Chapter Seven

Ahiru slumped back on the couch, gazing sadly at her knees. "And that's what happened," she finished. "That's why Fakir is missing and why Autor is hurt." She looked back to Charon, who looked grim. "I'm so sorry, Charon! We tried, we really tried to save Fakir, but everything went so wrong!" Tears pricked at her eyes again, but she brushed them aside. "Now we don't know what to do or where he even is or how to get him back . . ."

Charon leaned forward, clasping his large hands. He and Ahiru were sitting in Autor's upstairs hall, waiting for the boy to awaken from a much-needed rest. Upon returning to Kinkan Autor had wanted to have a quick, hot shower and go to bed. By some miracle he had not fallen in the tub and had soon lain down, drifting into slumber.

He had offered to let Ahiru use his shower if she wanted, so Charon had gotten a change of clothes for her from home and she had gratefully showered and put them on. She had then gone to help Charon check the house for hearing devices. Upon finding none, they had looked in on Autor and then stayed in the upstairs corridor while Ahiru explained the whole, horrible story.

"You're just lucky the owner of those horses realized something was wrong and managed to track me down to let me know," Charon said, his face and voice severe. "You never should have tried to take on those people by yourselves."

"I know." Ahiru looked down at the floor. "I guess we thought maybe we could because of the other enemies we've had to fight. . . . Or maybe we were just so worried that we really didn't think much at all."

"Or maybe some of both." Charon straightened. "Gangsters are not like living Stories or even the crazy men who write them." His eyes narrowed. "They're an entirely different kind of evil."

"They look like regular people, but they're so horrible and mean!" Ahiru cried. "I . . . I didn't even realize people could be like that."

"Unfortunately they can." He gave Ahiru a stern look. "And I never want to hear that you and Autor tried to investigate them without me again. All of you could have been killed. Autor almost was!"

"But what about Fakir?" Ahiru exclaimed in desperation. "How are we going to save him?"

"I don't know. The license number is a place to start." Charon stood. "We should go to the police."

His words sent Ahiru leaping to her feet in alarm. "But . . . !"

"I'll tell them that the investigation has to be kept quiet," Charon said. "They need to be involved. We'll be more likely to get Fakir back safely if the proper authorities know what happened, regardless of whether the gang wants Fakir to Story-Spin for them." His shoulders sagged wearily. "And I know they must."

Ahiru stared at him. "Do you know who they are?" she asked. Charon had gone sheet-white when she had first mentioned the gang. Now she was starting to have a suspicion that it was not just because of how devastating it was in general.

Charon looked away. ". . . Yes," he said at last. "I used to pray every night that they would never come here and find Fakir. But after so many years passed, I had started to think they never would return."

Ahiru bit her lip. "Were you in the gang too?"

"No!" Charon's reply was so forceful that Ahiru rocked back in surprise. He sighed, massaging his forehead. "Fakir's father was my closest friend."

Now Ahiru was stunned. "Then . . . you must have been so sad when he . . ." She trailed off. She could not bear to think of Fakir or Autor dead. She had already experienced what it was like to try to get by without Autor, and it had shattered her heart so thoroughly that she never wanted to have to go through it again. But Charon had to miss his friend every day, after all this time. Suddenly the tears were back.

"I saw him start to hang around the gang," Charon said, his voice far away. "They used to be here in town, contrary to what Autor thought. I didn't trust any of them. I tried to convince Ambrosius to leave them alone, but he was stubborn. When they left Kinkan, he left with them."

"That's awful!" Ahiru cried.

Charon nodded. "I didn't see or hear from him until he suddenly came back on the run for his life," he said. "I remember neither of us found it strange that the gang didn't follow him back, likely because Drosselmeyer didn't want us to."

"Did they . . . want Fakir's dad to Story-Spin for them?" Ahiru asked.

