The Impossible Twins
chapter 00
Sixteen Years Ago
Beneath the silvery shimmer of the midnight moon, in a perfect circle of death within the massive forest of Lurkur Woods, the one-day-old twins named Cynthia and Kaden were being placed into the awaiting arms of a complete stranger.
“I shall make sure they’re kept hidden, kept safe . . . until it’s time for their return,” said the stranger. Taking a deep breath, he faced the softly glowing white door.
The door swung open of its own accord, revealing only dazzling light within. Then, with the infants cradled in his arms, the stranger stepped over the threshold and into the light, and all three of them disappeared from view.
chapter 01
The Impossible Twins
Cynthia Summers and Kaden Krossway had always known they weren’t whole, weren’t complete. There was something deep inside them that was always reaching out, always searching for something else, for something unknown . . . but for something they desperately needed. Year by year it grew stronger and stronger until, on their eighth birthday. . . .
Cynthia, a black girl with gleamingly silver hair and eyes that naturally made her stand out wherever she went, and Kaden, an easily overlookable white boy with dull brown hair and eyes, were sitting in different concourses at LaGuardia Airport in New York, waiting with their families to board their individual flights. Then, completely out of nowhere, they felt something enormously powerful pulling on them. Instinctively they knew to follow it, so they did. They followed it through crowds of agitated passengers wheeling carryon luggage, through doors that should have been locked, through pitch black connecting tunnels that should have been unnavigable, and through barriers of yellow tape at opposite ends of a new concourse that was currently under construction. From across the room they spotted one another and—
Instantly and undeniably, Cynthia knew she had found her twin brother and Kaden knew he had found his twin sister—even though neither Cynthia nor Kaden had known about the other’s existence until that moment. Like clockwork every year since then—always on their birthday, June 1st, and always seemingly by chance—they were brought together again and again.
A year ago, their fifteenth birthday brought with it an unexpected bonus. While eating lunch on the back patio of a restaurant called the Oaken Door in Old Town, Virginia, Cynthia and Kaden discovered their tables were separated by an oak tree they had been dreaming about all their lives—but, for some reason, had sometimes dreamt could transform into a glowing white door.
When their parents realized they were having lunch at the same place, they laughed at yet another incredible “coincidence,” then marveled at the fact that, completely “by chance,” their children would be attending the same boarding school just up the road in Alexandria, Virginia. Cynthia and Kaden, however, knew better. Chance didn’t have anything to do with it. Their bond had simply been pulling them toward one another for so long it had finally overpowered everything else, making it so they were together. And because the restaurant owner—a very kind and rather eccentric old man named Alonis Boreall—had taken an immediate liking to them, Cynthia and Kaden had spent the past schoolyear working the weekends here at the Oaken Door, Cynthia as a hostess and Kaden as a busboy.
As they arrived for the lunch shift today, May 31st, they wondered what tomorrow, their sixteenth birthday, would have in store for them.
“Twins? You two? Yeah, right,” said the final lunch customer of the day, rising from his seat on the quaint red brick rear patio of the Oaken Door. Shaking his head at the tallish black girl with glistening silver hair and the shortish white boy wearing a long busboy apron, he walked to the restaurant’s sliding back door, but stopped to frown at the large statue of a very odd-looking animal. “What is this thing supposed to be?”
“A horse,” said Cynthia in her proper English accent.
“Then the artist should’ve looked at an actual horse first, because this thing is . . . all wrong,” said the man.
“I can let him know,” said Kaden amiably, speaking in an American voice that held no trace of an accent at all. “The sculptor is also the owner of the restaurant.”
The man eyed Kaden. “You being smart with me, boy?”
“Smart?” said Kaden. “Nope. Cyn’s smart, though.” He pointed at her.
Turning, the man took in her metallically silver hair and equally chrome-colored eyes. “Where are you from?”
“Knightsbridge,” said Cynthia. “That’s in London, England.”
“And you, boy, where are you from?”
“Southern California,” said Kaden. “Then Arizona, then Colorado, and as of last year my folks took jobs at Vanguard High School, so now I’m from here.”
“I didn’t need a history lesson,” said the man shortly. “Just wondering why you two claim to be twins when you’re not even from the same place and—well . . . come on, seriously? She’s black and you’re white. You can’t be twins. It’s . . . impossible.”
