WE WENT DOWNSTAIRS SHORTLY after that. Derek headed straight for the kitchen to scrounge up breakfast. We might have gotten only a few hours sleep, but it was already almost noon and his stomach was, predictably, growling.

While he searched for food, Simon and I poked around our temporary new home. I read a book once about a girl in a huge English mansion with a secret room no one had found in years, because a wardrobe had been pulled in front of the door. I remember thinking that was ridiculous. My dad had friends with really big houses, and there was still no way you could lose a room. But with this place and a little stretch of the imagination, I could see it.

It wasn’t just big. It was set up weird. Like the architect just slapped rooms onto a blueprint, with no thought to how they connected. The front was simple enough. There was a main hall connecting the doors, the stairs, the kitchen, a living room, and dining room. Then it got confusing, branching into a couple of back halls, with rooms that only joined other rooms. Most were really tiny, not even ten feet square. It reminded me of a rabbit’s warren, all these little rooms going off in all directions. We even found a separate set of stairs back there, ones that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years.

As Simon went to see if Andrew was up, I wandered into the kitchen, where Derek was eyeing a rusty can of beans.

“That hungry?” I asked.

“I will be soon.”

He prowled the kitchen, flipping open cupboards.

“So you don’t want me asking Andrew about that kid,” I said. “You trust him, though, right?”

“Sure.”

He took down a box of crackers and turned it over, looking for a “best before” date.

“That didn’t sound convincing,” I said. “If we’re here with someone you don’t trust…”

“Right now, the only people I really trust are you and Simon. I don’t think Andrew is up to anything. If I did, we wouldn’t be here. But I’m not taking a chance, not if we can find our own answers.”

I nodded. “That’s fine. Just…I know you don’t want to spook Simon, but…If you’re worried…” My cheeks heated. “I don’t mean you need to confide in me, just don’t…”

“Blow you off when you know something’s wrong.” He turned and met my gaze. “I won’t.”

“Is he drinking the ketchup yet?” Simon swung into the kitchen. “Ten minutes, bro. Andrew’s on his way and-”

“And he’s apologizing profusely for the lack of food.” Andrew walked in. He was about my dad’s age with really short gray hair, square shoulders, a stocky build, and a crooked nose. He clapped a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “It’s coming. One of the group is bringing breakfast and will be here any minute.”

He kept his hand on Derek’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. It was an awkward gesture, maybe because he was a half-foot shorter than Derek, but it seemed more than that. Last night, when he’d first seen Derek after a few years, a pulse of surprise and wariness crossed his face. Derek had seen it, and I knew he’d felt it-the jab of having a guy he’d known most of his life reacting like he was some teenage thug you’d cross the road to avoid.

Like Simon, Andrew was a sorcerer. He was an old friend of their dad’s, and a former employee of the Edison Group. He was also their emergency contact. Andrew and their dad had some kind of falling out a few years ago, but they’d stayed in contact, so when we’d been stuck, we’d come to him.

Andrew gave Derek’s shoulder one last squeeze, then he bustled about the kitchen, getting out plates and rinsing them off, wiping dust from the counters and the table, asking how we’d slept, apologizing again for the lack of preparation.

“Hard to prepare when you don’t know anyone’s coming,” Simon said. “Is this going to be okay? You staying here with us? I know you’ve got work…”

“Which I’ve been doing from home for two years now. Finally built up the seniority to start telecommuting, thank God. The daily trips into New York were killing me. I go once a week now for meetings.”

Simon turned to me. “Andrew’s an editor. Books.” He glanced at Andrew. “Chloe’s a screenwriter.”

I blushed and stammered that obviously I wasn’t a real screenwriter, just a wannabe; but Andrew said he’d love to hear about what I was working on, answer any questions about writing. He even sounded like he meant it, unlike most adults, who just say things like that to humor you.

“Right now, she’s working on a comic with me,” Simon said. “A graphic journal of our adventures. Just for fun.”

“Very cool. I take it you’re doing the art? Your dad told me you’re-”

The doorbell rang.

“And that would be breakfast,” Andrew said. “Chloe? I know Tori’s probably exhausted, but she should be here for the meeting.”

“I’ll go wake her up.”

So the mysterious resistance group was here. It didn’t look like much: three people plus Andrew.

There was Margaret, who looked like a lot of the women my dad worked with-a corporate business type, tall with graying brown hair cut short. She was a necromancer.

Gwen wasn’t much taller than me and barely looked out of college. As for supernatural type, with her short blond hair, turned-up nose, and sharp chin, I started wondering if there was such a thing as a pixie, but she said she was a witch, like Tori.

The third newcomer was Russell, a bald grandfatherly guy who was a shaman paramedic, in case we needed medical attention after our ordeal. With Andrew and Margaret, he was one of the group’s founding members and had also once worked for the Edison Group.

Andrew said there were another half-dozen members in the New York City area, and twenty or so more across the country. Under the circumstances, though, it didn’t seem safe to have them all trooping up here to meet us. So they’d sent the ones who could help us the most-a necromancer and a witch. Derek was out of luck. There weren’t any werewolves in the group, not surprising given that there were maybe a couple dozen in the country, compared to hundreds of necromancers and spell-casters.

The supernaturals who joined the Edison Group weren’t evil. Most were like my aunt, who offered her services as a doctor because she wanted to help people like her brother, a necromancer who’d either committed suicide or been driven off a roof by ghosts when he was still in college.

The Edison Group believed that the answer was genetic manipulation-tweak our DNA to minimize side effects and improve our control over our powers. Things started going wrong back when we were little, and three of the werewolf subjects attacked a nurse. They were “eliminated.” Killed, by the same people who swore they were trying to help supernaturals. That’s when Simon’s dad and others, like Andrew, left.

But leaving wasn’t enough for some. Concerned about what they’d seen, they’d monitored the Edison Group, making sure they didn’t pose a threat to other supernaturals. Now we were bringing news of exactly what they’d feared most. For many of us, the genetic modification had backfired, producing kids with uncontrollable powers-witches who could cast without incantations and necromancers who could raise the dead by accident.

When those failures hadn’t proved as easy to control as the Edison Group had hoped, they’d done the same thing they’d done to the werewolf boys. Killed them.

Now, we’d come to Andrew’s group for help. We were in mortal danger and we’d left behind another subject, Rachelle, and my aunt Lauren, who were in even greater danger. We were asking this group to rescue them and end the threat against us. Were they up to it? We had no idea.

Gwen had brought the breakfast: donuts, coffee, and chocolate milk, which I’m sure she thought would be the perfect treat for teenagers. It would have been…if we hadn’t been living on junk food for three days and if one of us wasn’t diabetic.