***LUCA***

I've spent the last few days - three, I think - being unusually lethargic and depressive. I guess watching your best friend's twin brother die, and then later witnessing the most heartbreaking memorial service since the day my aunt tearfully eulogized her mom in San Francisco, will do that to a guy.

This Friday afternoon, though, my brothers have a good idea for how to cure me of this melancholic state of mine. In all honesty, I can never resist a good game of basketball in Sangster Park. Shirts vs. tanks, the way we'd play if the rest of our squad were here. Not skins - I'd love to do that, but if someone (I'm looking at you, Courtney Skerritt! And you, Alicia Kim!) were to get a picture of us (especially me, because I'm sure the glitterazzi - or, in this case, glitterazze, since they're girls - consider me a more choice cut of beef than my brothers, if you know what I mean) playing that way and post it on the internet, I'm sure my 'rents would have a few words to say about that. And not the kind you can say on TV.

The game idea works pretty well, too. I get my first decent bit of exercise in a while, so there's that. I totally own Marco, whose b-ball skills are still sorely lacking after all these years, and once again learn just how much Giovanni's become a force to be reckoned with. And coming back home, I get to say hi to a girl who's a million times more awesomer than either of those two crazy ladies I mentioned before. Anjali Thiara has always been a hella chill next-door neighbor, even if we don't get to see each other too much anymore.

But then, after I get out of the shower and watch as Marco jumps in ("About friggin' time," he whispers, darting into the bathroom and shutting the door), I find myself staring at the ceiling as I lie on my bed. There are three beds in this room - Marco has the one by the window, and Gio and I have the bottom and top bunk, respectively, on the opposite side. I think if a psychic were to look at this room, he or she would say that the space around my bed, in particular, was contaminated with a black aura or something.

Maybe it's because when I'm in my room, especially when I'm alone with fewer distractions, my mind wanders to more unhappy subjects that I really shouldn't be dwelling on. Namely, the way the man upstairs has spent months pissing on Alex, taking away people he loves. However sad I feel about it, though, Alex must be a million times worse. I've tried to get into contact with him a few times since Tuesday's memorial - by text, by email, even by voicemail. At this point, I'm even considering sending smoke signals. Not that he'd be any more likely to respond to those.

Eventually, I make myself go down the hall just long enough to get a glass of water. When I get to the kitchen, though, Mom's in there, busily baking cookies. Chocolate pizzelle - her favorite, and Nonna's. I'm mystified at first, but then I remember that this weekend is our annual family reunion.

"I know what you're thinking," Mom says with a laugh as she ties up another Saran-wrapped stack of pizzelle. "It's a little hot for baking today, isn't it? Well, it's tradition, and I'm not gonna be the first to break it." She laughs out loud for a second, then hands me a half-moon-shaped cookie - one of the factory rejects, of course. As I eat it, she adds, "Still feeling down, Luca?"

"How'd you guess?" I ask, turning away from her so I can get my water out of the fridge. And so she doesn't see me roll my eyes.

"Being sad always makes you cold, for some reason," says Mom. "Why else would you wear a hoodie on a nice day like this?" She tugs on the hood to make her point, almost making me choke on my water.

"Never noticed that before," I say. I don't look at Mom as I drink my water. Instead, I look at the TV. She's got a classical-music channel playing - her favorite baking soundtrack.

"Maybe you should invite the Snows along tomorrow," Mom says as the on-screen song changes from something by Bach to something by Haydn. I only know because the display changes to reflect it - otherwise, my brain, trained as it is on zone music, can't tell the difference between the two pieces. "Or have you already invited them and not told me?"

I refill my glass and stick it back in the fridge, still not looking at her. I don't think she's quite gotten the memo on Gabe's death yet - this is at least the third time she's casually mentioned them as if nothing's happened.  "Or what about your girlfriend?"

Thank God I don't have my glass in hand - I'd have dropped it for sure. "What? But...who said I had a girlfriend?"

"Gio did."