“Yeah, we’ve heard that once or twice,” said Kaden, grinning at Cynthia, who was already grinning at him.
The man glanced several more times between them before throwing his hands into the air in disbelief, then stomping into the restaurant.
Cynthia confirmed they were alone, then plopped down on a chair. “I hate working,” she groaned, laying her head on the sun-warmed, wrought-iron tabletop.
“You love working,” said Kaden, putting the man’s dirty dishes and mostly empty glass of iced tea into his bussing tray, then sitting beside her. “Just not this kind of work.”
“Schoolwork isn’t work,” she said. “It’s . . . fun.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Kaden truthfully. “I hate it.”
From her sideways vantage point, Cynthia found herself looking at the oak tree at the patio’s center. “I’ve started dreaming about this tree again,” she remarked.
“So have I—a lot, actually,” said Kaden, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Sometimes it even speaks to me in my dreams.”
Grinning, Cynthia said, “But in a voice that sounds like a strange song . . . or musical note from another world.”
“Exactly,” said Kaden, gazing in wonder at the tree. His eyes roved to the distinctive double-knot on the tree’s trunk. He scrutinized it. “I still think it looks like the number 8.”
“The double knot?” said Cynthia. “Well, I think it looks more like—Ouch!” Wincing, she sat up and began massaging her temples. She noticed Kaden had begun itching his ear at the exact same moment her strange, swirling headache had begun. “Still hearing those weird echo noises?”
“Yeah,” said Kaden frustratedly. But his concern was for Cynthia. “Your headaches are getting worse, aren’t they?”
“They’re absolutely infuriating,” she said, rubbing her temples. “It’s like I’m having a windy migraine that’s blowing around inside my head.” As the pain began to abate, she sighed thankfully. “My birthday wish is for my weird headaches to go away and never return.”
“But your birthdays aren’t until tomorrow,” said a man’s gravelly voice from the center of the patio.
Startled, and certain they had been alone, Cynthia and Kaden jumped in their seats. They turned to discover a grizzled older man next to the oak tree, his one good eye fixed on them, and his missing eye covered by an intricately carved wooden eyepatch. Their attentions were drawn to the large, grisly scar around his missing eye, which radiated out like a spiderweb of discolored flesh up his forehead and across his cheek nearly to his ear. With the aid of his tall, knotty wooden staff, he walk to the sliding back door.
Frowning, Cynthia said, “How did you know our birthday is tomorrow?”
But the eye-patched man was too busy admiring the odd-looking statue to hear her, running his free hand over its elongated, slender head. Cynthia smiled at it. There was a distinctly feminine grace about the stone horse she had always liked.
“You really did capture her aspect, Boreall,” said the eye-patched man without looking away.
Cynthia and Kaden jumped again. They hadn’t seen the very tall and very old—yet very youthful-seeming—Boreall making his way outside.
“You’re too kind,” said Boreall, whose deeply lined face was highlighted by a pair of spectacular cerulean blue eyes. “I had to replicate my original statue of Alassyn from memory.”
“And quite a memory it is, old friend,” said the eye-patched man, patting the statue’s stone head.
“Alassyn?” Cynthia mouthed to Kaden.
“Yes, Alassyn,” said the eye-patched man, who had somehow read Cynthia’s lips despite facing the opposite direction.
“Alassyn was the mother of an entire race of horses called potnias,” explained Boreall in his uplifting, gusting voice. Upon receiving a pair of raised eyebrows from Cynthia and Kaden, neither of whom had heard of a potnia horse before, he added, “A legend from my homeland.”
“Which is . . . where?” asked Kaden hopefully, grinning at Boreall, who routinely referred to his old home without ever revealing its location.
“By the sea,” said Boreall elusively, smiling back. His smile faded, however, as he turned to the stranger. “So . . . it’s finally time?”
“It is,” said the eye-patched man. He turned and fixed his good eye on Cynthia and Kaden. “Since I won’t be seeing you two again before it happens . . . happy birthday.” He paused, leaned against his staff, and let out a sigh. “Let’s hope it isn’t your last.”
Cynthia and Kaden shared an alarmed glance.
