There’s a yelp, and then Lon hangs up like he’s scared the phone is going to bite him. Renée tsks me for it. “You scared him off! We were having a great conversation about comic books. It sounds like he really knows his stuff. I really want to meet him.”

“He’s a great kid,” I say. “I’m glad you did that. He kind of needs a little cheering up tonight. I had a venom moment with him.” I tell her about my earlier attack, my screaming at Lon, and she clucks through the phone.

“You have to talk to him about these things, hon. Maybe he didn’t know how serious an issue it is for you, but that’s because you never really spoke to him about it. Can’t blame the kid for being a little confused.”

“I just don’t want him to start thinking of me, of this, as a role model,” I say. “I know he’s impressionable. I mean, fuck, he’s ten, but I didn’t think he could ever think of the venom as a good thing.”

“Well, it’s not like you show him otherwise.”

I feel a single pulse rush through the back of my skull. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t seem like you make it clear that it’s a bad thing. Yeah, you embarrass the hell out of him and all, but you still act like a wrathful god while doing it.”

Ugh, not you, too. Lady, that Hierophant shit only goes so far here. Besides, in this family, we don’t-I furrow my brow, trying to hold in the soot-black storm cloud billowing up inside me. How can this happen? Since when can my mind have two venom attacks within forty minutes? “He’s my little brother, Renée. I have to be strong for him.”

“Oh, come on, fuck that. You just have to be there for him, Locke, you don’t have to be some unmovable pillar of male strength. Get over it and talk to him.”

“That’s NOT what I’m-” I close my eyes as hard as I can and slam a fist down on the kitchen counter. The vein in my forehead is about to pop. I’m seeing nothing but flashing sparks of red and black. Somehow Renée can hear it too.

“Locke? Calm down, okay?”

“I’m calm,” I hiss through gritted teeth. Yeah, right, nice try.

“You’re not,” she says, her voice low and soothing. “I’m sorry, honey, I know he means a lot to you, and it’s not my place to tell you how to treat your brother. But you can’t flip out every time someone disagrees with you.” Without really thinking, I grab a banana from the bowl of fruit next to the fridge and squeeze it over the sink until the soft white goo splits the peel and gushes out between my fingers. Focus on her voice. Focus on her. “Locke? Feeling better?”

Slowly, with every word she says, the venom retreats, until I’m left feeling drained and unsatisfied, the venom equivalent of blue balls. It’s frustrating, but it’s a start. That, or full-on episode. I slug some chocolate milk and sigh. “I’m okay. Just needed a moment. Sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“Shhh. I get it, it’s all good,” she coos. “Do what you need to do, babe. I’ll help any way I can.”

“You’re fantastic.”

“Yeah, I know.” She giggles, and the gears in my heart start whirring again.

“So what’s up? Or were you just calling to talk comics with Lon?”

“Weimar party. A week from this Thursday. Randall said you don’t have school on Friday because of some faculty function. You’re gonna get your card, so be there.”

“Okay…You know, I’m not a big party person, Renée…”

“You will be at this one. Don’t worry-Randall, Casey, and I will take care of you.”

“Okay…my card?”

“Wear a suit-a coat and tails if you can find them. Trust me on this one, hon.”

“Wait, a tux?”

“I told you, it’s a Weimar party.”

“Where am I supposed to get a tux?”

“Well, that’s not my problem, is it? Make it a nice one. Look hot. Weimar works best when you look hot.”

“Weimar?”

“‘Life is a cabaret, old chum,’” she sings, “‘come to the cabaret.’”

W AKE UP.”

His eyes flickered like those of an acid head. Once the haze seemed to evaporate from his vision, he screamed like a little girl and curled into a ball.

“Please don’t hurt me! I haven’t done anything! They sent me back!”

“I mean you no harm,” I said softly. “I am in debt to you. You stopped that creature.”

Slowly his body unfolded, and he gawked at me like I was river-dancing. “You’re Blacklight,” he panted. “THE Blacklight.”

“That I am.” I helped him to his feet, and he glanced around the rooftop at the glittering skyline on all sides of us. His eyes stayed wide, nearly bulging out of his skull, his mouth hanging wetly open as he took in the view. I could imagine this was a shock for him, but honestly, I just wanted to get to the bottom of this damn mystery. “How do you know my name?”

“My God,” he murmured, “it used to look like this, didn’t it? New York. Manhattan. We’re in Manhattan, aren’t we?”

“Yes, of course. Answer my question.”

“Jesus, there’s the Chrysler Building… Look at it, like a giant, steel Christmas tree. It’s just like I remem-”

I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to face me. “I don’t have time for this,” I said, jabbing a blackened finger in his face. “Tell me who you are. Where you’re from. What the hell that creature that turned into you was.”

He stared into my eyes for a few seconds, dumbfounded, and then nodded slowly. “Who I am isn’t important,” he said with a sigh, “but when I’m from is.”

“I’m sorry-when?”

“I’m here from thirty years in the future, Locke. They sent me back to find you.”

The sound of my real name sent vipers through my blood. He really knew. This would not do. “Explain yourself. Immediately.”

“I came back in time to find you, to speak to you, to let you know about what horrible things will happen if you don’t do away with this little ‘gift’ of yours.”

“What are you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he said, laughing humorlessly. “The swirling black tendrils, the dead, hateful eyes…It’s pretty simple.”

I knew the answer before he said it. I didn’t know how I knew, but I did. And as he affirmed it, the bottom of my stomach gave way to an endless pit of horror.

“I’m the new Blacklight,” he said. “I’m what you become.”

“You’re…you’re ME?”

“Not quite.” His eyes glazed over as he took in the city again and mumbled, “That’s the problem.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THERE’S ONE PERSON I can think of who I could borrow a tuxedo from (one that fits me, anyway) in time for the party. One problem: He’s my father.

Randall drives me, borrowing his mom’s car. He’s one of the few people I know who can actually drive (it’s New York, we have the subway). He’d acted like a suburban kid the day he turned sixteen, talking nonstop about needing his license. He drove to school the day he got it (all twelve blocks) just to show off how cool he was, blasting classic rock out of the windows at full volume (or, to quote Randall as he passed us that day, “BAHN! BaNAHN! BAHN-NAHN du nunnah-NUNNAH, getcher mota runnin’…!”). It was hilarious in kind of a dorky way, which, I suppose, is Randall’s MO.

On the ride up, he takes my silence for an invitation. Which it totally is. “So how is Rick? Haven’t seen him in a dog’s age.”

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Did you ever meet my dad? I don’t remember that.”

“It was at that birthday of yours, like, two years ago. Your dad showed up, remember? He gave you that journal, the really nice one with that weird sort of pea-soup-green cover that I could tell you hated. He was awkward and thought he was the shit. Like the really cool kid who’s graced the chess club party with his presence.”

“Huh, I guess you were there. He’s good, I guess. I dunno. He’s not on my mind much. Hey, why do you keep calling him Rick? Why not just call him, like, ‘your dad?’”

He stares ahead for a bit as if he’s trying to see his answer on the shoulder of the West Side Highway. “No offense, dude, but he doesn’t seem much like a dad. And you never really want to talk to or about him. So to me, he’s just this guy named Rick who happened to…sire you. A father is the man who raises you, not the one who supplies you with genetic material.”