"You trusted a word that came out of his mouth?" I scoff. "No, Mom, if I had a girlfriend, the last thing I'd wanna do is bring her to a family reunion. I don't think she'd particularly like being surrounded by all the cousins. And you. No offense, but you'd probably creep her out."

"What?" Mom splutters, nearly knocking over her next tower of pizzelle before it's even halfway finished. "Why the heck would I scare her?"

"Yeah, yeah," I laugh. "You sure know how to put the fear of God in anyone your kids would dare date. Maybe that's why Marco still hasn't had a girlfriend."

"I heard that," Marco complains as he comes into the room. "And Mom, why do you keep listening to this when you cook? Don't you know heavy metal is better for this sort of thing?"

"Since when?" Mom asks.

"You're skeptical now," Marco says, "but I think Mythbusters did an experiment once where they had different soundtracks play in different greenhouses to see if any of them helped the plants grow. Heavy metal got the best results."

"You think?" Mom snickers. "Sure, go ahead. But not in my kitchen, capisce? If you're desperate enough, try it on that dying tomato plant of yours."

"Sure, sure," Marco says with a snicker. "If you'll give me enough money to build a soundproof - oh God!" The screeching tones of the Emergency Alert System interrupt the classical music, causing all of us to cover our ears for a second.

Mom races over to the remote and tries to hit the volume button, or the mute button, or something to cut off that god-awful noise. But she's so frazzled she ends up changing the channel instead. The screen cuts to Channel 4, which has a bright red Breaking News banner stretched across the top of a pretty shocking image.

According to the caption on the bottom of the screen, this is live footage from Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, where someone just set off a bomb and destroyed a station for one of those little light-rail-type people-mover things.

I edge slowly away from Mom and Marco so they have less chance of accidentally hearing my thoughts, which I'm trying to keep as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. However, in my head, I want to scream things like, Oh my God, is that the Second Universe people? Are they starting to attack? Wait a minute - did Phoenix have a "UFO" in the sky the other night? I dunno - did I look that up? Maybe Alex did. Maybe I should ask him...

But then my thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.

Mom grabs the remote, mutes the TV, and tiptoes slowly over to the front door. Marco and I peer around the corner and watch as she peeks through the peephole, then says, "I'm sorry, we're not interested" - her standard response to dismiss suspicious door-to-door salesmen. It's actually surprisingly effective, believe it or not.

"Uh, I'm not selling anything," says a familiar male voice. I stiffen as I recognize it - then I turn to Marco. He's never gotten out as much as I have, but he knows who's at the door as well as I do. "I'm here to see Luca, actually."

Mom doesn't look like she's ready to open the door anytime soon, so I walk over to it and whisper, "I got this." Gently pushing her aside, I open the door and step onto the porch. "Hey, Russell. Bombed any airports lately?"

"Oh, ha ha," Russell says, tilting his head from side to side with each "ha." "You think you're so funny, don't you? Luca Scagliotti, the comic genius."

"Cut the crap. What are you doing here?"

Mom opens the door. Oh shit, I think as she stands there, her hands on her hips, and demands to know what's going on.

"Hey there," Russell says, offering his hand to Mom, who very pointedly refuses to take it. "I guess you're not pleased to see me, are you? Well, I dunno how much Luca's told you about the crazy, ca-frickin-razy adventures he's been going on lately, but-"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Marco asks, stepping up behind Mom. Then he stops and thinks for a second before adding, "You know...you never did say how Gabe died. Was it on one of these 'adventures,' by any chance?"

I'm blushing like I've never blushed before. It's true - I didn't tell them the truth. They wouldn't believe me anyway. After all, it happened on Earth, after Alex and Gabe had been made to enter the afterlife just to prove it could be done, and then Gideon's horrific bitch of a mom shot Gabe dead by accident. If I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't believe it either. Probably.

