The Eighth Guardian (Annum Guard) Page 12

  “Go,” Zeta hisses behind me, pushing me forward.

  I don’t hesitate, don’t think. I sprint across the street, throwing myself in front of Senator McCarthy as he’s reaching for the handle. I open the door and fling myself into the backseat. The senator looks at me with wide, angry eyes.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “Medical emergency. Driver, I need a hospital immediately.”

  Senator McCarthy blinks a few times with disbelieving eyes, but then he nods at the driver and shuts the cab door. I breathe a sigh of relief and sink down in the seat as the driver steps on the gas. I did it. I prevented him from getting the cab. That was so simple. Too simple.

  I pivot around to see if I can spot Zeta or Indigo. But all I see is Senator McCarthy climbing into the backseat of a cab that must have pulled up ten seconds later.

  Son of a—

  “On second thought, I’m feeling better,” I snap at the driver. “Let me out here, please!”

  The driver slams on the brakes, which sends me flying into the back of the front seat. He pivots around, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “What the hell do you mean, let you out here? We’ve gone half a block.”

  “I’m very sorry.” I open the door. “What do I owe you?”

  The driver lets out a noise of disgust. “Thirty-five cents.”

  I fish out two quarters from the purse and shove them into the front seat. “Keep the change.” I slam the door shut and take off running back down the block. I need to get Senator McCarthy out of that cab!

  It’s coming close. What do I do? What do I do? There’s only one thing I can think of. The cab’s not going that fast. I can do this. I draw in my breath and lean back. Here it comes. Just another couple seconds—

  “Iris!” Zeta shouts from down the block. He runs toward me. “Stop! No!”

  But I’ve already launched myself up in the air. My shoulder lands hard on the windshield, and I cry out in pain. The cab slams on its brakes and swerves to the right, and I go flying off the hood onto the hard, unforgiving pavement of N Street.

  I groan as I hear two cab doors open and slam shut, and Senator McCarthy crouches down beside me.

  “She jumped in front of me!” I hear the old cab driver yell. “This crazy broad jumped in front of me!”

  “Quiet!” the senator barks. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “Yeah, in the head,” the cabbie says.

  I turn my head to the side and see Zeta and Indigo, standing across the street half a block down or so. They’ve stopped running, and Zeta has his arm out, holding Indigo back. I’m on my own with this one.

  “Are you all right?” the senator repeats, his voice firm.

  Am I all right? No. Clearly not. My body has already been through hell this morning, and then I got hit by a moving vehicle. A snaking line of purple bruises is already starting to dot my right arm and shoulder. My left arm is scraped and bleeding. But I don’t think anything is broken.

  “I think so,” I say. But then I glance at the senator’s wristwatch. It’s only 8:55. There’s still plenty of time to get to the Capitol for the vote. I have to stall him. He pushes off his hands to stand.

  “Wait, no!” I yell. “My leg, I think it’s broken!”

  Senator McCarthy looks down at his own watch. He sighs. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tend to you now.”

  But then the cops show up, in their long, flat, black-and-white cars with domed flashing lights; and I know this mission is over. No way a cop is going to let an eyewitness leave an accident scene. Sure enough, the cops survey the scene and make everyone stay for questioning. I ditch my purse in a nearby bush, then tell the cops I realized I’d left it back at the house and had run to get it and didn’t see the cab. No one gets ticketed or arrested, but the cops take almost half an hour. I’ve done it. I’ve made the senator miss the vote.

  The senator and the driver get back into the cab to head off to the Capitol, I assume, and I smile. Every muscle in my body is protesting; and as I see Indigo and Zeta walking toward me, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach, too.

  “Damn!” Indigo calls as he gets close. “That was so badass! That’s dedication right there, huh, Z?”

  Zeta doesn’t say anything as he comes up next to me. Instead he stares at me with cool, hard eyes. “That’s . . . something,” he finally says. “Tell me; did you forget that the laws of physics have always existed? Or did you think that hurling your body in front of a moving vehicle wouldn’t hurt you in the 1960s?”