“Um . . . it won’t be,” said Kaden. But the eye-patched man had already limped inside.
They turned to Boreall for an explanation, but he didn’t give one. Instead he said, “I need you back here at 11:30 tonight. Under normal circumstances, I’d never ask you to break school rules and leave campus after hours. However, circumstances are anything but normal at present.”
“Oh you’re being serious?” said Kaden in surprise.
“I am,” said Boreall, nodding.
“Why, sir?” asked Cynthia, wondering what could require them to be here at such a late hour.
“Truth, my dear Cynthia,” said Boreall kindly, “has a way of revealing itself on its own schedule, not ours.” He looked from one to the other. “11:30, then?”
After sharing a glance, they nodded at Boreall. The truth was they had always felt an innate sense of trust in Boreall, and also in this place, the Oaken Door, the home of the oak tree that had appeared so often in their dreams it felt almost like it was watching over them.
Boreall nodded back, then stepped through the sliding door and closed it behind him, leaving Cynthia and Kaden alone, and quite confused, in their seats by the oak tree.
A couple hours later, Cynthia and Kaden were sitting across from their best friends and fellow sophomores, Jessie West and Manning Moore, in the common room between their adjoining dormitories at Vanguard High School. It was unusually loud due to so many students celebrating the official end of exams.
“So . . . we’ve got something for you,” said Jessie apprehensively, readjusting her black-framed glasses as she faced Cynthia and Kaden.
“Yeah, we think it’s time ya put yer money where yer mouth is,” said Manning far less apprehensively, speaking in a deep Southern drawl. He then stood without warning and raced out of the room.
“That was weird,” said Kaden.
Cynthia was looking suspiciously at Jessie. “What are you and Manning up to?”
Jessie’s cheeks reddened nearly to the shade of her bright red hair while she made a series of awkward shrugs and inaudible mumbles. She was saved any further embarrassment when Manning returned, tossing a small rectangular box to Cynthia and Kaden.
Kaden swiped it from the air and examined it. “Seriously? Check out what they got us, Cyn.”
Cynthia leaned sideways and examined the box, which bore highly stylized wording above a slogan:
Sibil DNA Testing Kit
“For the best results, always ask a sibyl!”
“DNA tests?” said Cynthia, frowning.
“Yer always claimin’ yer twins,” said Manning, not unkindly and not accusingly—well, a little accusingly, as he shared in the prevailing certainty they couldn’t be biological brother and sister, much less bona fide twins. “And frankly, it’s a little weird.”
Staring decidedly at her socked feet, Jessie said faintly, “It is a little weird. Not in a bad way, though,” she added hastily, going even redder.
Manning, with a jovial smirk, nodded at the box. “I see yer not in a hurry to prove it with a DNA test.” He clearly thought he had called their bluffs—until Cynthia and Kaden smiled back, effectively turning his smirk into a confused frown.
Jessie looked equally shocked. “You’re really going to do it?”
“Yep,” said Kaden, nodding.
“Yeah, of course,” said Cynthia, grinning.
“But Kaden, yer mom and dad are Mr. and Mrs. Krossway,” said Manning.
“And yours,” said Jessie, looking at Cynthia, “are Mr. and Mrs. Summers. You two have different parents.”
“We know,” said Cynthia and Kaden in unison.
Again Manning and Jessie shared a glance.
“Remember what our Biology teacher, Ms. Finch, said after you told her you were twins?” said Jessie, now sounding insistent. “She explained that polygenetic inheritance—like skin color—isn’t a completely dominant trait. It has degrees of difference.”
Cynthia nodded. Kaden said, “Huh?”
“It means we inherit a mixture of our parents’ skin colors,” said Manning. “But even if someone has one black and one white parent, the odds of one child being black and the other being white—instead of them both being a mixture of black and white—is practically impossible.”
“According to Ms. Finch, the odds are ‘roughly the same as a tornado passing through a junkyard and assembling a fully functional fighter jet,’” said Jessie. “Yes, she was speaking in hyperbole, but only to make her point . . . it’s just not realistic.”
“Actually, Ms. Finch said an X-wing Starfighter, not fighter jet,” said Cynthia, opening the DNA testing kit and handing Kaden one of the swabs, keeping the other for herself. “She’s a huge Star Wars fan.”
