Page 45 of Search for the Lost

“Aspin.” Crispin set the cookies on a bright orange coffee table. “We need to talk.”

His brother turned, bathed in the blue light of the TV, and opened his mouth to reply. Then he saw Crispin’s expression and shut it. He picked up the remote and turned up the volume naturally as if he’d had a remote all his life, and then patted the couch seat next to him.

It was made of something that looked like leather, only no leather had ever been that exact shade of eye-blinding fiery orange. Except maybe the hides of the hell beasts of Sigma Asterisk, who were known for producing a very nice spicy citrus tea.

Crispin took the proffered seat, watching Drag Race for a while and enjoying the festive costumes. It really was a good show.

At last Aspin looked around, blinking, as if just noticing for the first time that he was mostly alone. “Where did the others go?”

“Leo’s mother sent them home.” He would have liked to say goodbye to his aunt, but he needed to stay on track.

Aspin’s eyes went wide. “What is she? A witch? Fae?”

“Worse.” He squeezed his hands together in his lap. “She’s a Shadow-Puppet.”

“Oh.” His brother looked away at the now-dark TV, at the green braided oval rug, at Minkis—anywhere but at Crispin.

Crispin frowned. “Doesn’t that bother you? His parents were Shadow-Puppets. Ah.” It dawned on him. Aspin wasn’t surprised. Because he already knew. “Seven hells. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Crispin—”

His anger returned in force, and he shoved his brother hard. “You farking knew, and you never told me? What in the Dicharthian hells is wrong with you?”

“It wasn’t like that⁠—”

“Then what was it like? Tell me, dear brother. What was it like?” He was sick of being lied to, tired of everyone making decisions for him, choosing what he was allowed to know and what he wasn’t.

“You almost died.” Aspin’s voice was somber, devoid of emotion.

The blood drained from Crispin’s face. “What?”

“When you opened the door. Chaos came through, and it… injured you. I didn’t know about your Order thing then, but now it makes sense. You cried out and fell to the ground. I’ve never been so scared in my life.” He was as white as the inside of an Awaannisa’s wings. “I slammed the door shut with all my might and then knelt at your side. You looked so small. So weak. I wanted to kill that thing that came out of the red door. Strangle it with my own hands. But mother said no. It was necessary. We had to save it.” Now anger burned in his voice, matching Crispin’s own.

Crispin frowned. “I don’t remember any of that.” The door had been slammed shut, and then life had gone on, as far as he remembered.

Aspin had broken out into a cold sweat. “That’s because mother took those memories away from you. She wiped them clean. But I remember every single minute of the following days. You lay close to death for a fortnight, pale as the dawn sky, as the best healers and wizards worked to save you. She took two of the Shadow-Puppets that had been performing that night—a play from Earth, I think—and bade them to carry that little bit of Chaos far away, wrapped up in human form.” He put his hand on Crispin’s knee. “I sat with you every night, reading to you from Tales of the Red Dukes, your favorite fairy tales. The Wizard Valentyne said hearing my voice might help.”

Crispin stared at his brother, seeing a side of Aspin that he’d never imagined might exist. “Why have you never told me about this?” He blinked. A sharp pain slipped through his temple and then was gone as quickly as it had arrived. That was weird.

“Because the wizard said you might relapse if you ever remembered what had happened that day. It was easier to be a jerk around you than to take the chance that I might slip up and….” He squeezed Crispin’s knee. “I’m sorry, Elly. I really am.”

For once, the old nickname didn’t seem like a slur. “It’s all right. I—” He winced. The pain had returned, doubled.

“What’s wrong?” Aspin searched his eyes. “Crispin, are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just… a little headache.” He rubbed his temples. “I’ll be all right.” Flashes of that day returned to him. The Red Door. The cloud of Chaos. Aspin rushing to his aid. “I think I need to lay down—” The pain ramped up from a three to a ten, as if a jagged knife had just plunged into his forehead.

Crispin screamed.

He was only vaguely aware of Aspin calling for help as Minkis scrambled up his arm, chittering madly.

Then he fell onto the couch cushions and promptly lost track of everything.

16

Leopold

It wasn’t exactly like making cookies with his mom when he was a kid. Yes, the ingredients were identical and the kitchen looked the same. Just like the original, Mom II sang dinosaur rock with the wrong lyrics and allowed Leo to lick the beaters, salmonella be damned. But this time, Leo didn’t knock a full five-pound canister of flour off the counter, the mixer didn’t suddenly start going three times faster than it was supposed to, and the oven didn’t emit random and troubling bursts of sparks.