Inquest (5 page)

“Thanks, Jen.
Tell your uncle thanks for me. I’d tell him myself, but…”

She nods. Her
uncle is only willing to let this happen if he never has to see me
and be reminded of who he is allowing into his establishment.

“I’ll drive
you over,” Jen says. “I’m sure you want to get out of here as much
as I do.”

I agree
heartily. We rise together, and I find myself facing Inquisitor
Moore again. His face is pained, almost as much as the first time
we saw each other after my dad died. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to
do more for you tonight, Libby. I want to help you, but…” His voice
dies away in shame.

“We need a
good Inquisitor here, one who knows the people, and who everyone
trusts,” I finish for him. He offers me a weak smile, but his guilt
doesn’t dissipate. “Besides,” I continue, “you’ve done more for me
in stopping that Guardian from killing me than I had any right to
expect. I came here tonight knowing I would probably die. You kept
me from dying long enough for Howe to grant me his twisted mercy.
You gave me two years I never thought I would have.”

Both his and
Jen’s eyes burst wide in shock. “You knew?” Inquisitor Moore
asks.

I nod. I never
planned on telling him, but I can’t walk away from him leaving him
feeling so guilty.

“How long?” he
asks at the same time Jen does.

“I figured it
out when I was seven. Dad didn’t see it until I was ten, though. I
tried to hide it from him, but he figured it out anyway. Sometimes
I think he only doubted me because his Perception caught the lie. I
never slipped up around him, never.”

He always was
too smart for his own good. Of course, he always said the exact
same thing about me, too.

“Without doing
an Inquest?” Jen asked. “How could he figure out who you were
without doing an Inquest?”

Inquisitor
Moore shakes his head. “Andrew Sparks was the most talented
Perceptive I have ever met. He didn’t need an Inquest to see
anything.” Bone-deep pain bubbles to the surface of Inquisitor
Moore’s features, making him shrink in on himself even more. “Maybe
if Andrew were still alive he would have known what to do. Maybe he
would have been able to set things right.”

“No,” I say
forcefully, bitterly, “he wouldn’t have been able to do anything
more than you.”

They stare at
me, Jen in confusion, Inquisitor Moore in curious doubt, but the
force of my statement is enough to forestall any questions.

“It’s late,”
Inquisitor Moore says. “Jennifer, you’d better take Libby to your
uncle’s hotel. I’ll have your car dropped off there as well, Libby.
Call me if you need anything. I’ll try to help you the best I
can.”

“I know you
will. Thanks, Papa Moore.”

He smiles at
the nickname I gave him years before when I thought he really was
my grandfather. We hug each other tightly before Jen and I leave
for the hotel, which turns out to be much nicer than I expected.
Jen takes care of getting the keys from the front desk.

Now we both
stand in the middle of the room surveying it. Clean, is my first
thought. I worried the whole ride over that I would be afraid to
lie down at night. My second thought is how small it is. My bedroom
back home was at least twice as big. My third thought, the one that
actually manages to put a small smile on my mouth, is that it’s
empty. No spiteful mother hovering over me with her hateful glares
and barbed remarks. She has disowned me in every practical sense of
the word, but maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.

“What do you
think?” Jen asks.

“It’s great. I
like it, actually.”

She frowns.
“Are you sure?” Glancing back at the dimly lit parking lot, her
frown deepens.

“Don’t worry,
Jen, I’ll be fine. This is actually pretty nice. And it really
doesn’t look that scary out there. It’s too close to the museums to
have too much crime, I bet.”

“You have your
cell phone?”

I pull it out
of my pocket for her to see, noticing that my service bars are
still full. Mom hasn’t gotten around to cancelling it yet, I guess.
That probably won’t last long. But Jen doesn’t need to know that
right now.

“Jen, I’ll be
fine.”

“I know, but…I
hate this, Libby.”

“I know.”

Her fingers
tighten around her keys. “I’d stay and make sure you’re settled in
okay, but my parents don’t know where I am and they’ll start
freaking out soon, especially if they realize I’m with you. I’m
sorry, Libby.”

