Incognita Read online

  Text copyright © 2016 by Kristen Lippert-Martin

  Carolrhoda Lab™ is a trademark of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Carolrhoda Lab™

  An imprint of Carolrhoda Books

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

  For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  Cover and interior images: © iStockphoto.com/Dutko (tattoo); © iStockphoto.com/Alexander Chernyakov (fire); © iStockphoto.com/isitsharp (city).

  Main body text set in Bembo Std 10.5/15.

  Typeface provided by Monotype.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data for Incognita is on file at the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-5124-0577-4 (trade hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-5124-0896-6 (EB pdf)

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2015041824

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-39232-21109-3/10/2016

  9781512418965 ePub

  9781512418972 ePub

  9781512418989 mobi

  For Philip. Of course. Again.

  Chapter 1

  I pound on the thick glass of the boutique door with my fist, trying to get the sales clerk’s attention, but he’s determined to ignore me.

  “Please! I’m desperate!”

  He flicks his hands in my direction without looking at me—shoo—and continues to fuss over the headless silver mannequin that he’s dressing in the display window.

  I pace on the sidewalk, contemplate the looming disaster before me, and then realize there’s only one thing to do: I must admit defeat and call Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  I take out my phone. It doesn’t even ring once before she picks up.

  “Yes?”

  That’s how she always answers my calls. Not “Hello, Angel” or “Is everything okay?” Just a dry, humorless “Yes,” as if I’ve interrupted her—which, given the intensity and complexity of her research work, I probably have. As usual, I try not to take it personally that my court-appointed guardian treats me no more warmly than she would treat a temporary lab assistant.

  “The store is closed,” I say into the phone. “They won’t let me in.”

  I hear her typing in the background. A moment later she says, “Take out the credit card I gave you and hold it up for the clerk to see. Call me back if you have any other problems.”

  End call.

  Nice chatting with you, too.

  I walk back up to the boutique door, pull the card out of my wallet, and slap it against the glass.

  “Hello? Can you help me now?”

  The clerk turns and looks, his eyes widening as he takes in the gold lettering across the top of the black card. He nearly trips as he rushes to unlock the door. I guess it doesn’t matter that I’m a seventeen-year-old girl in ripped jeans and a shabby tank top, rudely banging on the shop door right after closing time. I’ve got an elite credit card issued by invitation only, and that’s all he needs to know.

  The clerk opens the front door just wide enough to let me through, as if he’s afraid a horde of people will try to rush in behind me.

  “What do you need?”

  “A dress.”

  “Well, naturally. I didn’t imagine you came to Blake & Mikels for an oil change. What’s the event?”

  “Some sort of gala thing,” I say, pulling the invitation from my back pocket. I unfold the thick vellum card and read off the full name for him. “The Metropolitan Museum Trustees Gala. And it starts in forty-five minutes, so if we could make this quick . . .”

  He takes a deep, bracing breath. “Follow me.”

  We move deeper into the boutique, beyond a pair of black curtains, and into a circular room lined with mirrors. He points at the small pedestal in the center. “Up there. Let’s get at it.”

  I step up onto the platform. For a full minute, he circles around me, squinting and tapping his lips with his index finger. It’s like I’m in some sort of fashion MRI machine. I feel like I’m undergoing the most thorough examination I’ve ever had in my life—and that’s saying something, considering that just a year ago, scientists were probing the deepest recesses of my brain on a regular basis.

  He does two more full laps around me and then stops. “Got it. Be right back.”

  My phone rings while I’m waiting for him to return. I don’t recognize the number, but that in itself tells me who’s calling. Thomas rarely uses the same phone number twice. He’s been able to get around the technology ban imposed on him by calling me from disposable phones. I hit the ignore button to buy myself just a little more time.

  This gala event was his idea. It’s going to be our first real date.

  “We can consider it our high school prom,” he said. “I didn’t go to mine either. Not that I had your excellent excuse of someone drilling into my head to remove my memories. I was in Turkmenistan trying to hot-wire a two-wheeled goat cart.”

  After months of home detention, Thomas’s lawyers have finally wrangled him a plea bargain in exchange for his complete cooperation with the federal investigators looking into his father’s many cyber crimes. Starting tonight, there are no more restraining orders or ankle transmitters or federal injunctions prohibiting contact between us. No more overseers and intermediaries we’re supposed to go through. Finally we get to go out on a regular date.

  To the most exclusive party in Manhattan.

  On an enormous private yacht docked near the Financial District.

  Thomas’s adoptive mother sits on the board of trustees for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, so the whole family is on the invite list for this gala, and Thomas is bringing me as his plus-one. This will be my first time meeting his parents.

  I may have free-climbed half-built skyscrapers with no safety net dozens of times, but this is a whole different kind of scary, and if I make it through the evening without throwing up all the butterflies in my stomach, it will be a miracle.

  My phone rings again. Same unknown number. This time I answer.