  “I just thought—”

  Zeta makes a buzzer sound. “Eh. Wrong. You clearly weren’t thinking about anything. Had you been thinking, you would not have jumped in front of a car.”

  “Okay, fine!” I say. “I wasn’t thinking. I just knew that I had to stop the senator from getting to the Capitol, and I did the first thing that popped into my head. But it worked, I’d like to point out.”

  Zeta takes a slow breath. “Indeed it did,” he admits. “You successfully completed your mission, and my report will reflect that.” Yes! Finally. I’ve finally done something right. “However, I told you before that whatever happens on a mission stays a permanent part of history. Had you died, it would have been nice knowing you. So I will also make sure your reckless behavior is included in the report. Now are we ready to go back?”

  I get that uneasy feeling my stomach has come to know and love. And now we have to go back. My body will be put through hell again. The voice in my head cries out in protest. Throws itself on the floor, kicking and screaming like a toddler who’s been told to do something she doesn’t want to do. But I whip out my watch and punch the top knob like it’s as easy as climbing a flight of stairs. Never show weakness.

  “I’m ready, sir,” I say as I march myself toward the senator’s backyard.

  Zeta lifts an eyebrow and looks over to check that my watch is set correctly. “All right. Then go.”

  I snap the watch face lid shut before I have time to reconsider. My body is shot up so fast that my arms are plastered to my side. It’s as if I’ve been stuffed into a cannon. A real one, not a circus one. All the pressure is on my shoulders. They’re pulling down and away from my body. They’re going to be ripped off. My head is pulled up, as if someone is trying to twist it off. Pressure. So much pressure. My neck muscles strain and scream, and the pain travels down to my arms, already bruised and black from the cab. It feels as if someone is taking a rubber mallet and swinging away at the bruises. I would scream if I could.

  And then I land, back in present-day Washington. I hear two pops as Indigo and Zeta appear. I’m still on the ground, the wet morning grass staining my dress. Never show weakness, I remind myself. But I can’t get up. I can’t move.

  Indigo drops to my side, and I lower my chin. Everything hurts, and I want to cry. I can’t believe that this is how they used to travel all the time. That this was routine. It’s no wonder nearly all of them are dead or disfigured. Time travel—projecting—is hell.

  Indigo reaches out a hand and gently guides my chin up. I should push him away. I should fight him off. But I don’t. I stare into his eyes, unable to hide what I’m feeling. His hand is still on my chin, and he lifts a finger to tap my nose.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers, and I choke. Because that’s something Abe would have done.

  I jerk my head to the side and push up. I wobble, and Indigo hops up to help me. I try to shake him off, but he puts an arm around my shoulder. I miss Abe. He’s going to be here next year, almost right where I’m standing. Georgetown. And I’m not going to be with him. Ever again.

  I lean into Indigo. It hurts so much. More than that time I broke my arm when I was eight, and it took four tries to reset the bone. More than when I took a roundhouse kick to the groin during combat training at Peel. Physical pain subsides. Emotional pain never will. I know that all too well.

  Zeta has
already called for the car, and it pulls up only a few minutes later. Zeta gets in front, and Indigo and I climb into the back. We sit on opposite sides of the seat, not even remotely close to touching, and I stare out the window at the yellow and orange trees the whole ride.

  I just projected back in time. I have the ability to time travel. Chronometric Augmentation, my mind says in a superserious government voice. I’m one of only a handful of people in the world who can do it.

  So why aren’t I happier?

  Zeta hands us first-class tickets again. The plane takes off, and I recline my seat and shut my eyes.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I hear the flight attendant ask.

  I shake my head without opening my eyes, but then I hear Zeta say across the aisle, “Three glasses of champagne,” and my eyes pop open. Champagne? I’ve never had it before. I don’t drink. Ever. When you grow up with a mom who counts alcoholism among her many problems, you don’t really have a desire to drink.

