Eye of Hecate

Carter

My grandparents, the Fausts, live in a housing development near Canary Wharf, right on the banks of the River Thames. The taxi lets us off at the curb, and my dad asks the driver to wait.

We're halfway up the walk when Dad freezes. He turns and looks behind us.

"What?" I ask.

Then I see the man in the trench coat. He's across the street, leaning against a big dead tree. He's barrel shaped, with skin the color of roasted coffee. His coat and black pinstriped suit look expensive. He has long braided hair and wears a black fedora pulled down low over his dark round glasses. He reminds me of a jazz musician, the kind my dad always drags me to see in concert. Beside him, I notice, is a smaller figure. A girl, with skin the color of a warm latte, wearing black ripped jeans and a black coat. She has a black beanie pulled over her long black hair that cascades down to her waist. She stares wide-eyed at me, as if I might be an illusion, and I can't help but feel like I know her from somewhere. She's very pretty, so I think I'd recognize her if I'd seen her before, but I can't help but think she looks so familiar. Even though I can't see the guy's eyes, I get the impression he's watching us too. He might be an old friend or colleague of Dad's. No matter where we go, Dad's always running into people he knows. But it does seem strange that the two of them are waiting here, outside my grandparents'. And the guy doesn't look happy.

"Carter," my dad says, "go on ahead."

"But—"

"Get your sister. I'll meet you back at the taxi."

He crosses the street toward the man in the trench coat and the girl, which leaves me with two choices: follow my dad and see what's going on, or do what I'm told.

I decide on the slightly less dangerous path. I go to retrieve my sister.

Before I can even knock, Sadie opens the door.

"Late as usual," she says.

She's holding her cat, Muffin, who was a "going away" gift from Dad six years before. Muffin never seems to get older or bigger. She has fuzzy yellow-and-black fur like a miniature leopard, alert yellow eyes, and pointy ears that are too tall for her head. A silver Egyptian pendant dangles from her collar. She doesn't look anything like a muffin, but Sadie was little when she named her, so I guess you have to cut her some slack.

Sadie hasn't changed much either since last summer. You would never guess she's my sister. First of all, she's been living in England so long, she has a British accent. Second, she takes after our mom, who was white, so Sadie's skin is much lighter than mine. She has straight caramel-colored hair, not exactly blond but not brown, which she usually dyes with streaks of bright colors. Today it has red streaks down the left side. Her eyes are blue. I'm serious. Blue eyes, just like our mom's. She's only twelve, but she's exactly as tall as me, which is really annoying. She's chewing gum as usual, dressed for her day out with Dad in battered jeans, a leather jacket, and combat boots, like she's going to a concert and is hoping to stomp on some people. She has headphones dangling around her neck in case we bore her.

"Our plane was late," I tell her.

She pops a bubble, rubs Muffin's head, and tosses the cat inside. "Gran, going out!"

From somewhere in the house, Grandma Faust says something I can't make out, probably "Don't let them in!"

Sadie closes the door and regards me as if I'm a dead mouse her cat just dragged in. "So, here you are again."

"Yep."

"Come on, then." She sighs. "Let's get on with it."

That's the way she is. No "Hi, how you been the last six months? So glad to see you!" or anything. But that's okay with me. When you only see each other twice a year, it's like you're distant cousins rather than siblings. We have absolutely nothing in common except our parents.

We trudge down the steps. I'm thinking how she smells like a combination of old people's house and bubble gum when she stops so abruptly, I run into her.

"Who are they?" she asks.

I almost forgot about the dude in the trench coat and the girl beside him. They and my dad are standing across the street next to the big tree, having what looks like a serious argument. Dad's back is turned so I can't see his face, but he gestures with his hands like he does when he's agitated. The other guy scowls and shakes his head, while the girl clearly argues with my dad, gesturing the same way that he does.

"Dunno," I say. "They were there when we pulled up."

"They look familiar." Sadie frowns like she's trying to remember. "Come on."

"Dad wants us to wait in the cab," I say, even though I know it's no use. Sadie is already on the move.

Instead of going straight across the street, she dashes up the sidewalk for half a block, ducking behind cars, then crosses to the opposite side and crouches under a low stone wall. She starts sneaking toward our dad. I don't have much choice but to follow her example, even though it makes me feel kind of stupid.

"Six years in England," I mutter, "and she thinks she's James Bond."

Sadie swats me without looking back and keeps creeping forward.

A couple more steps and we're right behind the big dead tree. I can hear my dad on the other side, saying, "—have to, Amos. You know it's the right thing."

"No," says the other man, who must be Amos. His voice is deep and even—very insistent. His accent is American. "If I don't stop you, Julius, they will. The Per Ankh is shadowing you."

Sadie turns to me and mouths the words "Per what?"

I shake my head, just as mystified. "Let's get out of here," I whisper, because I figure we'll be spotted any minute and get in serious trouble. Sadie, of course, ignores me. 

"They don't know my plan," my father is saying. "By the time they figure it out—"

"What about Carter and Sadie?" The girl asks. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. "What about them?"

"I've made arrangements to protect them," my dad says. "Besides, if I don't do this, we're all in danger. Now, back off."

"We can't, Julius." Amos says. 

"Then it's a duel you want?" Dad's tone turns deadly serious. "You never could beat me, Amos."

"We can, together." Amos insists. "You know how strong Ozzy is. She's been training with the others. She and I could stop you."

My dad hesitates. "You would go so far to try and stop me?" This time, he sounds less angry and more...hurt?

The girl's voice quavers, as if she's hesitating too. "I would, if it meant protecting you."

I haven't seen my dad get violent since the Great Spatula Incident, and I'm not anxious to see a repeat of that, but the three of them seem to be edging toward a fight.

Before I can react, Sadie pops up and shouts, "Dad!"

He looks surprised when she tackle-hugs him, but not nearly as surprised as the other two, Amos and Ozzy. Amos backs up so quickly, he trips over his own trench coat. Ozzy backs up too, looking like a deer in headlights.

Amos has taken off his glasses. I can't help thinking that Sadie is right. He does look familiar—like a very distant memory.

"We—We must be going," he says. He straightens his fedora, grabs Ozzy's arm, and pulls her down the road. She turns back and looks at us again, her eyes wide.

Our dad watches them go. He keeps one arm protectively around Sadie and one hand inside the workbag slung over his shoulder. Finally, when Amos and Ozzy disappear around the corner, Dad relaxes. He takes his hand out of the bag and smiles at Sadie. "Hello, sweetheart."

Sadie pushes away from him and crosses her arms. "Oh, now it's sweetheart, is it? You're late. Visitation Day's nearly over! And what was that about? Who's Amos, who's Ozzy, and what's the Per Ankh?"

Dad stiffens. He glances at me like he's wondering how much we overheard.

"It's nothing," he says, trying to sound upbeat. "I have a wonderful evening planned. Who'd like a private tour of the British Museum?"