The Eighth Guardian (Annum Guard) Read online

  Stop it.

  Stop thinking about Abe. That won’t help.

  And then one of the doors opens. The door to the corner house. A girl about my age steps out. She has an impossibly small waist, and her mauve dress with ivory lace trim sweeps across the floor as she turns to let an older man pass. Her father. Must be. He takes her hand, and she shrugs her shoulders to keep her shawl from falling. Her head whips back toward the door, as if she hears something, and her tendrils of light-brown spiral curls follow. Now she’s laughing, turning back around, and—

  She sees me.

  I freeze.

  But that doesn’t change the fact that she sees me. She reaches out and points.

  “What’s that?” she asks her father. “That boy with the long hair. What is he wearing?”

  I bristle at being called a boy, but only for a second. I push off the wall and run as fast as my legs will carry me back down the street I came from. I stop halfway and sink down so that I’m sitting with my back against a black door in the middle of a redbrick wall.

  What the hell is going on? Seriously. I look down into my lap. That girl back in the courtyard thought I was a boy. It wouldn’t be the first time. I have a boyish frame—no hips, no chest—and I put on muscle really easily. But my hair is long right now. I never get mistaken for a boy when I have long hair. It has to be because of my clothes. I’m wearing my old Peel uniform: a white shirt, a navy blazer, and a pair of khaki pants I chose over a skirt because it was a little chilly.

  Pants.

  That girl thinks I’m a boy because I’m wearing pants.

  Who the hell mistakes a girl for a boy just because she’s wearing pants? What is this, the nineteenth century?

  A pit forms in my stomach. Of course not. That’s a ridiculous thought. But I can’t help letting myself think the obvious. That what Alpha said before was true. That he gave me the ability to travel back in time, and now I’m here—wherever this is—trapped in a different era.

  Your mission is simple, Alpha’s voice echoes in my head. Get back. Leave from the place where you started.

  Could it be possible? Could I actually be in a different time?

  No. No way. I’m being messed with. Alpha is trying to wear me down for some reason I haven’t figured out yet. He wants something from me. This is an elaborate setup with a bunch of people in period costume meant to throw me off guard.

  Well, that’s not going to happen. All I have to do is determine where I am, and I’ll be out of here so fast Alpha won’t know what hit him.

  I stand up, take a breath, and walk to the other end of the alleyway, to where the guy in the horse-drawn carriage was. Another horse clomps down the street in front of me, but I shake my head and ignore it. Elaborate setup, I repeat in my head.

  I step out of the alley and immediately know where I am.

  Boston.

  I grew up in Vermont, but my mom would take me to the city to go shopping several times a year. Always in August to hit up Filene’s Basement right before school started. Always in December to buy Christmas gifts and ice-skate in the Common. And always one Saturday in the spring, at the first kiss of warmer weather. My mom would want to ride the swan boats in the Public Garden, though she’d never say anything as we drifted across the water. She’d close her eyes and inhale and do that thing she does where she purses her lips together really tight because she’s trying not to cry. And then I’d turn away and pretend to be looking at daffodils because my mom does that a lot and it never gets any easier to watch.

  I can see the lake in the Public Garden from where I’m standing. It’s to the right and down the hill. Boston Common is directly in front of me, and the huge dome of the Massachusetts State House is looming over me. But it’s not gold like it usually is. It’s only partly gold but mostly this dismal leaden-gray color. It almost looks like they’re in the middle of gilding it.

  That doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t need to be regilded. At least I don’t think it does.

  There’s a clomp-clomp-clomp sound getting louder. I look down the street and jump away as yet another horse-drawn carriage rides past. A small boy hangs out of the back.

  “Mummy,” he says. “Look at that boy in the funny pants. Why is his hair so long?”

  A young mother gasps from inside the carriage and smacks her son’s hand down.

  “James, you’re being impolite!” she scolds as the carriage rides away.