Normally Jen
doesn’t worry too much about her parents’ wishes, but I understand
why she does when it comes to this. Both of her parents are
Guardians. “Quit apologizing, Jen. None of this is your fault. Go
home. Get some sleep. I’ll see you at school in the morning,
okay?”

“Okay,” she
says after a moment’s hesitation. “Call me if you need
anything.”

I nod that I
will and watch her slip out of the room. The rumble of her car
retreating is the only sound in the night air. It fades away and
leaves nothing behind. Jen and Inquisitor Moore are my only allies,
but even they are limited in what they’re willing to give. As the
terrible knowledge of what I am spreads, I wonder if their tenuous
help will break under the flood. The man who I called Papa, the
friend I would do anything for, in the end I know they will abandon
me just as surely as my own mother has. I am alone. In every sense
of the word imaginable.

The emptiness
of the room that had given me a burst of satisfaction just a few
moments ago suddenly takes on weight, crushing against me until my
knees buckle. Falling to the floor amid my bags, my entire
collection of possessions, I stare blankly at the wall in front of
me. Two years. Of this. Maybe that isn’t the gift I thought it was
after all.

Chapter 4

Unaware

Staring at the
school’s double doors from my car, I beg myself to turn the key and
simply drive away. I don’t want to face this. I can’t stand the
idea of running into Lance today. Seeing any shade of hatred in his
eyes will break me. After last night, I feel as weak as a kitten.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m mad as hell at him for turning on me, but
his betrayal is still too fresh to let my anger overpower the
crushing hurt. There is no way I can be anywhere near him
today.

My hand
refuses to turn the ignition. Ditching is tolerated as long as it
isn’t excessive, but only before a student’s Inquest. After, one
class missed and the Concealment Officers are scouring the streets
for you. The idea of being caught by those thugs again makes me
shiver hard enough that the keys I’m touching jangle anxiously.
Talent training is taken way too seriously. Especially since most
of the students will be slotted into mundane jobs like accounting
or business management.

Only a select
few actually become part of the lifeblood that keeps our society
together, the Specialists, people whose talents are so profound
that they can use them to police, find, or see in ways others
cannot. But it doesn’t matter that so few are chosen, the process
of examining the teenage population for the gems is more important
than anything else. We wouldn’t survive without the Specialists. At
least that’s what the Guardians believe.

Slowly, I pull
my keys from the ignition and take a deep breath. This is going to
be hell.

The walk from
my car to the doors passes in strained silence. I’m early. I wanted
to try and slip into my first class before anyone else could notice
me. The problem, I realize as I stand in the empty hallway, is that
I have no idea what class I’m supposed to be going to. My Inquest
will have changed my schedule, dramatically. I only had my old
schedule for barely two weeks. All of my electives will be replaced
with talent training. Which leads to another problem. I only had
four electives before, but now I have seven talents. My feet drag
me toward the office as I wonder if they will even be able to fit
everything in.

They
can’t.

I stare at my
new schedule and try to keep the bile in the bottom of my stomach
where it belongs. My first three periods cover the only three
general education classes I’m still required to take, English,
History, and Trigonometry. Get the unimportant ones out of the way
first, I suppose. My fourth hour makes me want to cry and throw the
tacky grey chair I’m sitting on across the floor at the same time.
Speed and Strength training. Lance will be in that class. All the
football players will be there with him, training to become
Guardians. With their Guardian blades strapped precariously around
their left arms.

My fingers
reach up and touch the scab that formed over where Lance’s blade
nicked me last night. I can’t face that again. But what choice do I
have? Blocking myself from even thinking about it, I scan the rest
of my schedule. Spiritualism and Perception training in place of
lunch and fifth hour, Concealment and Vision together in sixth hour
since those two are so commonly paired, Naturalism seventh. That
should have been the end, seven classes, but I spot one more
lurking at the end of the list. My Class Preparatory Course, the
first time this class has ever been offered at any school anywhere.
Destroyer 101.

“You got to be
kidding me. I can’t believe this.”

I was talking
more to myself than Principal Andrews, but she answers me anyway.
“What I can’t believe is that I’m even being forced to let you step
foot back in my school. President Howe’s orders or not, it’s insane
that they’re making me train the…train you.”