Shocked, Jessie and Manning watched as Cynthia and Kaden dabbed the insides of their cheeks, replaced the swabs in their protective casings, then returned the completed kit to Manning.
“But—but—” stammered Manning, at a complete loss.
“The test is going to say—!” Jessie cut herself off and took a calming breath. “What if it says you aren’t related? Won’t you be kind of . . . totally . . . crushed?”
“It won’t,” said Cynthia and Kaden, once again in perfect harmony.
At 11:00 that night, Cynthia and Kaden snuck out of their dorms and stealthily made their way down the long and lamppost-lit front drive, keeping an eye out for campus security. They took an Uber to Old Town and arrived at the Oaken Door with just minutes to spare.
Kaden was wearing a pair of old jeans and a gray VHS athletic tee that bore the phrase: No Pain, No Gain. He hadn’t actually chosen it, just grabbed the nearest shirt while dressing in the dark. Cynthia, on the other hand, looked like she was going clubbing. Her stylish jeans were studded with glittery stones and her designer blouse was slightly low-cut.
“Are you going to a party I don’t know about after this?” grinned Kaden, able to see her full ensemble under the restaurant’s brightly lit entrance.
“Yeah, well, you look like you got dressed in the dark,” Cynthia fired back through a smile, finding the front door locked.
“That’s because I did,” laughed Kaden. He led them through a narrow alleyway to the back patio and climbed its ivy-covered brick wall. “It’s not even that high,” he laughed as Cynthia struggled to simultaneously climb the wall and keep her clothes from brushing against it, getting dirty. “At least you’re not in heels,” he said as she landed awkwardly and proceeded to nearly tear his shirt, having grabbed it to keep from falling down completely.
“I don’t wear heels with jeans,” she said, futilely attempting to pat down the stretch mark she had left on his tee.
“I’ve seen you wear heels with jeans.”
“But not with this outfit.”
“But definitely with jeans.”
“Oh shut up,” grinned Cynthia, opening the sliding door.
Only a quarter of the quaint restaurant’s lights were on, reflecting darkly off the waxed wooden floor. They scanned the many tables, booths and bar, but Boreall wasn’t anywhere in sight.
“Must be upstairs in his office, like usual,” said Kaden. He led them into the chrome-countered kitchen and through its rear door. “Why does he even own a restaurant?”
“No idea. We only see him down here when we arrive for work and when we leave, because he always makes a point of saying hello and goodbye to us.” Cynthia smiled as she took the stairs two at a time. “He’s so nice.”
“But especially to us. He’s nice to everyone,” added Kaden. “But—”
“Yeah, he dotes on us,” finished Cynthia, stopping before the office door and knocking.
“Enter,” came the gusting voice.
She pulled it open and they entered.
Boreall’s office—which was also the bottom floor of his home, as he owned the whole building—was as large as the restaurant one story below. It looked like part museum, part workshop, part library, and part artist’s loft. Presently Boreall was pacing anxiously behind a desk along the rear wall.
As they navigated the many stacks of books, easels and object-laden tables, they passed by a group of exquisite, hand-drawn maps that, as far as either Cynthia or Kaden could tell, didn’t correlate to any locations on earth. They came to a stop before his desk, noticing it had been cleared off except for two smallish gift boxes in wrapping paper designed to look like tree leaves. When Boreall only continued pacing, Kaden’s attention drifted to the oil painting of a large and very unusual house—unusual because it rose to three staggered stories while having neither hard edges nor ninety-degree angles.
“Mr. Boreall, sir?” said Cynthia tentatively.
Boreall came to a stop, took a deep breath, then faced them. He opened his mouth to speak, but noticed Kaden admiring the painting. “Ah . . . that was my home,” he said, smiling reminiscently at it. “It’s called Windblown Manor.”
Cynthia raised an eyebrow, confused—and a little concerned. “We’ve asked about this painting before,” she said, scrutinizing him. “Why are you telling us about it now?”
“Because, my dear, things are different now,” said Boreall.
“How so?” asked Kaden, feeling uneasy.
