Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4 Ian Kabra tiptoed across the cold marble floor. He was related to just about every notable spy in the last five hundred years. He himself had been trained in subterfuge practically since birth. But this was the one place he'd never suspected he'd have to employ his stealth skills: his own home. Somewhere high overhead— on the third floor of the Kabra mansion, or possibly the fourth— a beam creaked. Ian froze. It's an old house, he told himself. It makes sounds like that all the time. Doesn't it? Normally, Ian wouldn't have even paid attention. But normally, he wasn't breaking into the one wing of the house that had always been off-limits to him and Natalie. The wing where all the Kabra family secrets were stored. Ian's eyes darted about, looking for the first glimmer of telltale light coming toward him. He

rehearsed excuses in his head: Why, no, Mum, Dad, how could you ever think that I would be out of bed tonight doing something wrong? Or sneaky and underhanded? I'm just… getting a drink of water. Yes, that's it. I was thirsty, and I thought the water would taste better down here than near my bedroom. Haven't you always taught me I deserve the very best of everything? How could you think that I would be here because… because I don't trust you anymore? No light flashed at him. No accusing parent— or suspicious servant— leered out at him. He took a deep, silent breath and began inching forward again. No matter how carefully he stepped, he could hear a soft tssk-tssk with every brush of his socked feet across the floor. What will happen if they catch me? Is this worth the risk? "I just want to know the truth," Ian whispered, so desperate that his lips actually formed the words, his vocal cords actually pushed out small bursts of sound. He froze again, but nothing happened.

Truth… Ian had always been taught that truth was a very flexible thing. His mother could smile brightly at another woman and say so charmingly, "Oh, that dress is just perfect for you. Wherever did you get it?" And then behind the woman's back she'd go on for hours about how such a hideous, shapeless old hag could not possibly have picked an outfit any more repulsive than that one. Or— Ian had heard both of his parents, at different times on the phone, talking to business associates and assuring them, "Why, yes, of course, we have your best interests at heart…" —and then hanging up, telling a subordinate, "Close down that factory. It's worthless." Or, "Sell that stock. Every last share." But that's just how they treat losers. Outsiders. People who aren't Lucians like us. He remembered how his mother had treated Irina Spasky, who'd been loyal until almost the very end of her life. She wasn't a Kabra. Mum and Dad have a code of conduct—the Kabras are the only ones that

matter. It's just their way. Yes, they can be ruthless with everyone else, but really, they're doing it for their family. For Natalie and me. Was that why his mother had slapped him earlier that day? Why she seemed not to care anymore if Ian or Natalie lived or died, as long as she won the Clue hunt? Why she'd had Natalie on the verge of tears for, oh, weeks, now? Ian had always found his little sister a bit annoying, but lately he'd actually felt sorry for her, watching her try so hard to please their mother, who'd become completely impossible to please. What changed? Ian wondered. What happened? Is it really just that we're… losing? Ian was reaching for a doorknob now. Willing his hands to stay steady, he slipped an old- fashioned skeleton key from the pocket of his silk pajamas and slid it into the lock. His parents had ordered that he be trained to pick locks so he could steal information, if necessary, from business rivals, family enemies, international spies. He'd never expected to become so confused about who his enemies really were.

It's time to find out, Ian told himself coldly. Just then the lock clicked. One twist of his wrist, and the door sprang open. With a glance over his shoulder, Ian stepped into the secret wing and pulled the door shut behind him. Jonah Wizard gave a final wave to the fans crowding around his limo and slid into his seat. His driver shut the car door firmly behind him and pushed dozens of girls out of his way getting back around to the front of the car. "You're so hot, Jonah!" one of the girls yelled, kissing the window as the car pulled away. She left a smear of lipstick across the glass. Jonah stared at the lipstick. He'd asked his father to schedule this concert in London at the last minute. He'd sung and danced his heart out for the past three hours. He'd even added a surprise encore at the end. The crowd and the screams and the excitement were his reward, exactly what he needed right now: proof that his fans loved him. Proof that he deserved that love.

So why did he keep thinking that the smear of lipstick looked like blood? Because of the clue hunt, Jonah told himself. Because if my fans only knew what I almost did… If they knew what my mother expects me to do… If I did it… Jonah had been thinking like this since China: in incomplete sentences. He couldn't form a complete thought because that would mean he had to make an impossible decision. An irreversible decision, one Jonah would have to live with for the rest of his life. "Good show." Jonah's dad, Broderick, spoke from the opposite corner of the limo seat. He was doing calculations on his ever-present BlackBerry. "Ninety thousand people at seventy-five pounds per head, minus overhead, that's a take of…" Jonah shoved at the BlackBerry, almost knocking it out of his father's hands. "Oh, money," Jonah said, his voice cracking. He reminded himself to at least try to sound normal. "Yo, don't you care about anything except the Benjamins?"