  Every hair on my arm stands on end as I follow their carriage out of sight. Because there are more carriages. Dozens of them. And there are men and women walking by, giving me strange looks. The men have on top hats and suits, the women long, sweeping dresses. A man passes by me with a torch, lighting the streetlamps.

  I blink.

  This is real.

  There is no way you can fake this. You can’t fake the entire city of Boston.

  My eyes fly back to the Public Garden. To the pond. It’s dusk, but there’s enough light that I can see as clear as day that there aren’t any swan boats on that lake. I have to be stuck in a different time, a time before there were any swan boats.

  A young man bumps his shoulder into mine and immediately jumps back.

  “Oy!” he yells. “Watch where you’re going.” He looks me up and down, and I do the same. This guy is probably about my age, but that’s where the similarity ends. His clothes are dirty and torn, and his hair is unwashed. A layer of grime coats his skin, although even that doesn’t conceal the acne covering nearly every inch of his face. And then he takes a step toward me. I have at least four inches on him.

  “Give me your money,” he demands.

  I don’t think so. This little punk is not going to rob me—not like I have any money on me anyway.

  “No,” I tell the pint-size thug.

  He reaches into his pocket, and I see a flash of metal. I grab his arm, twist it around, and force the knife out of his hand. It clatters to the cobblestone street. That makes two knife attacks I’ve deflected in one day.

  A woman screams a few yards away, and there’s a scuffling of footsteps as people try to get away. Two policemen wearing tall domed hats and carrying nightsticks push through the crowd to get to us.

  Do not interact with anyone. Alpha’s warning rings in my ears once again. But this time I ignore it.

  I’ve already talked to this boy. I can’t let these cops catch me. Best-case scenario, they’ll want to talk. Worst-case, they’ll pitch me into a jail cell.

  I push the punk kid to the ground and take off down the same street as before. I round the corner to the street lined with brownstones, then look back. The cops aren’t following me. I pause and wait, just to make sure, but no one comes. Dodged a bullet there. But I’ve got to get out of these clothes. They’re killing me.

  My hand starts tingling. The knapsack. I’d forgotten about it, even though I’m clutching it so hard the pattern of the cloth’s weaving is embedded in my skin. I kneel down and drop it into my lap. I fiddle with the tie until it opens, then I upend it. A mess of black fabric and a black, metal, twisted skeleton key fall into my lap. I set the key aside and unfurl the fabric. It’s a dress. It’s full-length with long sleeves, and that’s about all there is to it. I’ve never done more than sew a button on to a shirt, but I bet I could make this thing myself.

  Still, it beats khaki pants in terms of blending in, so I glance both ways to make sure no one’s coming. The entire street is deserted. I slip my blazer and shirt over my head. For one quick second I look down at the red lump on my forearm. Where there’s now a tracker. A tracker.

  I yank on the ugly dress and grunt as I try to wriggle it down my body. I kick off my shoes, slip off my pants, and hop up, swishing my hips side to side as I try to pull down the dress. It barely makes it. And I mean barely makes it. The seams are stretched so tight I see them straining, as if they’re about to
give up and split open.

  Please don’t split open, I tell them.

  I can barely move, so bending over is out of the question. I catch the strap of the knapsack with my toe and kick it up in the air. My fingers snatch it, and I shove my hand in to pull out the shoes . . . only there are no shoes. The sack is empty.

  Of course it is.

  I shove my feet back into my Peel-issued oxfords, and without thinking, I bend down to help my heels in.

  R-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-P!

  Someone is laughing. Someone else is here. My head whips up to see a guy and a girl about my age, arm in arm, standing in front of a brownstone several yards away. The guy is average height but very thin, like a marathon runner, with sandy hair and a relaxed face. The girl is miniature sized. If her driver’s license says she’s five feet tall, it’s a lie. Both avert their gaze and turn onto the next street. Something feels off.