But Boreall didn’t answer. “Did you know I was once bestowed a ring made from the extremely rare and highly precious chrius metal?” he said. “I was given it on the day of my daughter’s wedding, in fact.”
“Chrius?” repeated Cynthia. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“You have a daughter?” said Kaden in surprise.
“I did,” said Boreall softly. “But she passed away many years ago.”
“Oh,” said Kaden awkwardly. “Sorry, sir.”
“I’m sure she loved you very much,” said Cynthia warmly.
Misty-eyed, Boreall opened a drawer, removed a plain-looking golden ring and placed it on the desktop.
“Um . . . it’s just normal gold,” said Kaden confusedly.
“But is it?” said Boreall enticingly. “Or is it something more like . . . a cousin to gold? Ah-h-h, you see it now,” he exhaled as Cynthia’s eyes widened.
“It’s . . . but, sir, it’s glowing,” she said in shock.
And now Kaden could see it too. It looked like a golden aura of light was emanating from the metal itself. Strangely, it hadn’t started glowing until he had been looking at it for several uninterrupted seconds.
“I thought you’d enjoy seeing this,” said Boreall. He glanced at a clock on the wall. “Midnight approaches. . . . Follow me.” Grabbing the gift boxes from the table, he walked with long strides to the office door.
“He’s acting odd—even for him,” said Cynthia lowly, and Kaden nodded in agreement.
Soon they were passing through the sliding back door and stepping onto the brick rear patio. It was a wonderfully clear night. The pale silvery moon was aglow from starry skies, and a warm breeze was playing pleasantly on their faces. Boreall came to a stop near the oak tree.
“Did you know,” he said as if pointing out an interesting fact, “in certain cultures, the oak tree represents a doorway?”
“Oh-h-h,” exhaled Cynthia, the pieces of one mystery falling into place. “That’s why you named your restaurant the Oaken Door. Because of the myth about oak trees being doorways.”
“Myth, you say?” repeated Boreall with a tantalizing smile. Then he just gazed at them through those magnificent cerulean eyes, appearing almost sad.
To her enormous aggravation, Cynthia was unexpectedly enduring another strange, windy migraine. Squirming beside her, Kaden had begun hearing the distant echoes of a nonexistent noise.
“Oh my, I nearly forgot,” said Boreall, handing a gift box to each of them. “These are for you.”
They were surprised to discover their gifts had been wrapped in actual tree leaves, not wrapping paper designed to look that way.
“That’s so nice of you,” said Cynthia, valiantly trying to sound sincere despite the awful pounding in her head.
“Oh they’re not from me,” said Boreall courteously, shaking his head. “They’re from . . . her.”
“Her . . . who?” asked Kaden, the shadowy noises getting louder, as if their source was getting closer.
“You’ll come to know her by many names,” said Boreall. “But there’s one name by which she’s known to all . . . the Lil of Lurkur.”
“Who’s the—? Ooh, it’s a compass!” said Cynthia, having just opened the leaves to find a truly stunning compass of pure white wood. “It’s magnificent,” she said, examining it. The compass seemed to feel the same way about her too—until she reminded herself compasses couldn’t feel anything.
“Mine’s black,” said Kaden of the otherwise identical compass he had unwrapped. “Hey, I think mine likes me.” Realizing what he had just said, he shook his head at himself.
“Keep them with you at all times,” said Boreall, sounding insistent. “Promise me.”
“Huh? Oh okay, we will,” said Cynthia, now having difficulty focusing through the swirling pain.
Boreall looked at the tree. His face suddenly paled. “Just a few minutes remain,” he exhaled. Dropping to a knee, he nodded at the patio’s center. “What do you see there?”
“A tree,” said Kaden.
“An oak tree,” said Cynthia, not having heard Kaden, the churning pain in her head having become too intense.
Boreall shook his head. “No, there’s not a tree there,” he said, baffling Cynthia and Kaden, who could definitely see a tree there. “In fact, there’s never been a tree there.” He stood and extended an arm toward it. “The tree is real, yes, but it’s just not here.”
