The Eighth Guardian (16 page)

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.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Why until me?”

Blue jerks his head to me and juts his chin up in the air. “You’re the first outsider. You weren’t born into this like we were. The government is using you to decide whether they want to expand us to a host of outsiders.”

Outsider. He’s now said it twice. They
all
view me as an outsider. But I already know this.

“How is it that I’m able to project then?” I ask.

“Alpha took your DNA,” Indigo says, and just like that I’m snapped back to waking up in a cold, sterile room, strapped to a gurney with a needle in my arm. I never bought the “routine physical” line, obviously, but it’s nice to finally know the truth. “He took it, and they injected it into one of the Annum watches. Ergo, you can now project.”

My head is swimming. They stole me from school, from Abe, from my mom, from every truth I’ve ever known. They stole from my body. They used me. It’s too much. It’s all just too much.

I bolt out of the library, then out the front door. An alarm sounds as I go, but I don’t slow down. I have to get away from here. The cars are barreling down Beacon Street, but I fly into the road. A big black SUV slams on its brakes, missing me by inches, and I bang my fists on its hood before darting past it.

“Iris!” a voice behind me yells.

I’m across the street now. I turn back to see Indigo shouting to me. “Iris, come back!”

I tear down the steps into Boston Common. The Frog Pond is to my right, Park Street to my left. I run straight, as fast as my legs will carry me.

“Iris!”

Indigo isn’t far behind me, I can tell. He’s faster than I am. He’s going to catch me at this pace. I bend down and sprint toward the other side of the park, toward Tremont Street. It’s close. There’s a bustling downtown shopping district on the other side. If I can make it across the street, I can lose Indigo no problem.

There’s a pizza shop on the other side of the street. It’s all I’m looking at. That’s my target. I’m at the street, still running full steam. I take a breath and leap out onto Tremont when a strong arm grabs me and yanks me back.

A bus barrels through the intersection.

I gasp.

A bus.

I look into the eyes of a very shaken young businessman. He releases his grip on me, and his mouth pops open as his briefcase clunks to the sidewalk. I stare back at him, panting hard. And then another hand grabs my shoulder from behind. I don’t have to turn.