"They did." Charon clenched a fist. "They forced him to write their success in heists. They believed their nearly perfect record of stealing came because of Ambrosius. I don't doubt it; he was their trump card. Of course they would want his son in their gang after his disappearance and subsequent death."

Ahiru crossed the hall to Autor's half-open door as she listened, peering through the space at her friend. Due to lingering concerns about the possible concussion, Charon had insisted that Autor leave his door open halfway so they could look in on him at varying intervals. Autor had not disagreed, which only made Charon worry, as it did Ahiru, that he was feeling ill.

"Autor," Ahiru whispered. "Please get better. . . ."

She slumped against the door, feeling the anguish welling up inside her. She had rarely felt so helpless.

"I have a friend in the police force," Charon spoke now. "I think I should go see him, or else ask him to come here. You could tell him more than I could."

Ahiru gave a weak, resigned nod. "I guess," she said. "Maybe Autor will be awake by then too."

Charon nodded. "I'll go down the street and make the call, just in case the telephone here is tapped," he said. "Do you think you'd be able to describe any of the gang members to him? That could be helpful too."

"I think I could," Ahiru said. "It'd be hard to forget what they looked like. But . . . it's their eyes I remember best." She shivered. "They were so cold. . . ."

Charon looked somber. "I still remember their eyes," he said, his voice dark. "After all these years, they've probably gotten even worse."

With that he went down the stairs, leaving Ahiru standing at Autor's door. She sighed, giving him a last, sad look before turning away.

"I wish I could sleep too," she mumbled. "I'm so tired, but I'm wide awake. I'm too worried to sleep!"

She slumped onto the couch, grabbing a pillow to hug.

xxxx

Autor woke shortly before the policeman arrived. Ahiru leaped to her feet when she heard movement in the room, hopeful and relieved. "Autor?" she called.

He came to the doorway in his pajamas, pushing up his glasses. "What is it?" he asked.

Ahiru skipped over to him. "Are you feeling any better?" she said.

"Yes, I think so," Autor said. "My back still aches, but that should stop before long."

"Good!" Ahiru took his arm. "You should get dressed. Charon called a policeman friend and he's on his way over!"

Autor stiffened. "What?"

It was hard to say what he was more concerned about—that the police had been called or that a stranger would suddenly be arriving in his house.

Ahiru bit her lip. "Well, he thought it was the best thing," she said. "We could talk to him here and stuff. Oh! We didn't find any bug things in the house."

Autor sighed. "I hope there weren't any in the telephone," he said.

"Charon called on a payphone," Ahiru assured him. "Maybe the policeman can find out if there's any bug things in your phone."

"Maybe." Autor peered at her. "How long ago was he on his way?"

Ahiru rocked back and forth. "I'm not sure," she said. "It seems like Charon came back about fifteen minutes ago and said the policeman was coming right then."

Autor's eyes widened. "Then he should be here any minute! Ahiru, excuse me." He shut the door and went to the closet in haste to retrieve something to wear.

He was dressed moments before the law officer arrived. At the knock on the door, he was able to let the man inside. They gathered in the living room to discuss the case.

The policeman—Detective Kirsch—was serious and dedicated. He listened to Ahiru and Autor with a grim countenance, writing on a notepad as they spoke. Every now and then he asked questions, which they tried their best to answer.

He was especially concerned over the descriptions they gave of the gang members. "Do you remember seeing this man with them?" he asked the teens, pulling a worn photograph out of his pocket.

Ahiru cringed at the sight of the muscular, dark-haired man with unforgiving eyes. "No!" she said emphatically. "He wasn't there at all."

Autor nodded in agreement. "I would remember seeing someone such as he," he said.

Kirsch nodded as well, not seeming surprised. "His name is Anton Schuster," he said, replacing the picture. "He's the leader of one of the most notorious gangs in Germany. Police all over the country have been trying to catch them for years."

Charon had also drawn back at the image. He looked to the officer with barely concealed alarm. "And you think this gang might be the one that has Fakir?"