They were on the brink of arguing, of asking how they could see a nonexistent tree, when . . . the tree started doing something very strange. It was pulsating. Odder still, Cynthia and Kaden could now hear something coming from it. But it wasn’t a voice . . . nor was it producing any actual words . . . yet they could understand it. They even recognized it from their dreams. But now it was reaching out directly to them. Because now . . . now it needed them. It needed their help. Its wordless voice was coursing with notes of deepest desperation.
“It knows us,” gasped Cynthia, staring in wonder at the brightly pulsating tree. “And we know it. But . . . how?”
“Cyn, it needs our help,” said Kaden.
Dong
As one they turned to the distant sound of a church bell, which had just stroked midnight, the official beginning of their sixteenth birthday. When they turned back—
The flickering tree had completely vanished. In its place was a door . . . a hauntingly beautiful door made of pure white wood that glowed softly in the night air . . . the same door as they had dreamed about the tree turning into. They knew this was too amazing to be mere coincidence. So they took a curious step closer to it. At once Cynthia’s throbbing headache lessened and Kaden’s ears weren’t ringing nearly as loudly with those shadowy sounds. Stunned, they shared a glance. Then they took another step toward it. Suddenly they felt even better. Shocked, they turned to Boreall.
“What’s happening?” asked Kaden.
“After sixteen long years, you are finally moving toward your future,” said Boreall, extending a long arm toward the mysterious white door.
“What’s on the other side?” asked Cynthia warily.
A grand smile raised Boreall’s face. “Your destiny.”
They could feel it too. It was like being pulled and pushed toward the door at the same time. It was uncannily similar to what existed between them, to their connection, to the thing inside them that was always reaching out for one another.
“Cyn, we have to help it—help whatever is creating the door,” said Kaden, instinct driving his words.
“I know,” she replied. She glanced uncertainly at Boreall. “Why us?”
“Yeah,” said Kaden, turning. “There’s nothing special about me and Cyn.”
“If that were true,” said Boreall in a heartfelt voice, again misty-eyed, “I would not have left my home sixteen years ago and come here.” They looked confusedly at him. “All will become clear in due time, I promise,” he assured them. “Oh, you needn’t worry about understanding what’s being said or about being understood. The journey there will take care of it for you. After all, it did for me.” Their confusion became even more pronounced. “You can understand me, can you not?”
“Yes, of course,” said Cynthia.
“You’re speaking English,” said Kaden.
“Oh . . . am I?” And on this mysterious note, Boreall stepped aside. “It’s time for you, Cynthia Summers and Kaden Krossway, to discover why you’ve always known with such certainty you’re twins, despite it seeming utterly and laughably impossible to everyone else.” As they turned to the door, he added, “Two more things. One, you needn’t worry about your parents wondering where you are. They’ve already been, um . . . taken care of, so to speak. And two, you should leave your phones with me. Primitive electronics won’t survive the crossing.”
“The crossing?” repeated Cynthia cautiously.
“Primitive?” said Kaden with a frown, retrieving his phone and handing it to Boreall. True, Kaden’s phone wasn’t a particularly fancy model, but there definitely wasn’t anything primitive about it.
Cynthia found it much more difficult to part with her phone. It took three attempts to finally drop it into Boreall’s awaiting hand.
“We’ll be coming back—right?” said Cynthia anxiously.
“Yes,” said Boreall, nodding. “But for now, you’re needed elsewhere.”
“Needed . . . to do what?” asked Kaden, his heart beating in his throat.
“To keep something of enormous importance from being killed,” said Boreall.
Again Cynthia asked, “But why us?”
Suddenly an otherworldly, songlike note emerged from the door. But this time, after passing through Cynthia and Kaden’s ears, it became a true voice, though unlike any voice they had ever heard before. . . . Beautiful yet menacing, clear yet echoing, it said, “Because you are the children of air and fire, of death and life, of flame and fury. You are the ones who must answer the call for help, because only you are able to hear it. . . .”
Turning slowly, Cynthia and Kaden faced one another. The things inside them were already reaching out toward the glowing door, reaching for whatever was creating it, reaching out to help it. All that remained was for Cynthia and Kaden to follow.
Wordlessly they came to their decision. They gave their emotional farewells to Boreall, then they walked away.
The door swung open of its own accord, and Cynthia and Kaden stepped over its threshold, passing into some great unknown, not having any idea where they were going . . . or what dangers might lie beyond.