  “Hey,” I say quietly into my phone.

  “I’m at your apartment,” Thomas says. “Where, pray tell, are you?”

  “I had a slight problem.”

  “What sort of slight problem?”

  He’s trying to keep his voice cool, but there’s real worry driven deep into the cracks between the words.

  “Just a wardrobe issue. I kind of—don’t have a dress yet. Mrs. Fitzgerald sent me to Blake & Mikels.”

  “Ah. The ever charming Mrs. Fitzgerald. She always knows just what to do,” he says dryly.

  “Thomas, enough with that already. How can you dislike her so much when you’ve never even met her?”

  “I’m just good at judging people. And stop that. I can hear you rolling your eyes.”

  “I’m not.” Yes, I am.

  “We should be to Blake & Mikels in fifteen minutes. And Angel . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I cannot wait to see you.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever smiled so hard in my life. “Same here.”

  I end the call and wait for the stylist to return, trying to look everywhere but in the mirror. It’s still not an entirely comfortable thing, looking at myself. I feel like a puzzle that’s been forced back together in spi
te of a few missing or mangled pieces. My therapist tells me that this is actually pretty normal for someone my age. Apparently, just because I had my mind tampered with doesn’t mean I get a pass on the “figuring myself out” stage of life. She says I won’t be able to trust the world until I can trust myself. I asked how long she thought that would take, and she said, “Possibly the rest of your life.”

  Super.

  The stylist comes back, carrying a hanger with what looks like a spangly white slip dripping from it. “This is the one.”

  I take the hanger and examine the dress. What little there is of it.

  “What’s the problem?” he demands, registering the dismay that must show on my face.

  “The back of the dress,” I say. “It’s kind of . . . not there.”

  “You have lovely shoulders. You should show them off.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. “Do you have anything else?”

  “On short notice like this? You’re lucky I had that.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but this won’t work.”

  No way am I walking into this gala with my wing tattoo exposed to the prying eyes of Manhattan’s rich and famous. I mean, I doubt those people spend much time walking through East Harlem and looking at the graffiti scribbled onto the bus stops up there—but I’d still rather not draw too much attention to myself. Sure, I just had the tattoo re-inked to fill in the part that got lasered off while I was in the hospital, but that was for my own sake.

  The clerk sighs, walks away again, and returns with a filmy white shawl draped over his arm. “Here. You can cover your exquisite designer gown with this if you must. I’ll be just on the other side of the curtain.”

  I quickly shed my clothes like some grimy, molting urban insect and pull the dress into place. It’s form-fitting but not too tight, long but not dragging on the floor. I arrange the shawl so that it conceals the two inked wings on my shoulders.

  I spin on the pedestal, looking at the reflections of all the Angels in the mirrors around me. The dress is so light and insubstantial, even though I am not. But the contrast—maybe it works on me?

  Yes, it kind of does.

  I’m just about to let a smile sneak onto my face when the stylist draws the curtain aside to get a look at me. “Stunning,” he says, sounding bored. “Although . . .” He points to the thick black watch I’m wearing. “You should take that ugly thing off. It really detracts from the overall look.”

  I shake my head. “It has to stay on.” Mrs. Fitzgerald insists on that. It might look like a big ugly watch, but it’s basically a panic button, in case there’s some sort of emergency and, for whatever reason, I can’t just call Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  The stylist gives me another sigh from his seemingly endless supply. “Well, if you’re all set, I can ring you up in the front.”

  “Actually, um, do you guys do makeup and hair by any chance?”

  “You’re kidding me, right? You really haven’t prepared for this at all, have you?”

  I shrug helplessly. “I’ve had a lot of other things on my mind lately.”

  “There are movie stars who wish they could attend the Metropolitan Museum Trustees Gala. There are people who would kill for an invitation.”

  I flinch at the word “kill,” but he doesn’t notice. He walks to the far side of the room and pulls a little trolley filled with makeup toward me. “Sit, sit.”

  He does my face, issuing orders at me periodically to look up, look down, don’t blink, and above all DO NOT MOVE. He applies lipstick with such concentration you’d think he was defusing a bomb. Next, he rubs gel onto his palms and then seems to pull my short hair in several directions at once. I look in the mirror and see myself transformed.

  While I’m staring at my reflection, wondering if anyone I used to know would recognize me—and wondering whether I’d want them to—the stylist takes care of my accessories. Within moments he’s swept my regular clothes into what looks like a plastic garbage bag, transferred my wallet and phone to a bejeweled clutch, and placed a pair of strappy sandals in front of me. The heels are so high, I think they qualify as stepladders.

  “I don’t know about these shoes,” I say as I step into them.

  “Well, I do know about those shoes, and they are perfect for that dress.”

  I cautiously test them out. “I don’t think I could run in these heels.”

  “Run? Why on earth would you need to run?”

  “I mean, if the need arose to, say, flee for my life.”