  The flight attendant gives Indigo and me the once-over. “I’m sorry; I’m going to have to ask for some identification.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t want—” But then Indigo elbows me in the rib. My right rib, which is so sore and tender that I cringe.

  “I’m so sorry,” he gasps.

  “It’s fine.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the ID Zeta gave me that morning. I glance at it and, holy crap. It says I’m twenty-one. My boss got me a fake ID. I hand it to the flight attendant, who examines it and hands it back.

  “Three glasses of champagne, coming right up.”

  She brings them, and Zeta tips his glass to me across the aisle. “All in all, a very successful day.” My head whips over to look at him. Did he just use the words very and successful in the same sentence, directed at me? “You still have to work on your impulse control, but I would be honored to teach you further.” He takes a sip while my hands shake.

  Then Indigo practically shoves his glass in my face. “Cheers.” He taps his glass into my mine. It makes a soft clink!

  “Cheers,” I tell him before taking the smallest sip. The champagne is sweet and bubbly and goes down way too easily, so I set it back on the tray.

  “Not thirsty?” Indigo downs his glass.

  “Not really.”

  He smiles. “You fascinate me, you know.”

  “I . . . what do you mean?”

  “I mean—” Indigo reaches for my glass. “You gonna drink that?” I shake my head, so Indigo picks it up. “That I can’t quite figure you out.”

  “Who says I want you to figure me out?”

  Indigo chuckles and empties the other glass. “That’s part of what fascinates me.” He sets the glass on the tray, leans his seat back, and closes his eyes. I can’t help but stare at him for a little while. I try not to think at all.

  Throwing myself in front of a cab turns out to be the way to Zeta’s heart. The very next day, he takes me on another mission. And then another after that. And three more the following week. I experience Harlem in the 1920s and Philadelphia in the 1790s. October blinks into November, and I turn seventeen without a hint of celebration. Before I know it, Thanksgiving is looming over me like a dark cloud.

  Thanksgiving. Abe and I were supposed to spend it with my mom. I always go back to her for the holidays. It was never the same between us, not after I’d chosen a school I’d never heard of over her; I would put on a brave face anyway. Having Abe with me always helped. Abe can talk to anyone, anywhere, anytime—about anything. His warmth and humor is contagious. One time he was even able to get my mom to crack the smallest smile during one of her lows. That was the moment I realized I loved him.

  But now I’m not going to see either of them. Ever again.

  I’m in the library poring over a book on early-twentieth-century American politics, something Zeta has assigned me in preparation for a mission that may or may not happen. Who knows?

  I don’t have the room to myself today. Indigo is sitting at the desk next to me, and Blue has plopped himself in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. Violet sits in the other, her nose in an ancient-looking book with a peeling cherry-red leather cover.

  I’m reading a section on Teddy Roosevelt’s early presidency when a note flies on top of my desk. I set down the book and look at Indigo. He jerks his head toward the note, as if it’s not completely obvious who threw it. I pick it up.

  Looking forward to Thanksgiving?

  Dammit. One more reminder of what will never be. An image of our dog, Dos, jumping up on me and licking me while doing a whiny little cry because he’s so excited to see me again pops into my mind. Then my mom’s face. I haven’t allowed myself to wonder whether she’d be so happy to see me that she won’t have slept in two days and will have baked seven different pies because she doesn’t know which one I’ll want, or whether she’d be in one of her moods where it wouldn’t even matter that I’m there. I wonder what will happen for real when I don’t show up this year.

  And Abe. Abe will spend the holiday alone with his family. Unless he’s met another girl by now. Will another girl be sitting next to him at his grandfather’s worn oak table, laughing at his jokes and mentally planning to take him home to meet her family?

  I pick up my pen and scribble a response.

  No.

  I sail the note back, but it lands on my desk a few seconds later.

  Why? :( We put on a good show here; you’ll see.

  My eyes scrunch closed. A frowny face? Did Indigo seriously just draw a frowny face? I scrawl another quick note and pass it back.

