Mister Impossible by Maggie Stiefvater (good books for 8th graders .TXT) 📕

knowing, “You could take anything from here right now. You could take this painting to hang in your living room and never have to worry about your brother Matthew again.”

It had already occurred to Declan that anybody with that impossible dream orb of Bryde’s could steal anything they liked from this place. Do anything they liked. Declan had heard Bryde’s hidden threat earlier. The entirety of Declan’s memories could have been destroyed for good, by an unkindly dreamer.

Declan’s hands felt a little shaky.

“This museum’s already had enough taken from it,” Declan said. “Even if I didn’t care about that, I don’t want to walk around with a target on my back. And it fixes very little, as I’m sure you’ve already considered. Matthew can’t wrap that painting around himself and have a normal life. Rob from this place, and for what? A prison of my apartment?”

“Good,” said Bryde. “So you understand what we’re doing, then. You want Matthew to live like anyone else. So do we.”

Declan said, “You could do this without Ronan.”

“No,” Bryde murmured. “I could not.”

There was a sound from somewhere within the museum. Not an alarm, not yet, but movement.

Bryde looked up sharply. To Ronan, he said, “We are nearly out of time. I’ll need to use this last one here, and I won’t be able to get another one until I am out of the city; it’s too loud here.”

Declan couldn’t think of what to say. He had thought the conversation was going to come around in his favor but he was the one going round and round instead. All he could think to blurt to Ronan was “You should see Matthew before you leave Boston. In case …”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Ronan. But he glanced to Bryde to confirm. It was only after Bryde nodded imperceptibly that Ronan repeated, with certainty, “Right.”

Bryde owned his brother completely.

Ten. That was the number of coffees Carmen Farooq-Lane ordered while waiting in the Somerville café. She didn’t want to cheaply hold down this table when another paying customer could have it, but she also didn’t want to float away on a lake of coffee.

She glanced at the time on her phone. Thirty-five minutes had passed since the agreed-upon rendezvous time. When did she give up?

“Just one more, please,” she told the server.

God, but she was nervous. She didn’t know if she was more nervous about the meeting or being found out by the Moderators. She’d resigned right after checking out of the quaint little rental cottage. Just like that. Strip the sheets from the bed, make sure all the dishes were in the dishwasher, turn off all the lights, hide Hennessy’s moonlit sword in a linen closet, quit the only job that seemed important. Lock had accepted the keys to the bullet-ridden rental car and had her sign a nondisclosure agreement.

Of course I’m disappointed, Lock had rumbled, but I respect your decision. Farooq-Lane wasn’t entirely sure she believed him; the Moderators had not been interested in respecting people’s decisions before that point.

He was less gracious about Liliana’s resignation a few minutes after, but Liliana had been insistent. Gentle. Fair. She cited the mishandling of the Rhiannon Martin job and the emotional scarring of her teen self. She noted that the Moderators had not, to that point, seemed to be able to use her visions to make the world a safer place. She reminded them Farooq-Lane’s presence had always been part and parcel of her deal with the Moderators. No, she could not be persuaded to stay long enough to help find another Visionary. Yes, she was sorry to leave them blind, but she wished them luck.

Farooq-Lane hadn’t really thought the Moderators would let them go, but they had.

She dipped into her parents’ bank accounts to buy a car at the closest local dealership, stopped briefly by the rental cottage to retrieve Hennessy’s sword, and then left that part of her life in the rearview mirror.

Boston was their destination. Liliana had just had a vision.

Nine a.m. that morning, Declan Lynch had called to discuss an urgent matter. I would prefer to have this conversation on the most secure line possible, he murmured. It requires the utmost discretion. Coincidentally, she had told him, she was in the Boston area—did he want to meet up in person? She had been intensely grateful that she’d been the one to call him about Ronan Lynch earlier that month. Now he was late.

“Ms. Farooq-Lane?”

Declan Lynch stood by the table. He looked like his brother Ronan, but with the edges sanded off, the memorable bits deleted. He had neat, civilized dress slacks; a neat, civilized wool sweater; neat, civilized facial hair; very nice shoes. There wasn’t a stitch that was out of place in this upscale café full of talkative Tufts students and drowsy medical residents.

“I didn’t see you come in,” she said.

“I came in the back.” She saw him check his surroundings, but only because she was watching him closely. He was very good. Long practice with paranoia. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to be sure I wasn’t followed.”

She couldn’t really believe it. Here he was. Liliana’s vision had promised it, but the visions were always things for the Moderators to interpret, not her, and they were always for killing Zeds, not attempting anything more nuanced. “Of course. Can I get you a coffee?”

“We should be brief,” Declan said by way of reply. His voice was vague, nasal; he sounded as if he were announcing a meeting agenda. “Unwise to push our luck.”

Eight minutes was how long it took Declan Lynch to say his piece.

“I love my brother,” Declan said. “So know that when I say this next part I’m saying it from a place of fondness: Ronan’s a follower. He’s always needed a hero to follow. When he was a kid, he idolized my father. When he was in school, he idolized his best friend. Now he’s