"It's a strong possibility," Kirsch said. "We know they have operated in Bavaria, and even near Kinkan."

Charon lowered his gaze. "It must be them," he said. "I've seen that man before. He was in the gang that Fakir's father was with. I don't recall knowing that he was the leader, but it doesn't surprise me."

Kirsch's eyes narrowed. "I'll see to it that any and all known members of the gang are charged with suspicion of abduction," he said.

Ahiru wrung her hands in her lap. "What will they do with Fakir?" she wailed. "What if they decide they don't want him any more?"

Kirsch fixed her with a look that said everything she was thinking but was afraid to voice. "They're ruthless," he said. "If Fakir becomes useless to them, they won't hesitate to get rid of him—most likely making it look like an accident . . . or suicide."

"No!" Ahiru leaped to her feet, her heart's speed increasing at the horrible words. "We have to save him! We have to!"

"The police will do everything they can," Kirsch told her, "but right now our leads are slim. The only road leading away from that mansion goes into very rural, isolated territory. The first house isn't for many kilometers."

"Maybe if we talked to the people on that road, we could find something out," Ahiru said, both hopeful and pleading. "Maybe someone would have seen them!"

"It's possible," Kirsch agreed. "But I'm afraid it's out of our jurisdiction. I'll put in a call to the state police along that way."

"Will they be able to get started right away?" Ahiru asked.

"Someone should be available," Kirsch said. "Not only does it concern a gang we've been trying to arrest for years, but there will be an active abduction charge against them now. Time is of the essence."

He spoke with them for a while longer before departing. When he had gone, Ahiru found herself even more wound up and agonized than before he had come.

"We can't just sit here and wait for the police to find stuff out!" she exclaimed, looking pleadingly to Charon. "Couldn't we get started talking to people on that road?"

"We really shouldn't," Charon said, but the truth was in his eyes. He wanted to get involved as well; he only balked because of fear for the teens' safety. Ahiru was directly his responsibility, and he felt accountable for Autor too.

Autor was family in every sense of the word. The boy had no one to look after him other than the servant who checked in each day. In taking care of his family's estate, he had long ago been forced to grow up far more than he should have so soon. That showed clearly, as much in his bursts of boyish enthusiasm and fascination as in his usual, serious persona. And although he insisted he did not need anyone and that he could manage fine on his own, Charon had sometimes seen a longing in his eyes as he had watched Charon interact with his adopted children. Autor still wanted—and needed—a parental figure in his life. It was just the last thing he would ever admit.

"We wouldn't have to do anything dangerous," Autor chimed in, leaning forward on the couch. "All we would need to do is question people along the road. Maybe we would be able to get a sense of where the gang might be going. Then we could alert the police in that area and go there to wait for a break in the case."

"Maybe we'd even find Fakir!" Ahiru said.

Charon frowned deeply. "I can't walk you two right into the lions' den," he said. "I know too well what these people are like. And now you've both had a taste of their evil." He looked from Ahiru to Autor and back again. "I don't doubt that they would be ruthless enough to kill you on sight if they saw either of you."

Ahiru flinched. "But . . ." Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I know I can't just stay around and wait for something to happen. What if the police can't find anything right away? The more people looking, the better chance there is of getting Fakir back soon!"

"Experience matters too," Charon said. "You and Autor don't know how to handle criminals. The police are trained for that purpose."

"What if they find out we called the police?" Ahiru worried. "They said they'd know!"

Autor stiffened. "Could they have allies in honest professions, such as the police?" he said. "If one officer is really a gang member, he could report on whether or not the police are being involved in Fakir's abduction."

Charon's eyebrows knitted. "It is possible," he admitted. "I wouldn't put it past them."

"Then we can't just stay here!" Ahiru cried. "What if that person makes it so that there won't be any investigation at all?"

"If he could see to it that he would be put on the case, he could fabricate unhelpful and useless information from the people on the road," Autor said.

