“If she returns, we’ll be ready for her,” says Jack. “But she’ll never get it. The only way to the lamp is through us.”
Alistair shudders, then quickly changes the subject. “Anyway, I read this guidebook Master Carl once wrote about the mortal world. I think we need to hunt something called cheeseburgers. That doesn’t seem too hard. I don’t think they can run very fast.”
“Cheeseburgers?” Jack repeats.
“The guidebook mentioned how they can hide in a system in your body for years, especially if you get them from a palace called the Golden Arches. But the guide also says they are not rare. In fact, they are very common here.”
Jack nods, taking this information in.
Alistair continues. “According to my map, there’s a place called Inside-And-Out Burger not too far from here. However, it does not mention how we get inside.” He gasps, accidentally crinkling the map. “Oh heavens, what if we go in and can’t get out? You know I’ve never been good at riddles!”
“Let me see that,” Jack says, taking the map from Alistair’s hands. “If mortals can do it, surely it can’t be that hard.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE FAMILY
After what feels like a lifetime, Filomena sees her house come into view. Home is a sleek, three-story white-and-gray contemporary-style house with a two-car garage. The driveway wraps around in a circle, and she always walks the full length at least once before going inside, for luck.
It’s a pretty neighborhood of tidy sidewalks and green lawns. She wishes her parents would let her walk her puppy, Adelina Jefferson-Cho, on her own, but instead they hire people to do the dog-walking for them. No one in her house enjoys being outside very much.
As she approaches the front door, snagging her house key from the key ring in her side back pocket, she looks around to make sure the boy who dared call himself Jack Stalker—her literal stalker now—isn’t still following her. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices a movement in the trees by the park across the street, but she dismisses it. Probably just a squirrel.
Breathing easier when she sees she’s alone, she unlocks the multiple locks and walks inside, entering the code on the pad by the front door so the system knows the house is safe and she’s not a stranger breaking and entering.
Adelina runs up to her, circling Filomena’s feet, always the first to greet her. Filomena picks the puppy up in her arms and kisses her until Adelina is crying and trying to get down. Filomena supposes there is such a thing as too much love, and she should know.
She plops the dog down, then looks up at the security camera closest to the door and stretches her mouth wide with her fingers, giving it a silly face.
She wasn’t kidding when she said her parents were paranoid. They have not one but five dead bolts on the front and back doors, as well as various alarms and security cameras everywhere. Some are hidden throughout the house, in every crevice, every nook, every spot a criminal may not think to look. According to Filomena’s parents, they can never be too careful.
It wasn’t until Filomena was old enough to go to an assortment of birthday parties thrown for an assortment of spoiled or indifferent kids that she noticed not everyone lives like her family does. One lock on the door and a security system, sure, but no one ever uses it. People leave their gates unlocked, their windows open. After all, everyone in her small town does like to proclaim that “nothing ever happens in North Pasadena.”
Well, that is definitely not true. Not after today, anyway.
Filomena is still not convinced it wasn’t a huge marketing launch, although she can’t deny the blackened ruin of a sidewalk. But it’s absurd! Things from books stay in books. There has to be a logical explanation for what happened, and she’s sure if she doesn’t dwell on it, it will soon come to mind. And if not, she will just stop thinking about it.
She debates whether she should tell her parents about what happened today. If she does, they will never let her go anywhere by herself ever again. They’ll probably also think that her brain’s been curdled by reading too many Never After books.
Except since both her parents are writers, they don’t find her fascination with the series strange at all. In fact, they encourage it. They love that she reads. It keeps her safe in the house 99 percent of the time.
The sound of hurried footsteps on the attic stairs notifies Filomena that her mother is home. Bettina Jefferson tramples down, harried, hair in a messy bun, talking about deadlines. Filomena’s mother is always talking about deadlines. Deadlines and kidnapping are her favorite topics of conversation.
Her cell phone is pressed to her ear, and with the other hand Mum pushes away the stray strands of hair that have escaped the bun and covered her forehead. “Of course I’ll have the first draft to you by Friday! Whyever would I not?” She bites her lip and rolls her eyes. “Darling, of course I know how important this is.” An impatient nod that the person on the other end of the phone can’t hear or see. “I understand the concept of publishing, yeah? When have I ever not delivered? Right, except for that time … and that time … right, and that. Well, they can try to take back the advance, except I’ve already spent it all, yeah?”
As soon as she catches sight of Filomena, her eyes widen and she waves. Filomena smiles in response and mouths, Hi, Mum.
Her mother is still saying, “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” as she mouths to Filomena in between, Where’s the book?
Filomena holds out her empty hands and shakes her head.
“Bobby darling, Filly’s here, so I’ve got to run. Don’t stress. I’ve just got to get to the wedding chapters and I’ll send it to you in a wink. Cheers.” She clicks the button to end the call, and Filomena follows her into the kitchen, where Mum tosses her cell phone onto the counter. “I should’ve put the blasted thing on silent so my agent can’t harass me anymore.”
Filomena laughs and sits on the closest stool at the island, its surface a granite slab in cream and gray, like the other countertops. The kitchen is open and bright, with streams of sunlight peeking in through the blinds.
A freshly delivered paper bag on the counter by the fridge holds tonight’s dinner. Her stomach starts to grumble at the sight of it, the aroma reminding her how hungry she is.
Her mom always orders delivery or takeout. She calls it takeaway, one of her Briticisms. Filomena’s family never goes out to eat—strangers, hello—and her mom can’t cook a single thing to save her life.
Filomena occasionally feels guilty about making fun of the bullies at school and dubbing them the Fettucine Alfredos for ordering in lunch, when her own parents order in so much.
“What’s for dinner?” Filomena asks.
“I’ve got a lovely chicken parm from that new restaurant that just opened. Smells divine, doesn’t it? I’m starved. I’ve been writing all day, trying to finish this book.” Her mom reaches into the cabinets to grab plates. “I’m so behind. As usual. The pages from yesterday were trash. I put them in the bin.”
“You’ll get it done, Mum. You always do.”
“Thanks, darling,” her mom says, setting the plates at the table and giving Filomena a quick kiss on the cheek. She hugs her daughter tightly. “So how’d it go at the bookshop? I was worried sick about you. I’ve been watching the thingy that tracks your movements all day, just in case something happened.”