  I grab my pants, jacket, and shirt and shove them into the knapsack, then toss the skeleton key on top. In one quick movement, I tie my navy-and-crimson Peel tie around my waist. It does nothing to hide the fact that there’s a huge tear along the side seam. My charm bracelet slides down on my wrist until it’s exposed. It’s very out of place for wherever—whenever—I am, so I fiddle with the clasp; but it sticks and it won’t budge and that couple is getting away. I don’t know why, but I need to follow them. So I tuck the bracelet under my sleeve, grab the knapsack, and run.

  The couple is almost to the end of the street, back onto Beacon Street. I chase after them, but as soon as I make it to the street, I’ve lost them. I scan left and right, but they’re nowhere to be seen. The cops are still there, one of them holding the arm of the kid who tried to rob me. He’s begging and pleading, and . . . whatever. Punk. You deserve it. I turn my head toward the Public Garden.

  Forget the couple for now. I need to figure out where I am.

  When I am.

  I draw in my breath. Can it be possible? Could I really have traveled back in time? What was that fancy term Alpha used? Something Augmentation?

  I jump back as a horse-drawn cart barrels down Charles Street, then fall in line next to a man with a thin mustache wearing a shopkeeper’s apron and cross into the Garden. Every year the swan boat drivers would talk about the history of the boats and when they first started, and I can’t remember what they said. Why hadn’t I paid better attention all those years? And the dome! In middle school we’d taken an American history class field trip to Boston and toured the state house, and I know they told us when the dome had been gilded, but I can’t remember that either.

  I close my eyes and breathe. I imagine my Practical Studies professor’s voice in my head, telling me to slow down and focus and let the answer come to me. But then I hear the clomp-clomp-clomp of another horse and the dress starts itching and I sway to the side as a high-pitched wail brought on by extreme sleep deprivation erupts in my eardrums, and I can’t do it. I can’t focus. I open my eyes.

  I hate myself in this moment. I wish I could just whip out my phone, open the browser, and look it up.

  Well, why can’t I, exactly? Maybe I’m in some sort of weird universe where I have a network connection.

  It sounds weak even as I think it, but still I dig around in the knapsack until I find the back pocket of my pants. My fingers tighten around the phone, and I pull it out, trying to be as inconspicuous as I can. I look down to unlock it and . . . nothing. The screen is dark. I hit the power button, but nothing happens. It’s fried.

  There’s laughing again. My head whips up, and the same couple I saw before, standing on the bridge. The guy bites his lip and turns his head when he sees me, but his head bobs as if he’s chuckling. But not the girl. She looks at me with eyes that spit fire before she raises a bony hand and tucks a stray white-blond hair behind her ear.

  And then I see it. Because even though that girl is dressed in a long, green-striped gown with a corseted waist and several pickups on the skirt, and even though her hair is half pinned up and tucked underneath a flat hat that matches the dress, that bitch is wearing a sparkly pink plastic running watch.

  This couple reports to Alpha, I’m sure of it. They’re Annum Guard, too.

  Annum Guard. The words float around in my head. Can it be true? Can there really be a secret government organization that travels back in time? The answer is staring me in the face, screaming at me.

  YES.

  But how can people time travel? Like, my brain cannot even begin to process this. I need to get back. Back to my time. Then I’ll get some answers.

  I turn away from the couple and stare straight at the dome up on the hill. A man and a woman approach me, he in a suit that looks like something from a really pretentious wedding and she in a light-gray pinstriped dress that’s collected about three inches of dust on the hem. I step out of their way. I’m sure I still look pretty ridiculous in a torn dress with a silk tie wrapped around my waist, and let’s not forget about the shoes; but the couple don’t even blink as they saunter past.

  I close my eyes and take a breath. I know the swan boat drivers said the boats dated back to eighteen something. Same thing with the gilding of the dome. Think think think think think. I take a breath and close my eyes. Please focus. And then I remember that the tour guide said something about how they wanted to gild it earlier on, but then the Civil War broke out and they had to spend the money on that until the war ended.

  The Civil War ended in 1865, thank you very much, every American history class I’ve ever taken. So we’re somewhere between 1865 and 1899.