“You don’t
have a choice,” I say without looking at her.

“I am well
aware of that,” she snaps. “He called me last night and demanded I
let you return to school. I have no idea what this is about, but I
will not let you terrorize this school.”

“I have no
intention of terrorizing anyone,” I say, just as incensed as she
is.

I get Howe’s
reasoning for keeping me alive, but not for forcing me to go back
to school. Refusing to let me come back would have isolated me,
challenged my confidence, and may have even led me toward
depression and paranoia. I would have been more likely to make
mistakes or act out. Why keep me here with everyone else, training
me to fulfill my destiny, when that is the exact opposite of what
he should be doing? President Howe is vicious and smart, the most
powerful and evil of all the Guardians. He wouldn’t be president if
he wasn’t. Nobody votes the president in, he takes it by force. He
wouldn’t have done this without a good reason. There is a reason he
chose to subject me to high school rather than exile. It could be a
simple desire to keep an eye on me, but I doubt that.

“If it were up
to me you’d be locked up right now,” Principal Andrews continues,
interrupting my thoughts and striking a not so pleasant nerve with
me. I glare up at her with my class schedule clenched between my
fingers.

“I haven’t
done anything! They don’t have any right to touch me!”

She pulls away
from me visibly, and says, “Yet.”

That single
word quells my burst of anger and makes me shrink back. She claimed
not to know the full story behind me not being dead, but her
comment makes me wonder how much she really knows. I don’t want to
think about it too deeply so I force my attention back to my
schedule. It does not make me feel any better. The silence of her
office feels so oppressive. I say the first thing I can think of to
alleviate it.

“When do I eat
lunch?” I ask. I hate how weak my voice sounds. I hate even more
how Principal Andrews’ voice has gone from angry to fearful in the
face of my outburst.

“You’ll have
to eat between classes. There just wasn’t enough room for you to
have a lunch break. There wasn’t even enough time to fit all your
classes into the regular seven periods. I did the best I could.
You’ll just have to make it work, Ca…Libby,” Principal Andrews
sputters.

Her falter at
the end makes me sink in on myself even more. Usually she insists
on calling every student by their true name. She can’t force
herself to utter mine or even make herself look at me now. She’s
staring at the papers in front of her like they might jump up and
devour her face if she takes her eyes off them. I can’t help
wanting to slap her.

“You may go,
Libby. First period starts in five minutes.”

Anger hot
enough to sear the fear right out of me flares to life. “Thank you
for your help, Principal Andrews,” I say through clenched teeth.
The fury in my voice shocks her enough to finally make her look up
at me. She flinches away almost instantly. The pen in her hand is
rattling against her papers as I hastily pull down my shirt sleeve
to make sure my diktats are covered. She cringes at the
movement.

In a moment of
clarity I realize she’s honestly terrified of me underneath her
earlier anger. She has known me for years, and she’s afraid I’m
going to hurt her. Anger morphs into twisting nausea, hitting me
and making me stumble out of the room. The hallway is bustling with
people trying to make it to class on time, but I barely notice
them.

I have a death
grip on my bag and simply stand against the wall taking deep
breaths, waiting for my heart and stomach to calm back down. My
heart wins the race, but my stomach seems content to stay as it is.
Shrill and irritating, the warning bell rips through the hallway.
Students dart into classrooms. I have to force myself to push away
from the wall and trudge through my first three periods. It takes
nearly inhuman strength to make myself walk into the gym locker
room and dress down for Speed and Strength training.

The shorts and
t-shirt I pull on are familiar, but the strip of painted fabric I
strap around my left wrist is a new addition. I made it last night
in an attempt to muddle through some of my emotions. The fuchsia
fabric I started with can barely even be seen beneath the angry
slashes of black, electric blue blotches, and splashes of nearly
every other color I had on hand. Color and lines usually do wonders
for calming me, but last night I was too close to bursting to do
much more than take the edge off. Not much has changed since then.
I trudge out of the locker room feeling ready to either puke or
hurt someone, or possibly both.