Gabriel Finley and the Raven’s Riddle (7 page)

Although it was late, Gabriel turned the page, desperate to find out what happened next, but the entry stopped there. The pages that followed were entirely blank except for a small note that said
See Book 2.

A Key Without a Lock

“I
don't know anything about Book Two,” said Aunt Jaz. “How strange. Your father never mentioned a second volume.”

“But it must be somewhere,” said Gabriel. “Do
you
know what happened to Corax?”

She shook her head. “No, Gabriel, I'm afraid not. But to be honest, this was a much happier house after he left. I was eight and your father was only two. We never spoke of him, and Adam was too young to remember him.” Aunt Jaz sighed. “I had one childhood friend who had a big crush on Corax. She was quite heartbroken when he left home, but we … the rest of us were all relieved.”

It was a dead end. Gabriel had so many unanswered questions. Perhaps that explained the unusual dream he kept having over the next few nights. It was always set in the same place, with the same thing happening. He found himself back in the study, standing before the painting of the eerie-looking boy with the beaklike nose, but then something
would change—a small, almost imperceptible movement in the background of the picture. Behind the raven boy's black velvet suit, an enormous pair of silken wings would appear and flex slightly. Then both eyes would look Gabriel up and down. Gabriel would back away, but the raven boy would step out of the portrait, beckoning to him with one black-taloned claw and repeating a short phrase over and over. Gabriel couldn't understand the words; they were muddy—it was like hearing someone talk when you're at the bottom of a full bathtub. But eventually, they became clearer. Two words. Two awful words:

“You're next.”

Jerking awake, Gabriel would catch his breath in the darkness, wondering what it meant.
You're next.
Each time, he closed his eyes and clamped his pillow over his head to shut out the nightmare, but Corax would reappear.
You're next.
His birdlike eyes became a sickly yellow, and he would transform into a raven with tattered feathers and a jagged beak.

Next for what?

After one of these unsettling dreams, Gabriel woke up to find it was a bright November morning and time for school. Relieved, he stumbled downstairs to the kitchen. Aunt Jaz was wearing her coat, and her cheeks were pink from being outside; she removed two steaming muffins from a white paper bag.

“Good morning, birthday boy!” she said breathlessly.

Gabriel was momentarily confused. “It's my birthday?”

“Yes, did you forget? You're twelve today.”

“Twelve?” Gabriel repeated. “How could I forget that?” He recalled the line in his father's diary:

He was twelve when it happened, exactly your age.

A dreadful thought crossed his mind. Could turning twelve be the reason Corax kept repeating “You're next”?

“Gabriel?” said Aunt Jaz. “Open your present!”

“Present?”

She pointed to a small brown box wrapped in a green bow beside his plate.

“Before your father left, he asked me to keep this very safe. He said that I was to give it to you on your twelfth birthday if he had not returned.”

Quickly, Gabriel pulled the bow apart and opened the box, expecting to see another notebook. Instead, there was a small brass key. It was an old-fashioned sort, smaller than a house key or a car key—the sort that might open a tiny chest or a cabinet.

“What's it for?” he asked.

“I have no idea.”

“A key without a lock?”

“Yes.” Aunt Jaz's smile turned mysterious. “I believe you'll have to solve that riddle yourself. But it must be very important. Your father wouldn't have asked me to give it to you now unless he had a good reason.”

“Why is twelve so important?”

His aunt's dark boomerang eyebrows trembled slightly. “Well, your father began to notice things he'd never noticed before. Perhaps that will happen to you.”

Gabriel nodded. “I have noticed some things—”

Aunt Jaz drew in a breath. “What, exactly?”

“Just … things you say.”

Aunt Jaz blushed. “What have I said, exactly?”

“Actually, it's not what you say,” Gabriel admitted. “It's what you
don't
say.”

She sighed. “Gabriel, if there's anything I haven't told you, it's for a very good reason.”

“Like what?”

“I can't say.” Then she looked flustered. “Oh, listen to me, I've done it
again
!”