Russell, however, is much quicker to explain things to Mom and Marco. He gives them a quick, condensed version of the story, highlighting the Second Universe invasion and "save the world" parts. And he mentions that Alex has already been taken along for the ride himself, so he's apparently en route to the Second Universe already.

Do they believe him? Their faces are so stony, it's impossible to tell. Especially Mom's. She's a lot like Molly Weasley in that way - short, plump, and matronly, but scary as hell when she needs to be. The only difference is that she's got sort-of curly dark hair (which I inherited from her, as did Giovanni) instead of the distinctive Weasley red.

After he finishes, there's a long, long pause. The awkwardness is getting toxic, but then Russell backs off the porch and says, "You know what? I'll just, uh, go. Forget I was here, all right?" He turns around and sets of. The last thing I hear from him is a single thought: Time for Plan B.

I go inside and try to retreat to my room as quickly as possible, but Mom calls me back and demands I sit in the living room and talk to her. As I take my seat, facing the window that looks out onto the front yard, I manage to catch a glimpse of what must be Russell's Plan B. He sticks a piece of paper into a knothole in our small blood-orange tree.

"Luca, look at me," Mom says sternly. I do - for only a second before my eyes wander around the whole room. Marco's left us, so it's just her and me. "Luca, was any of his story true? When you said you were staying with Alex...is that what you were doing instead?"

I actually laugh out loud. "I forgot all about that bullshit excuse."

"Language!"

"Sorry, Mom. But...yeah, Russell was telling the truth."

Mom slumps slightly in her seat. "So why didn't you tell me first?"

I lower my head into my hands. "Do I really have to say it?"

"If you'd told us, your dad and I would have believed you," Mom says. "When was the last time you ever lied to us? The only one of your siblings who ever did that was..."

I look up and see her already shrinking in shame and embarrassment. That's what always happens whenever Mattia gets brought up. Especially this time of year - because it's her birthday on Monday. In fact, the whole reason why the family reunion is held on the first weekend of June is because it began as her first birthday party - which probably explains why she never liked them. Maybe she was traumatized by all the attention from all the old and/or middle-aged ladies fawning over how adorable she must have been as a baby.

"Well, it doesn't matter," Mom says, standing up and heading back to the kitchen. "You're not going with that Russell guy. He can find someone else to do his little secret war mission for him, 'cause he's not putting you in danger." She disappears into the kitchen for a second, then pokes her head around the corner just long enough to say, "Your dad doesn't hear about this, got it? He'd be even more pissed off than I am."

"Sure. Fine. Whatever," I mumble. I stay rooted in the chair for a while before returning to my room. There, Marco tries to get me to talk to him about the whole Russell thing, but I refuse to talk to him. At this point, I'm done trying to explain this shit to him, or anyone else, for that matter.

But seriously, Mom can't do anything to stop me from finding and working with Russell. Okay, maybe she can. Like, if she catches me trying to sneak out of the house or anything. But I've got a plan to make sure she doesn't. Because as much as I have to agree with her - fighting the war against the murderous scrivs from the Second 'Verse is going to be a dangerous, possibly even deadly task - I still have to do exactly that. The more I think about it, the more I realize that, as a friend of Alex and Gabe, as well as Steve (whom Alex said was killed - again, and apparently forever this time - while he and Gabe were trying to get back home from the Second), I'm honor-bound to help ensure the worlds of the living and the dead are safe for everyone.

Like the Snow Bros, I'm a pretty big fan of Spider-Man - especially The Amazing Spider-Man movies. We were all very disappointed when we found out that the series was cancelled in favor of another reboot, because there are so many important themes and ideas to take away from The Amazing Spider-Man.

Until I saw the first of those two movies, I didn't really truly understand the whole "with great power comes great responsibility" thing. I mean, God bless Sam Raimi, but when he directed Tobey Maguire's Peter Parker getting that lesson from Uncle Ben, it came across as a boring, generic pearl of wisdom. Not like when the reboot had Uncle Ben explain it as a personal philosophy of Peter's dad. Alex and Gabe were particularly affected by this one because of the way Andrew Garfield's Peter responded by lashing out (something to the effect of "Why couldn't my dad tell me this himself?"), because they also grew up without a dad. And this was before they discovered that their biological father was an insane murderer, and that the man who would have raised them as their dad distanced himself because of their mixed blood. And then that same guy turned out to have been responsible for their very conception all along...