  I’m just not. Don’t really want to talk about it.

  I watch Indigo read the note out of the corner of my eye and hope that will be the end of it. He drops the note onto his desk and turns to me.

  “Hey,” he whispers. “What’s wrong?”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it,” I whisper back. I pick up the book and pretend to read.

  “Hey,” he whispers again, this time louder and with more force. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Sorry.” He looks dejected, like a lost puppy.

  I snap the book shut. “Stop being so offended. I just don’t like loaded questions.” My voice is louder, and Violet looks up at me and narrows her eyes. I ignore it.

  “Are you looking forward to Thanksgiving? How is that a loaded question? You don’t need to snap at me.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Are you serious? I didn’t snap at you. I told you I wasn’t looking forward to Thanksgiving and that I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  He starts to roll his eyes but stops himself. “Dude, it was a simple question.”

  “Fine, hotshot,” I say. “You want to know why I’m not looking forward to Thanksgiving? Because I always spent it with my boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend, thanks to Annum Guard. We always went to my mom’s house in Vermont, which was nice because I had my boyfriend there as a buffer. My mom’s bipolar and refuses to medicate, you see, so I never know if I’m going to get happy Joy or miserable Joy. Yeah, that’s my mom’s name. Joy. Ain’t life fuckin’ ironic sometimes?”

  Indigo holds up his hands. “I didn’t mean—”

  “And my dad’s been dead for sixteen years, so my mom has no one now. No one. Because I selfishly abandoned her two years ago when my Peel letter arrived. It’s really great for someone with severe mental issues to be all alone. I’ll probably be an orphan soon, and it’s going to be all my fault.”

  A book slams shut by the fireplace. I look over as Blue throws the book to the floor and stands. “Are we supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  “This doesn’t concern you,” I say.

  “Of course it does. You think you’re the only person in this room missing a parent? I haven’t had a mother in more than three years. Violet hasn’t had—”

  Violet jumps to her
feet. “Leave me out of this!”

  Blue jerks his head toward Indigo. “Poster boy over there has two healthy, functioning parents, but he’s the exception. This place kills you. At least you didn’t have to grow up watching it eat away at the people you love. You didn’t have to watch your mother’s mangled body slowly give up on her.”

  “Blue!” Violet snaps. “Shut up!”

  But Blue can’t take back what he’s said. Bits and pieces of information float together in my mind, and then suddenly the truth slaps me across the cheek.

  “Your parents were all Annum Guard.” And now I can’t believe I didn’t figure this out sooner. That was Blue’s path. The path of his parents. Blue’s mother died like Epsilon is now dying. Slowly. Painfully. One of Violet’s parents was the same. Indigo’s parents are still alive. Which means. Oh my God. Of course.

  I whip around to Indigo. “Your dad is Zeta.” He doesn’t deny it, and his face admits it. “You were all born into this.”

  “Chronometric Augmentation is genetic,” Blue says.

  “Blue, shut up!” Violet says again. “She can’t know this!” She launches herself at Blue, but he pushes her aside.

  “No!” he yells. “Why shouldn’t she know the truth? If she’s going to be one of us, she has a right to know.”

  “No, she doesn’t.” She jumps toward Blue again. “She doesn’t even belong here. She’s not one of us.”

  “She does belong here,” Indigo says, pushing himself between Blue and Violet. “Alpha chose her. It’s not right that they’re still keeping her in the dark like this.”

  Everyone breathes heavy, and we all exchange glances, as if we’re daring one another to make a move.

  Indigo blinks first. He grabs my hand and spins me to look at him. “Our grandfathers started Annum Guard. Their children took their place. And now it falls to us. That’s how it’s always been. Until you.”

  He glances at the door, and Blue and Violet do the same.

  “She’s not supposed to know any of this,” Violet says.

  “Violet, hush,” Indigo says. But now he looks nervous. Like he’s about to change his mind.