"This is only speculation," Charon said, but it was clear that he was troubled. He stood, crossing to the doorway. "You two must be starved. I'll fix dinner and we'll decide what to do while we eat."

"I'm not hungry," Ahiru moaned.

"Just wait until you have food in front of you," Charon said. He glanced to Autor. "Is it alright if I use your kitchen, Autor?"

Autor nodded. "Yes." He sighed. Charon was right—about the food, at least. He himself was still feeling weak. As much as he tried to push himself without nourishment at times and insisted that he could manage fine without it, he had discovered that sometimes his mind would noticeably clear after eating. And he felt in such a dither right now that he was willing to try it. Anyway, he really was hungry.

"I'll have something ready before long," Charon promised as he entered the kitchen.

Autor sighed, easing his weary body back into the soft couch. He removed his glasses, massaging his eyes. Ahiru watched him.

"I think Charon will let us go," she said. "He really wants to himself."

"I can see that," Autor said. "But his concern for us could prompt him to never agree."

"If we promise to stay out of danger, he might give in," Ahiru said.

"The problem is, danger might find us," Autor said. "We don't necessarily have to go looking for it in order to find it."

Ahiru looked down. "Yeah, I guess," she mumbled.

Autor replaced his glasses, looking over at her. "Ahiru." He straightened, but continued to rest against the couch. "Somehow we will get Fakir back. Even if that means waiting for the police to find him." His voice lowered. "Although I really don't like that idea either."

A hopeful smile began to creep over Ahiru's features. "So does that mean we'll be able to look for Fakir too?"

Autor sighed. "The decision is Charon's," he said. "I don't want another well-intentioned fiasco, as I know you don't."

Ahiru dropped her hands into her lap. "So you're willing to just wait?" she wailed.

"Yes, if that is what's best." Autor leaned forward. "We're out of our element in this situation."

"So's Fakir," Ahiru said sadly.

Autor frowned. Ahiru was certainly right. But that did not mean they should be actively involved. Their failure the previous night had badly shaken him. Autor found himself at a complete loss, especially when he combined that with the warning that the gangsters might shoot on sight. He was not a coward, albeit he did not want to die, either. And there was no sense in plunging himself and Ahiru into danger when they did not even know what they were doing.

Still, just asking people on the road if Fakir had been seen should not be dangerous. Fakir was surely far away by now. And Autor really did not know that he could stand doing absolutely nothing at all to save him.

"I wish I had your strength," Ahiru said at last.

Autor looked to her in surprise. "My . . . strength?" he repeated.

Ahiru nodded. "And your willpower. I'd be out there right now if it wasn't for what you and Charon have been saying."

"I confess, right now I'm at a crossroads," Autor said. "Part of me does want to go out. The other part feels that it would only make everything worse and we should stay entirely out of the way."

Ahiru slumped back into the couch. "What if Charon can't decide what we should do?" she said.

"He'll decide," Autor said. "And we'll abide by that decision."

Ahiru looked down, tracing a pattern on the couch cushion with her finger. "I've never heard you like this," she said. "I mean, usually you act like you're so in control and everything."

Autor stared off at the unlit fireplace. ". . . I actually believed we could save Fakir last night," he said. "I was counting on it. But when we failed so horrendously . . ." He shook his head. "I realized there are other ways to completely blunder aside from writing a Story wrong."

Ahiru bit her lip. Slowly she moved closer to Autor. "I wonder if failing hurt you even more than it hurt me," she whispered.

Autor looked up at her. "Once again I didn't take my own advice," he said. "I warned Fakir against becoming too confident in his powers. Yet after our victories I had started to think we could handle whatever was thrown at us. I wasn't ready for such a failure. Now I don't know if we should or even could be the ones to personally bring Fakir home."

"I don't know, either," Ahiru said.