Bottom line, my friends didn't ask for their lives, and everything they knew about who they were, to be so horribly screwed over. But they also didn't ask me to help them out. I'm sure Alex, were he to know I was putting my life on the line like this, would express his appreciation by violently insulting my intelligence and parentage. He might even punch me in the face for good measure.

Undeniably, though, he and Gabe and Russell and everyone else planning to stop that Peyton Holly (or whatever the bloody hell his name is - see, now I'm swearing like a demon; I've clearly been hanging around the Snows too long) are going to need all the help they can get. Mine included.

Late at night, when my brothers are both fast asleep (we're all heavy sleepers in this family), I tiptoe over to the kitchen and leave a note on the kitchen table. It reads, "Don't worry about me. Everything's gonna be a-okay, or your money back. :)" Yes, I really do leave a smiley at the end before signing my name.

Then I return to my room, grab my shoes, and lace them up. This is followed by me putting my phone and wallet in my pockets. Finally, I go to the window and open it. Hoping against hope that the slight breeze won't be enough to wake up Marco, I climb out and do my best to close it again from the outside. It's a bit of a challenge, because there are no handles or latches, but Alex has taught me a very good way to get the window to close completely. His method, which he uses all the time when he flies down to the Bridge from our room at Balthazar, is to spread his thumb and forefinger as far apart as possible, then use them to push this thin, curved strip of metal on the edge of the glass. My window has a similar curved strip, and it's easier to push than the one at Balthazar because it's lower to the ground, not to mention in a place where the winter weather is less powerful.

I then fly over the house and land in the front yard - the fewer locks I have to leave unlocked, the better. That piece of paper Russell left in the tree is still there. As I expected, it has a phone number on it. I'm about to dial that number, but then I remember my phone's still off. I didn't turn it on before leaving because when it does, it plays a loud whooshing noise.

So I turn my phone on, and then I have to wait an agonizing two minutes or so until it's warmed up enough to allow me to make a call. I dial the number and wait. One ring, two rings... "Hello?"

"Still got room in your war chariot?" I ask in an undertone.

"Finally," Russell says, breathing a sigh of relief. "I knew I could count on you, Luca. You're still in San Jose, right?"

"Uh-huh. Any reason why I shouldn't be?"

"'Cause I'm in San Francisco, that's why," Russell says with a snicker. "Okay. How much money do you have on you right now?"

I hold my phone away from my ear for a moment so I can use its screen as a light. After counting the contents of my wallet, I say, "Twenty-four bucks."

"What happened to the hundred-dollar-a-month Balthazar allowance?" Russell asks wryly.

"My parents take what I don't spend and put it away for my college," I say.

"Hmm. Well, at least you still have enough for a Caltrain ticket to the city. I'll meet you when you get to the end of the line."

I bite my lip for a second. It's possible for me to fly all the way to the city - I've done it before - but at this time of night, it's not recommended. "All right," I say. "I guess I'll meet you in about an hour and a half or so." I check my watch - it's already half past ten. Friday will already be done by the time I get to the city, unless Caltrain runs faster than I remember.

"See you then," Russell says before hanging up.

I pocket my phone and then take flight. I know, I just said flying at night is a bad idea - but I remember at the last minute that all the Caltrain stops south of Diridon Station downtown are closed on the weekends. I'm not sure when they consider the weekend to start, but I don't want to take any chances and find Capitol Station (the one closest to where I live) shut down for the night.

At Diridon, I buy a one-way ticket from an automatic machine - because I have less distance to travel, the ticket is now two bucks cheaper than it would be if I'd gotten on the train at Capitol. During that time, and also during the train ride, I keep my hood up and my head down. I'm sure people might think I look suspicious, but right now, I don't care. I'm just trying to avoid being spotted as much as possible.