  Back to the swan boats. Focus. Focus. My mom and I haven’t ridden in the boats since I moved away to go to school. The last time we went, I was in the eighth grade. It wasn’t a huge anniversary for the boats, like the hundredth or two hundredth; but the number ended with a zero, so everyone was acting as if it was the biggest deal in the world, which I remember thinking was pretty lame. What was it?

  And then, like magic, the number floats into my head. I can see the sign hanging behind the ticket counter with fireworks and balloons, proclaiming the anniversary.

  So subtract that from the year, and I get that the swan boats were started in 1877, which means, Hallelujah, praise Jesus, I am a freaking genius! I am sometime between 1865 and 1876.

  Except that now I’m totally stuck.

  I drop my head into my hands and rub my eyes. My nose is all sniffly. That always happens when I’m so tired I can barely keep my head up. I can’t process anything. Just as soon as a thought enters my head, it’s out. Time travel is real. I’m hallucinating. I’m going to wake up from a bad dream in my dorm room at Peel. The thoughts all swirl together. I need to keep moving. Moving will help me stay focused.

  I look both ways to make sure a horse isn’t about to mow me down again and walk into Boston Common. There has to be a trash can around, right? Maybe someone will toss in a newspaper and I’ll find it, like Michael J. Fox did in Back to the Future. Mom and I watched that movie a lot. On her good days.

  I’m halfway across the Common when it hits me. The smell. I was so worked up before that I didn’t pay attention, but the scent is there, sure as day. It’s a musty, sweet smell blown in on the wind. I’ve lived in New England my entire life, so I know that smell. It’s fall.

  One glance up confirms it. It’s dark out, but there’s enough light to notice the yellow and orange leaves looming over me. The dead ones, long tossed from their branches, crunch beneath my feet. So I left during the fall in the present, and now I’m in the fall in the past. Somehow this is comforting.

  I stop. I can’t remember what I was doing. I sniffle again. Oh. Right. Trash cans. I blink. Did I really just center a plan around a plot point in an ’80s movie and think that was a good idea? What is wrong with me? I’ve been trained better than this. I am better than this.

  But still, I glance around to see
if I can spot any trash cans, because you never know. I don’t see a single one. I sigh and walk toward the state house. Maybe someone is selling an evening edition of the newspaper?

  I have no plan. This is awful. If this was another Testing Day challenge, I’d fail.

  I stop in my tracks and gasp. What if this is another Testing Day challenge? Oh my God, why didn’t I think of this before? There’s a Testing Day that’s legendary around Peel’s campus. Testing Day: 1995, also known as the Testing Day That Would Not End.

  There was the twelve-hour written test, followed by the three challenges, followed by the banquet. But then armed guards wearing all black and night vision goggles cut the electricity, stormed the place, captured all the juniors and seniors, and took them to a remote location off-campus for more testing. One kid died. A junior. There was never an official cause of death, but if there was a box for “Testing Day from Hell” on the coroner’s report, you can bet it would have been checked.

  What if this is like 1995 all over again? I’m not done! I haven’t graduated yet. I’m still a student. I have to work my way back to the present, and then Testing Day will finally be over. Holy crap, this could all be a drill!

  Suddenly, the idea of a secret government organization that has the ability to time travel doesn’t sound so far-fetched to me. I mean, you would be surprised at all the stuff the government can do, and I only know about a small sliver of it. I can imagine how shocked I’ll be when I get full clearance.

  Full clearance. I blow out my breath. Time to get serious. What was the plan? Oh, right, newsboys. That is a stupid plan, and not just because there aren’t any newsboys at the state house.

  Focus.

  There’s a shuffling of footsteps behind me, and I turn just as two men wander up to look at the dome. The guy and the girl who are tailing me are half a block away, and the guy leans in to the girl and whispers something in her ear when he sees me looking at him. For a split second I think about waving, but I’m sure that would violate the no-interaction rule. And I’m not about to blow this now.