‘But how did you learn to do that?’ said Zac.
Luke pulled himself from the moment to consider his flying fingers. Sometimes he wondered how he could do what he did online. Most often, though, he just did what he did and thought about that.
‘Um, I just kind of understand it,’ he said.
He couldn’t explain that the numbers made beautiful patterns for him, artwork that he loved to explore and manipulate. And that the security that people set up to try to encrypt their data, lock down their sites, restrict access, were irresistible puzzles to him – challenges that he became obsessed with until he had broken through.
‘And I met some people online,’ he added, aware of Zac gaping at the screen. ‘They kinda showed me stuff too.’
Those faceless hackers had been his only real friends, but they stayed that way only when they stuck to speaking about code. Once they began posting about birthdays and ballgames and current affairs, he blocked their mail. If they were smart enough to break back through his lockout, he resumed the friendship, but only on the proviso that they kept their gossip for their girlfriends.
He’d moved in with foster family number three at age ten. By eleven, he was mentoring the hackers who’d taught him the basics.
‘Ah, here we are,’ he said. ‘Their admin area. That’s much more helpful.’
He again typed his mother’s name, linking it with the name she so kindly gave him at birth – Lucifer Black Moreau. A hyperlink to his birth certificate popped up immediately. He had that already. He wanted to know the names of his siblings. He set up a search for all children registered to his mother. The results were almost instantaneous.
‘Oh my God,’ said Zac, watching closely.
Eight hyperlinks had popped up.
Luke flopped back in his chair. He had eight siblings? He’d always been alone. Eight?
‘There,’ said Zac, pointing. ‘That would be her: born 1996. The same year as us.’
Slightly dazed, Luke clicked on the link.
‘Samantha White Moreau,’ read Zac, now peering over his shoulder. ‘The Empath.’ He spoke the words with awe.
Luke quickly scanned the dates within the other links.
‘Are you sure you got your fairytale right, Nguyen?’ he said. ‘There isn’t a link for 1997, the year the so-called Genius was supposed to have been born.’
‘It’s not a fairytale,’ said Zac, frowning. ‘I don’t know what it means that he’s not listed there. Maybe he wasn’t born in Australia. Your mother could travel anywhere she wanted, you know. I have no idea why she used a mortal hospital to give birth to any of you in the first place. I mean, she was a witch.’
Luke spun his desk chair around, aiming to smack straight into Zac and send him flying. Instead, with one backwards bound, Zac was already on the other side of the room. Where he stood, palms out.
‘What?’ Zac said.
‘My mother is a WITCH?!’ Luke shouted.
Zac coloured. ‘Oh, didn’t I mention that before? I just thought you knew. I mean, everyone knows that Morgan Moreau was a very powerful witch.’
Luke buried his face in his hands and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.
‘Zac?’ he said, through his fingers.
‘Yes, Luke?’ Zac was sounding extra polite.
Luke raised his head.
‘Would you mind, in future, not presuming that I know anything about anything that you couldn’t find in an encyclopaedia?’
‘Witches and elves are in the encyclopaedia.’
‘Okay then. How about this?’ said Luke, speaking super-slowly. ‘Any pieces of information that you think an ordinary mortal might not be familiar with, would you mind letting me know about it? Especially if it has to do with my family!’
‘’kay,’ said Zac. He cleared his throat. ‘Um, but Luke…’
‘Yes, Zac?’
‘You’re not an ordinary mortal.’
‘Thank you, Zac. I think I’m beginning to get that.’
Luke turned back to the screen. The world in there made a lot more sense to him. Well, it used to. He stared at the hyperlinks.
‘Hello, brothers and sisters,’ he said, and began clicking the links.
Henri Coanda Airport, Bucharest, Romania
Samantha hunched in a booth in the British Airways business club lounge with her knees up on the seat, a resting place for her chin. She half sat on her Ride it like you stole it bag, her only luggage, worried someone would take it if she fell asleep. She was bone tired. Beyond exhausted. She felt she’d aged ten years in the past ten hours. But she knew there was no way she could fall asleep with so much going on inside her head.
Besides, she had to board her flight at 0830 hours.
Samantha had never told the time by the 24-hour clock before. She’d never been in a club lounge. She’d never been to an airport. And she’d definitely never been on a plane.
A cheery attendant bustled past her table, removed her empty apple juice glass, and gave the table a quick wipe. The woman was Gaje – cleaning up after her! The attendant had been past five times already in the few hours Samantha had been here, and still she could not comprehend it. She dropped her feet to the floor, worried she’d be in trouble for having them up there.
‘Thank you,’ she said to the woman.
The woman smiled and moved her trolley to the next table.
Samantha tried for a return smile, but didn’t make it. Right now, she doubted she’d ever smile again.
She did another sweep of her surroundings. She’d never seen a place so plush, so expensive, so airless. So completely alien to her life at home. She had to keep forcing herself to unwrinkle her nose. Everything smelled terrible! A disinfected, chemical fog that set her already tear-swollen eyes to watering again. She had an awful headache. Right now she felt that one gulp of camp air – the mountain breeze, Nuri’s black coffee, horse – would blow the pain right away. She sighed and drew her knees closer. When would she get to smell those things again?
Over the past few hours, especially since sunrise, she’d noticed a change in the type of passengers strolling past the wall of glossy magazines she’d parked herself behind. At first she’d seen tired couples with silver hair and sensible shoes, and young families bundling along with impeccably dressed, heavy-eyed children. But since six a.m., men and women marched in as singles, wearing suits and towing behind them black bags.
She wondered whether they could be some kind of army. They all smelled the same, dressed the same and constantly watched their watches. She focused on them – a little paranoid after everything Sera had told her – and wondered if perhaps they were some sort of secret service, here to monitor her. At first she figured that some of them were quite mad as they murmured quietly into thin air, until she noticed little earpieces. Her anxiety increased. She’d seen movies with spies wearing those.
She found only one difference between them – attached to most of their identical, expensive-looking wheelie bags was a little charm: a yellow ribbon wrapped around a handle, a glittering star clipped to another, a plastic green frog lolling about on a zipper. She figured these must be amulets that had been blessed for luck.
Her stomach grumbled; whether it was with grief or hunger, she was beyond caring. Although Seraphina had told her repeatedly that she could eat anything she wanted in the lounge – for free! – she’d had nothing but juice. Mostly because the juice bar was just to the right of the magazine wall and she’d watched several people pour glasses for themselves. She figured she could do that without breaking something, bursting into tears, or setting off an alarm.