When I finally get to the station in San Francisco, I've actually made better time than I thought - it's not quite midnight yet. Despite the lateness of the hour, though, the station seems pretty bustling. There are quite a few people running around, having just disembarked from the same train I came in on. Street performers can be found here and there in the lobby, on the platform, etc. Most of these are playing acoustic versions of pop songs - I recognize at least one Pink song in the mix, but other than that, I can't identify any of them. A couple of TVs in the upper corner of the lobby, near the digital schedule boards, display some late night news. Instead of talking about the bombing in Phoenix, surprisingly, they're talking about dead surfers in SoCal.

Russell, meanwhile, is busy getting cash from an ATM near the exit. "Figured I'd pay you for your ticket," he says, handing me a twenty.

"I didn't spend this much," I say.

"Always have at least thirty bucks in cash on hand at all times," Russell says. "My dad taught me that."

"What if you're in some other country?"

"Then make sure whatever amount of money you have is equivalent to at least thirty American dollars," Russell laughs.

Still feeling a bit reluctant, I put the twenty in my wallet. "All right," I say, looking around the station and out the door. There's a massive crowd on the street nearby - I think it might have something to do with a Giants game, because AT&T Park is right outside the station.

"Sucks, doesn't it?"

"What?" I follow his line of sight - he's watching the news. "Oh yeah. The surfers. How'd they die?"

"Huge hurricane off Baja caused some major swells in LA, the OC, SD," Russell says. "You guys still call it the OC, right?"

"Uh, not really."

"Well, whatever you guys call it, the daredevils all came out of the woodwork." Russell shakes his head. "Poor bastards. It's like..." He frowns at the TV. "No, never mind. Forget it. Not really politically correct anyway, what I'm thinking."

"Uh-huh," I say. "So what's next? We gonna go get Alex?"

"No," Russell says, shaking his head. "Alex is in the Second Universe right now. Same with Juliet. Annie took them both there earlier today. Right around the time I tried to pick you up, in fact."

I cross my arms. "Right. And is there anyone else you guys were supposed to 'pick up?'"

"Already got 'em," Russell says. He lays one arm over my shoulders and steers me in the direction of the station's all-night café, Tazza d'Amore. "Three of them, you already know, of course. The other is a dear friend of mine from the Second 'Verse. She's a scriv, like me."

Inside the café, I see only one table occupied. There are three people sitting there, none of whom I expect to see. One of them is a girl with long, shiny black hair. Too shiny - I think it might be a dye job. It also doesn't help that she's showing a bit of wing, which is an equally shiny white. She must be a light scriv, then.

The other occupants of the table are Paul Smythe and Gideon Cabrera. "I was hoping you'd show up," Paul says, shaking hands with me. "I didn't wanna have to do this with nothing but a bunch of strangers for company."

"Hey!" Russell complains. "You act like we don't even know each other."

"Well, you barely do," the scriv girl remarks, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear so she can get a better look at me. "So you're Luca, huh? I'm Kensi Stark."

"She's the same age as you," Russell tells me as I shake her hand. "But she's not a natural-born scriv like me."

"I used to be a human, until I was run over and killed in Leland Woods," Kensi says. "And then it ended up opening the door to the best opportunity of my, uh, life. Go figure."

I turn to Russell and say, "You said there were three people here I knew?"

Russell scratches his ever-present stubble. "She must be in the bathroom or something."

"She'll come back," Kensi says. "She's dying to see you, Boy-Band."

"Never thought I'd live to see the day," Paul laughs.

Finally, Kensi's choice of nickname registers in my brain - and I gasp in shock. "How...how'd you know...?"

I can't bring myself to finish the question, though, when the sixth member of our little war party shows up.

Mattia cracks a grin and says, "Bet you must get all the girls now. Don't you, Boy-Band?"