"Nor do I," Charon spoke as he entered the room. The teens looked up with a start. He walked over, setting a metal tray of delicious-smelling food in front of them. "But I know that I can't go back to work with my son missing. After we eat and rest, we'll go question some of the people on the road. Even if the police get to them first, I want to talk with them too. There are questions we might think of that the police wouldn't." Such as How did Fakir seem when you saw him? Was he well fed? Cold? Agonized? Bitter? Charon had to know. Any bit of information about Fakir was welcomed and needed by him, whether or not it would directly help the investigation.

Both Ahiru and Autor stared at him in a mixture of surprised shock. Then Autor turned to Ahiru with a hint of a smile.

"So it's been decided," he said. "And we'll abide by that decision."

Ahiru cheered for joy. As she looked to the food, her stomach loudly announced its impatience.

"Thank you, Charon!" she exclaimed. "And you're right, I'm hungry now! This looks great!"

Charon chuckled as she dove into dinner.

Autor watched her in amusement and disbelief before moving to take his share. "Thank you," he said as he looked up at Charon. For this meal . . . and everything else.

Charon just nodded. "Eat as much as you want," he said before claiming his own portion. "There's plenty."

xxxx

Fakir stood glaring at the hated man from his father's photograph in the latter's office. The mobster's walls and carpet were all red—fitting for a murderer, Fakir bitterly thought—and he was standing at his desk, looking Fakir up and down. Fakir was glowering in defiance, his hands at his sides.

"You certainly look like Ambrosius's son," Anton said at last. "You have the same steel in your eyes."

"My dad had a picture of you in his desk," Fakir spoke. "I hated that photograph. It scared me to death when I saw it. My dad wouldn't tell me who you were when I asked him. Now I know why."

"And why was that?" Anton asked. His voice was dark, yet somehow indifferent. He did not care what the reason had been, but he wanted to hear Fakir's response to his question.

"He didn't want me to know anything about his other life," Fakir said. "Maybe he was afraid I'd want to join your flunkies when I was older."

"Or maybe he was ashamed of having strayed from an upright, righteous life?" Anton suggested. He gave a nod, mostly to himself. "Ambrosius was one of my best men. His departure cost me a great deal. I've never forgiven him for that." He looked Fakir directly in the eyes. "I expect great things from you, young Fakir. Particularly since you don't have the power to go against me."

He walked around the desk and pulled the leather chair back. "Come and sit," he said.

Fakir narrowed his eyes. Giving the wretch a cold stare, he slowly walked forward and around him to the chair. "You know I could pull open any one of these drawers," he said as he sat down.

"While I'm right here? I trust you to not be completely stupid." Anton tapped the blank sheet of paper he had placed on the desk. "Show me your gift."

Fakir stiffened, looking from the paper and the nearby quill pen to Anton. "What?" he demanded. His heart began to pound faster. These crooks knew about Story-Spinning? How? Why?

"Your father wrote things that came true," Anton said. "It's in your family line." He crossed his arms. "I want to see if you have harnessed the same power."

Now Fakir's palms were clammy. "My father?" he repeated. He felt as though his mind had gone blank. Perhaps this should not be such a shock to him, but he had never once thought that his father had the ability to Story-Spin. The man had never even seemed to show an interest in writing. Though, as Fakir thought about it, he seemed to remember that Ambrosius had always shown concern when Fakir had written. His mother had shrugged it off, not seeing any harm in it, but his father had never lightened. Had it been because he had been forced to Story-Spin for these gangsters for years and knew what kinds of things Stories could bring about?

"You're a smart boy," Anton was saying now. "I know you have the intelligence to figure it out, and it looks like you're doing that right now." He took the quill out of the inkwell and held it in front of Fakir. "Write!" he commanded.

Fakir snapped out of his trance. "Write what?" he retorted.

"Make something happen to something in this room," Anton said. He reached into his cream-colored suit jacket, removing a revolver. "But if you try to kill or incapacitate me, I'll have one of my men back in Kinkan kill someone else you love before you've finished the first word."

"How do I even know you're really watching them?" Fakir snapped. His mouth was dry.

