Meg Cabot - Awaken

“He wasn’t?” Mr. Smith knit his gray eyebrows with concern. “Where is he?”

Tears filled my eyes once again, only this time, it wasn’t because of how touched I was by the shelter Mr. Smith was providing us — and others — from the storm.

“John’s dead,” I said, my voice breaking.

This time, I didn’t try to stop my tears, not even when I saw the look of incredulous shock — and sorrow — that spread across Mr. Smith’s face. My tears came spilling out of me as quickly and as hotly as my story. I found myself telling him everything that had happened, from our having brought Alex back to life that horrible morning in the cemetery, to the awful moment I’d seen John’s lifeless body in the waves. I left out nothing ….

Well, almost nothing. I saw no reason to let Mr. Smith know that my relationship with John had reached a more intimate level. Some things are private, after all. And I didn’t think that could have anything to do with all the unfortunate events that had been going on in the Underworld.

I did tell him other things, though, even things that might have seemed inconsequential, like Hope’s being lost. I don’t know why, except that the words Mr. Liu had spoken to me right before I’d left the Underworld kept running through my head: I really was a kite fueled by anger, with no one to hold my strings now that John was gone. I had killed a man and felt no remorse whatsoever about it.

Mr. Smith, though, was one of the most grounded, compassionate people I’d ever met … despite his somewhat morbid interest in death deities. If anyone could help figure out a way to save us — to save John, and perhaps, through saving John, save me — it was him.

He listened intently as I spoke, ignoring the muted sound of the laughter and music coming from down the hall, his expression troubled, tears glittering in his own eyes, as dark brown as the leather on which we sat. When I was finished, he lowered his hands, which he’d kept pressed to his cheeks from the time I’d said John was dead until I finished with, “And … well, then we got here. That’s it, I guess.”

To my surprise, he said none of the things an ordinary person might say, like, Oh, Pierce, I’m so sorry for your loss , or You have my deepest sympathies.

Instead, he said, his dark eyes still glittering compassionately behind the lenses of his glasses, “My dear. You’re wrong. So, so wrong.”

I stared at him. For the first time all evening, I actually felt something. What I felt was probably what Mr. Mueller must have felt when I’d rammed Kayla’s car into him.

“Wrong?” I echoed. “About what? There’s no such person as Thanatos?”

“Oh, no,” he said dismissively. “Not about that. About hope. Hope is not lost.”

I took a deep, disappointed breath.

“I told you,” I said. Why had I thought coming here was such a good idea? Alex was right. We ought to have gone straight to Uncle Chris — although, of course, Uncle Chris lived with my grandmother, so this would have been risky, considering she was possessed by a Fury. But Mr. Smith was usually so on top of things. Not anymore, I guess. “Hope is gone. I haven’t seen her since all of the ravens fell to the ground after the boats collided —”

Mr. Smith was using one of his old-school handkerchiefs to scrub at his moist eyes.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean your bird,” he said. “Although I don’t believe she’s lost, either, at least, not forever. She’ll come back, as pets often do after the storm, when the worst is over and the sun has come out again. She knows her way home.”

I sat and stared at him. What was he talking about?

“What I meant,” he went on, after tucking the handkerchief away, “was hope . You said you feel as if all hope is lost, and that the Fates have deserted us. But I don’t believe that’s true, not for a second, any more than I believe John is dead.”

Suddenly the pleasant white walls of his library became pink-tinged. Uh-oh.

“Mr. Smith, I’m sorry, I know this is difficult for you,” I said, keeping my voice controlled with an effort. There were a number of knickknacks on his shelves, little glass ornaments shaped like boats and shells. I didn’t want to snatch up any of them and throw them. But the part of me fueled by anger felt like doing so. “Believe me, it’s difficult for me to accept, too. But I listened to John’s chest myself. There’s no heartbeat. I performed mouth-to-mouth on him. He never started breathing again. I even pressed my necklace against him, the way we did with Alex. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. Trust me, he’s dead. There wasn’t anything anyone could do —”

Mr. Smith waved his hand in front of his face, as if my words were a bothersome gnat. This didn’t help alleviate the red glow in my eyes. If anything, it intensified.

“Oh, I know. I believe his body is dead right now. But John’s spirit isn’t. Why else do you think that bolt of lightning came out of the blue and struck that tree, causing it to fall on that teacher of yours? That was pure, vintage John. He was trying to help you, in that overly dramatic way of his.”

The minute he mentioned the lightning, the red pulled back from my vision the way an ocean wave receded from a shoreline. What he was suggesting was crazy …

… crazy enough to be true.

The lightning had been an odd coincidence, considering the fact that my boyfriend had always been able to control the weather with his mind and the way he’d always showed up whenever someone was threatening me.

Except that John was dead.

“Thunder and lightning were a signature trick of John’s,” I heard myself murmur, despite the fact that I refused to allow myself to hope.

“So you told me,” Mr. Smith said, rising from his chair and going to his bookshelves. “It makes sense that he’d try to protect you in the afterlife as he did in life … whatever afterlife he’s experiencing right now, that is.”

“But,” I said. No. I wasn’t going to hope. “That’s impossible. Unless … ”

“It’s no more impossible, I should think, than anything else you’ve experienced so far, such as finding yourself in an underworld that exists beneath our world, and discovering that you, a fairly below-average student, are the co-regent of it. Now, where did I put that book?”

“You mean … ” I was starting to feel something other than anger. It felt, dangerously, like optimism. “ … you think John is around somewhere? Like in spirit form?”

“More than in spirit form,” Mr. Smith said. “I think your friend Mr. Graves is right about there being an imbalance in the Underworld. I have my suspicions about what caused it, but more important, I do believe it caused an opportunity for the death god, Thanatos, to capture John’s soul. The question is, how are we going to save him?”

The Guide and I into that hidden road

Now entered, to return to the bright world …

DANTE ALIGHIERI, Inferno , Canto XXXIV

There are other questions, of course,” Mr. Smith was saying as he stood with his back to me, scanning his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “And other pressing concerns. How are we going to help all those poor souls you left behind in the Underworld? And how are we going to defeat the Furies and return the Fates, and thus restore the balance so that this fair isle doesn’t turn into a flaming ball of magma? But,” he added lightly, “I believe once we’ve located and recovered John, those other things will be a bit easier to manage. I hope so, anyway. All of the bridges are shut down due to the storm, so it’s far too late to evacuate.”