1

Hide-­and-­Seeker

I'm nobody's superhero.

At least . . . I don't feel like one. Yeah, I might've vanquished Death, the leader of the Horsemen, and saved my little sister from his possession at the same time, but our parents couldn't care less about my alleged "heroics." Ever since we returned to our safe house in the Hollywood Hills two weeks ago with our parents in tow, they won't let any of us out of their sights--­which makes this whole "superhero" business waaay more complicated than it should be.

And speaking of complicated . . .

I take a deep breath and knock on the closed bedroom door. The heavy sigh on the other side before the call for me to enter stings, but I push past that familiar pain.

I hate that I've gotten so good at that, despite kinda having no choice.

I step inside the room, leaving the door open behind me. My sister sits on the edge of the bed, quietly tying a scarf around her cloud-­white cornrows. Mags could never tie her headscarves quite right before, so Mom would always have to help her out. This is the first time I've seen her do it on her own--­and as good as Mom; better, even.

On the corner of the chest of drawers beside the door is an untouched stack of books I'd borrowed from Mr. Freddie, the kind old Black man who owns the small grocery store on Sunset Boulevard. I met him a few weeks ago when Loren and I saved him from being tortured by the Horsemen's human minions, better known as Riders. I pick up a copy of The Sun and the Star and flip through the pages before skimming the text on the back, but my mind's too rattled to take in anything I'm reading.

"I thought you'd be all over this," I tell her, turning the cover toward her. "Don't you like Percy Jackson?"

Mags shrugs and stares down at her feet, which still don't touch the floor from where she sits. She grabs her purple-­framed glasses from on the bed beside her and puts them on.

They're not even her prescription. They're just a pair of old reading glasses she found on a carousel in Mr. Freddie's store. She popped the lenses out and wears the empty frames every day now. The whole nasty ordeal with Death left her with healing abilities, which apparently restored her vision, too. But when I tried to talk to her about why she's wearing the lens-­less glasses, I must've asked too many questions because she gave that same heavy sigh that I know too well and walked off on me. I've been too afraid of upsetting her to ask anything else about it.

Death's possession changed Mags. No longer is she the chatterbox whose primary objective every day was to annoy me as much as possible. And her brown eyes, which once shone with unbridled life, are now dulled by sadness. I'm terrified they'll never shine the same way again.

She's my little sister in so many ways, and yet, in too many others, she's not anymore.

I set the novel back on top of the stack. "What's going on with you, Mags?" I ask, staring at the books to avoid making eye contact with her, afraid of what I'll see in her eyes now. "You used to love reading. I picked all these out just for you . . . because I thought they might help you feel better . . . maybe even help you get back to your old self."

She grimaces at the floor. "I haven't felt like reading, and you constantly harassing me about it is really starting to make it feel like a chore--­"

"Huh?" I hadn't thought I'd been that pushy about the books . . . I only wanted to help. . . . I only ever want to help. . . .

"This is the third time you've brought those books up in the past two days," she tells me. "I wish you'd let it go. In fact, you can return them to Mr. Freddie." She pauses to chew her lip, her brow furrowing as if internally debating something else. "Stop trying to fix me," she says after an awkward moment. "It's annoying. I'm not the same person anymore, and I'm sorry you don't like it, but there's nothing I can do about that now."

"What really happened to you during those two weeks?" I say, spreading my hands on either side of me. "What did Death do to you that changed you so much in that short time?"

She looks up at me now, eyes narrowed into a hardened gaze. "It was long enough," she says, and I'm about to explain that that wasn't what I meant, when she very curtly tells me, "I don't want to talk about that right now. Is that what you came in here for?"

I cross my arms over my chest. Her words rolled the stone in my gut, the one that conceals one of my biggest fears: my little sister resents me for not saving her from Death sooner.

She's never said it, and to be quite honest, I'm not sure she would or ever will, but I can feel it. Though not with my Sense, because she's immune to my empathic magic.

Whenever I attempt to Sense what she's feeling, all I get is cold, sterile nothingness. It's as if the place in her mind where her emotions live was cleared and left standing empty, completely hollowed out. I'm not sure what's up with that and will probably never know, seeing as how that's one of the many subjects she refuses to talk about with me.

I'm about to ask another question but decide against it once I remember that I should probably save some of my spoons for the upcoming main event.

"I called a meeting--­"

"Another one?" she groans.

It's my turn to scowl. I'm doing my best, and these critiques from her are starting to feel more pointed--­and sharp.

"I'm coming," she says before I can rebut.

"Aight," I mumble, and leave without turning back.

As angry and frustrated as I am at the moment, the sound of her footsteps several paces behind me brings a sense of relief that's as annoying as it is comforting.

But once I step into the living room, my chest constricts with a new twinge of anxiety. Yet again, I'm planning to broach the topic of saving the world with our overbearing, overprotective parents who, if we're keeping it a buck, have zero ability to protect us if the Horsemen were to attack right this moment.

Sixth grade had nothing on the apocalypse. But even the end of the world pales in comparison to managing the various complex and exasperating personalities of our parents.

This is our third meeting on this topic, and we're no closer to a solution than we were five days ago when we had our first group discussion. They've started to feel like a sadistic version of debate club, kids versus adults, except adults get the power to change the rules willy-­nilly.

I stand to one side of the living room with Liam and Loren on either side of me as I launch into pleading my case for saving the world--­again.

Mags sits crisscross-­applesauce in an armchair next to us, and our stepbrother, Nick, perches silently on the side of her seat.

Dad, my stepmom, Angela (Nick's mom), and my mom are all seated on the couch facing us.

Loren's mom, Mrs. Blakewell, a petite, bright, tawny-­skinned woman with an iron stare and a will to match, sits in an armchair opposite Mags with her arms folded.

My dad's been leading the argument against us kids facing the Horsemen again (as if any of us has a real choice in the matter that doesn't end in a painful and brutal death)--­and Mrs. Blakewell has been his staunchest supporter.

Loren's dad, Mr. Blakewell, a husky man with a gentle face and balding head, leans forward, clutching the back of Mrs. Blakewell's seat in his large chestnut-­brown hands, with a soft, resigned expression that exudes easygoing vibes--­the polar opposite of his wife's.

"We only just got you kids back!" Dad cries. His light-­brown skin has flushed red when he looks to both Angela and Nick, who lowers his head as if in time-­out, still hovering beside my (technically, our--­but only technically) sister.

Mags leans over, resting her shoulder against his side, and he puts an arm around her. It seems like they're always together these days. I should be used to displays of unconditional sibling love from these two, but it sets my soul on fire every time. I feel silly even thinking like this, but that used to be me comforting Mags. I went through so much over the past couple of weeks for her.

I'm the big brother who jumped off a cruise ship after her.

And I'm the one who fought Death alone--­and defeated him.

Being possessed by Death was traumatic for Mags. And I can't stop beating myself up, constantly thinking that maybe if I'd rescued her sooner or did things differently that day, the whole situation might not have been so bad for her. And I hate wondering if that's the reason she's shutting me out. And no matter how hard I try, I keep asking the wrong questions and doing the wrong things and ultimately pushing the little sister I leapt into an ocean and fought a homicidal ancient god to save farther and farther away from me.

And now Nick appears ready and willing to take my place.

Just like how he did with Dad.

I take a slow, deep breath in and blow it out, rooting myself firmly in the present and considering my reply to Dad before I give it.

This moment has been slowly building for days now, and the tension in the house has been so thick it's become stifling.

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Excerpted from Alex Wise vs. the Cosmic Shift by Terry J. Benton-Walker
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.