“You're just trying to protect me, I guess.”

His aunt pressed her lips together and nodded vigorously.

“Because answers are like fruit—they have to be ripe?” said Gabriel with a faint smile.

Aunt Jaz raised a finger toward him. “Gabriel, I must tell you one thing: you should be paying attention to other voices besides those of grown-ups.”

“
Other
voices? What do you mean?”

“I think you know, my dear.”

That morning at school, Ms. Cumacho introduced a new student. Her name was Abigail Chastain. Although the fall weather was still warm, Abigail wore two layers of cardigans; a thick, patchwork corduroy skirt; woolen tights; and rubber boots—one red, one blue. Her eyeglasses were old-fashioned cat's-eye glasses with blue frames, and her eyes moved quickly around the room, regarding her new classmates with inquisitive confidence. Her hair had been divided in tiny squares across her scalp, tapering into small braids of different colors that rose into the air in all directions.

Gabriel noticed that Somes stared at Abigail for the longest time. Passing her desk later in the day, he touched one of her braids. Abigail reacted by brushing his hand away, as if shooing a fly.

This didn't stop Somes from watching her. In art class, Gabriel grew so irritated on her behalf that he said, “Somes, quit staring. You're being weird!”

Mortified, Somes dropped his eyes. Abigail gave Gabriel a fleeting glance but said nothing.

Later, in gym, Somes slammed Gabriel in the face with a volleyball, giving him a bloody nose.

“I am not weird!” he shouted, and stalked out of class.

Gabriel spent the rest of the day with a wad of tissues clamped to his nose. Somes's desk was empty. He had been sent home early.

On his walk home, Gabriel saw the new girl marching
ahead of him along Fifth Street. He was going to say hello, but he felt his nosebleed start up again. He watched her enter Addison's old gate. So, Abigail Chastain was his new neighbor.

It was only when he got to his stoop that he remembered it was his birthday. He recalled the brass key and wondered again about where he could find the lock that belonged to it.

But this thought swiftly disappeared when he saw what was waiting inside.

The Visitors

T
wo very large suitcases rested on the landing. Battered and smelling of smoke, they appeared to have come a long distance. Gabriel was puzzled. Then a delicious thought struck him—a hopeful, glorious, wonderful thought. His one wish at every birthday, more than anything else in the world, was that his father might come home. Was his loneliness finally at an end?

He realized he was wasting time staring at the suitcases. His father must be downstairs, catching up on everything with Aunt Jaz. Almost tripping with excitement, Gabriel hurried down to the kitchen.

The sight that met his eyes was not what he expected. Two figures were seated at the large wooden table with Aunt Jaz: a dour woman and a pale girl.

“Ah, Gabriel, there you are!” said Aunt Jaz brightly. “This is Mrs. Baskin and her daughter, Pamela. Mrs. Baskin and I were childhood friends.”

The woman was small, with short-cropped gray hair. Her eyes were blue and flinty; she smiled and nodded at Aunt Jaz.
“Yes, I remember those days so well,” she said. “You had such a good-looking brother.…”

“Well, this is Adam's son, Gabriel,” explained Aunt Jaz.

“Hi,” said Gabriel, offering his hand politely.

“Oh?” Mrs. Baskin's smile vanished. “Adam?” she repeated. “The baby brother with the runny nose who was always crying? I thought you might have been the son of the handsome one who went away.”

“Handsome?” murmured Gabriel, thinking of Corax's strange portrait.

Mrs. Baskin's eyes narrowed. Ignoring Gabriel's hand, which was still extended, she turned to her daughter, a slender girl with long dark hair and an anxious expression. “Pamela is twelve.” She tipped her head at Gabriel. “He must be younger, Jasmine.”

“I just turned twelve,” interjected Gabriel.

Mrs. Baskin shrugged. “Anyway, most boys are less mature than girls.”

Aunt Jaz ignored this remark. “Gabriel, Mrs. Baskin's apartment building had a fire yesterday. Almost everything was destroyed. While it's being renovated, she and her daughter will be staying with us.”