  Before he can respond, a black SUV pulls up in front of the shop, and my phone buzzes. Time for me to thank this guy, hand over the credit card, avoid looking too closely at the receipt in case the price makes me puke, and get out of here.

  I remind myself that I once scaled I-beams. And survived an assault by a team of elite soldiers. And took on the woman who killed my mother.

  Surely I can handle my first real date.

  Chapter 2

  A driver in a black suit leaps from behind the wheel of the SUV and opens the rear door as I approach. Thomas gets out of the backseat. It’s been four very long, very yearning-filled months since we last saw each other in person, and suddenly here he is, standing in front of me in a tuxedo.

  I stop short, my breath trapped inside my chest. Thomas gives me a tentative wave, like he’s nervous.

  And all I can say is, “Your hair.”

  I’ve never seen him as a redhead. I kind of forgot he was one.

  “Yep. The real me at last. What do you think?”

  I walk up to him and hesitantly touch his hair. It’s a deep, rich auburn. As I stare at it, tension ripples through my body like a low-magnitude earthquake. I pull my hand back and force myself not to see his biological mother in him, but I have to admit his hair does make me think of Evangeline Hodges.

  She can’t hurt me ever again.

  I do my best to transform my clenched teeth into a smile.

  “I like it a lot,” I say, hoping I’m convincing, glad he’s not able to see the images flashing through my mind—of Hodges in the police station, taunting me and telling me about the night she killed my mother. Of Hodges standing over me, gloating and exultant, because she believed I was dead at last.

  I may have forgotten a lot of things but she will never be one of them.

  Thomas pulls me into an embrace. “It’s okay, Angel. I know it might remind you of her, but that’s why I wanted you to see me like this. I want to drive those bad memories out with some good ones, starting tonight.”

  I laugh shakily. “Sounds like a plan.” I would have held it all in—I would have lied to protect him—but knowing that I don’t have to pretend makes me feel lighter. My heart swells in relief.

  “Now it’s my turn to have a look at you,” he says. “This might take a while, so be patient as I ogle you.” I don’t know how a smirk can be sweet, but he’s managing it right now. “You know, it’s a sad thing, Angel.”

  “What is?”

  “We’re both so shockingly attractive that no one else will have us. We’d better stick together, then.”

  I really want to kiss him right now, but since the driver’s still standing in front of us holding the car door open, now’s probably not the moment for a make-out session. Thomas must be thinking the same thing, because he gestures toward our ride. “After you.”

  As I climb into the backseat, I catch myself studying the driver: memorizing the line of his jaw, the acne scars on his cheeks, the way his hair is cut into a sharply-defined V just above his collar. Why must I catalog these details the way I do? I’m still living like I’m back in the hospital, counting floor tiles. My therapist says this way of looking at the world will fade with time. The suspicion, the hypervigilance—I don’t need to be in battle mode anymore. I’m safe now.

  It’s hard to change my ways, though.

  Inside the car, I stash the bag with my street clothes under my seat and smile at Thomas when he slides in next to me. The driver
shuts the door, hops back in the car, and pulls away from the curb just as Thomas takes my hand. “Am I allowed to kiss you?”

  “I think it will mess up my lipstick.”

  “What if I promise not to go anywhere near your lipstick?” he says, kissing my neck.

  I feel like there’s a wick running through the middle of me and he just lit it.

  Unfortunately, I don’t get to savor the moment for long before I remember something. “Oh! Before we get there, I promised Virgil I’d—well, he wants to talk to you. I guess he feels the need to do the ‘dad’ thing, seeing as this is our first date.”

  “Really?” I can’t tell if Thomas is actually skeptical of Virgil’s paternal instincts or just irked that our kissing is over already.

  “I mean, he does try,” I say in Virgil’s defense. “Even if it’s super awkward.”

  “Just as long as I don’t have to talk to that creepy Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

  I don’t know why this comment sets me on edge. Maybe because he’s saying something I feel too but don’t want to admit? I have trouble sorting out mere discomfort from actual distrust. Admittedly, Mrs. Fitzgerald is very odd. And off-putting. She doesn’t make much eye contact, wears the same ratty brown sweater nearly every day, and eats anchovies straight out of the can as an afternoon snack.

  I say the one thing about my guardian that is as positive as it is undeniable. “Mrs. Fitzgerald is brilliant.”

  “I know she’s brilliant. That’s what weirds me out about her. Why would some world-class neuroscientist want to work as a babysitter?”

  “Thomas! She’s not my babysitter. She’s my legal guardian.” Virgil says he can’t officially acknowledge me as his daughter yet. He still fears for my safety. And though he probably wouldn’t admit to believing in something as unscientific as a curse, I suspect he also figures that anything that brings me closer to the Claymore family brings me closer to disaster. Based on my previous experience with the Claymores—what I remember of it—I can’t disagree.

  “No, I didn’t mean she was your babysitter,” Thomas says quickly.