"The police were called," Anton told him. "Your adopted father decided that was best." He crossed to the desk and opened his laptop, which was situated to the side.

Fakir's eyes widened at the image on the screen. It had been received in an email program and was time-stamped for that very day. Charon was standing outside Autor's house, speaking to a police officer.

"I have a sniper watching him and the girl Ahiru." Anton pushed the laptop shut again. "At a signal from me, he will shoot to kill. Five minutes later a photograph of the corpse will be sent to my email address."

Horror and bile were rising in Fakir's throat. He swallowed hard, pushing them back. "Why . . . why is he at Autor's place?" he rasped. "If Autor's dead, why . . ."

"They brought the body back and left it at the home while the servant was called to do with it as she would." Anton's eyes narrowed. "I could show you a photograph of that, if you want proof."

Now Fakir's hands were shaking. "No," he managed to say.

His thoughts were crashing together. So Autor was really dead then? He supposed he had truly believed it, yet at the same time he had clung to a desperate thread of hope. And now that hope was being ripped away from him. Autor was dead. Ahiru had to be devastated. And she and Charon were being watched every moment. Fakir squeezed his eyes shut, a hand flying up to massage the bridge of his nose.

"I thought so," Anton's voice came through the confusion and anguish. "Seeing the body after you pushed him to his death was more than enough for you. You wouldn't be able to handle seeing it again."

Fakir's eyes flew open. "I didn't know it would happen!" he snarled. "I didn't have any idea that Autor was going to fall!"

"That may be, but I don't care." Anton regarded the teen without pity. "Write."

Fakir looked down at the sheet of paper. What was he to do? What could he do, other than what he was being ordered to do? There was too much at stake.

Unless maybe he could write Ahiru and Charon out of that horrible mess. . . . But he had no guarantee that the Story would cooperate with his wishes. His powers were still so raw and unrefined, as Autor had told him during their most recent training session.

Their last training session.

The gun was still being pointed at him. "If I see anything suspicious being written, I'll shoot your hand off," Anton said. "Then you won't be of any use to anyone."

"Including you," Fakir said.

"Do you want to take the risk?" Anton said. His voice was calm, but as a knife. "You wouldn't have the chance to help your loved ones. And I would have them killed for being too involved."

Fakir clenched his teeth. He could not put them at further risk. He had to play along for now and try to think how to get out of this nightmare without bringing them harm.

He reached over, dipping the quill in the inkwell. As he brought it to the paper he took a quick glance around the room.

"The vase on the pedestal at the back of the room began to levitate," he wrote.

Anton was right there, examining every word. He looked to the object with expectance, keeping the gun poised to fire at Fakir's right hand.

At first nothing happened. But then, slowly, the vase began to rise several centimeters into the air. Anton watched it, pleased yet not willing to fully accept the test just by itself. He tapped Fakir's hand with the gun. "Now bring it down," he ordered. "Without damaging it."

Fakir's lip curled. It was tempting to write that it crashed, but he obediently scrawled that it lowered itself to the pillar without so much as a crack—which it did.

Anton continued to lean over the desk with his weapon. "Show me two more examples," he ordered.

Again and again Fakir consented, hating himself more with each letter and character. By revealing his gift he was digging a deep pit for himself, one that was only going to be more difficult to get out of the further down he went. But if he could keep Charon and Ahiru from being killed, it was worth it. Even if in the end he went to prison with the gang he would say it had been worth it.

At last Anton straightened, giving a thoughtful nod in response to Fakir's work. "You do have the gift," he said. "Likely as strongly as your father, if not more."

Fakir slumped back, dropping the quill into the inkwell with a dull thunk. "So what now?" he asked.

"Now, you should eat." Anton crossed to the door, placing the revolver inside his suit jacket. "Then we will discuss plans for the next few days."

Fakir got up from the desk, wiping his hands on his pants. "Great," he muttered. "I can't wait."