davenport!” Mist swirls around, and a silhouette emerges. It shuffles forward and steps into the light, where it melts into a lanky young man with skin the color of Mama’s cornbread and a crooked smile like mine. My heart leaps at the sight of him, and I get the happy feeling that you get at birthday parties with family.
His face looks like the one in Big-Mama’s black-and-white pictures. I smile, thrilled to see a piece of my family’s history that I can reach out and touch.
“Great-grandpa!” I blurt, my voice breaking.
His eyes shine in the flickering lantern light, scanning me with a curious suspicion. The glow highlights his youthful appearance; he must be about my age. He’s dressed like a park ranger from the 1970s: a sturdy olive-green jacket with lots of pockets over a khaki shirt and matching pants. A wide-brimmed, dark green hat rests atop his head, shading his narrowing eyes, as he speaks. “Who are you?”
His badge glints in the lantern light, pinned beside the park service patch on his jacket sleeve.
“It’s really me, Malcolm,” I insist. “Malcolm Davenport. I’m your descendant from the future.” I remember the code words that we have passed down through our family for moments like this. “I’m one of Biggie’s little ones.”
“Oh yeah.” He smiles, fog swirling low on the ground by his boots. “Grands? I don’t even have kids.”
“Yet.” I can’t read his response to know if he believes me even though I used the code words, but I gotta convince him if he has any doubts, because I’m gonna need his help. “But your wife Vivian is pregnant,” I say. “It’s gonna be a girl, by the way.”
“This time-travel stuff is wild,” he says. “We just found out she’s expecting today.”
“Did you ever think about traveling? Seeing the future?”
He shakes his head. “Keeping up with the present is hard enough.”
Billy studies me like I’m a walking miracle. I share a few stories that have been passed down for generations. Some of them he knows, some came after he passed away. I include details about him and our family that only a Davenport would know, like the way he prays every morning. And how he’ll sing songs and play his red guitar for his daughter before she goes to sleep. “I got a red guitar too.” I beam.
I watch his smile grow brighter. “I bought mine a few weeks ago. Great, God! Glad to hear I’ll make good use of it,” he says.
His lamp highlights the glimmer of hope and joy sparking in his eyes.
Yes!
His happiness and belief mean everything to me.
“Great, God!” he repeats.
I smirk. “Nah. I’m not him.”
We walk, our footsteps echoing in a matching rhythm.
