Protecting Truth (2 page)

If Bishop knew how hard I’d been working on defense, how far I’ve come, I think it would not only upset him, but perhaps his quiet, sensitive ways would mislead him to believe that I don’t need him. Or more absurdly, that I don’t want him. And if possibly hurting him isn’t bad enough, my actions might tip him off to my ultimate plan: to go back in time and save my mother from the Underground—to finally finish what I started.

This time would be different, of course, because now I know my mom isn’t dead. All my life I’d believed she died in a car accident because that’s what my family believes. But last semester I saw her for myself, during a disastrous meeting with Cece, the head of the Underground—enemies of the Society of Wanderers. At the time, I was so naive that I walked Bishop and myself into a trap, a trap arranged by our backstabbing classmates Perpetua, Stu, and Jessica. In the end, Bishop and I barely escaped from the Underground with our lives.

So when I go back to face Cece and find my mom, I’ll do it alone, without Bishop. I need to protect him from the truth and never allow Cece to hurt him or anyone else I care for, ever again.

A creeping sound breaks my concentration.

Still on edge from thinking about the Underground, I sit up and glance around.

“Who’s there?”

::2::
Turner

My body tenses, scanning for a figure creeping against the darkened mirrors. Out of the stillness, a boy speaks.

“She rests quietly in darkness/under a perfect cloudless sky/dreaming of Seraphim angels/with which she conspires,” the boy recites. But whether the words are his own poetry or someone else’s, I’m not sure.

Hearing his familiar voice, raspy with a British accent, I relax. “Haven’t you heard it’s not nice to sneak up on people?”

“You seem so peaceful resting there. I dare say, it compelled me to speak in verse,” he says in a playful, sophisticated tone.

“You’re weird, Turner.” A point I have never said out loud but have thought often.

“Quite possibly.” He flicks the light switch on. I glance up from where I rest.

He leans lazily against the wall with his arms across his chest, hands resting on his shoulders, a strange pose he often takes. His dark wavy hair, a well-coordinated mess, falls into his eyes and frames his cheekbones. His physical appearance, that of a fraternal twin, is similar in beauty to Bishop’s, but different, in a darker, complex manner. The intensity of his silvery slate-colored eyes always hold my gaze until they embarrass me, and I’m forced to look away, face red and burning with heat.

“I hate it when you stare at me like that,” I say, to make him feel as guilty as I do.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Seraphina.” He strolls forward with dramatic confidence.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“Why?”

“Just don’t. Okay?” The longer, formal version of my name feels of a more intimate nature, one that I exclusively reserve for Bishop.

“As you wish, my lady.” He bows as though rolling an imaginary feather cap from his head, and then he holds out his palm. A small package sits inside his curled fingers.

“For you,” he says.

“What’s this?” I grab the box.

“Don’t know. Ms. Midgenet asked me to deliver it.” He unsnaps the cuffs of his long-sleeve shirt and then rolls them up to his elbows while I inspect the package.

I turn the brown paper-covered box around in my hand and squint at the return address. One glance leaves me electrified. I hadn’t expected the delivery to arrive so quickly. I repress a smile, remembering Turner always watches me closely. Too closely. I clear my throat.

“Thanks,” I say, pulling myself from the floor.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” He cocks his head, trying to decipher the look on my face.

“Later.” I shrug. I dip the box behind my back and hope the old phrase “out of sight, out of mind” holds true.

“Really?” A mischievous smile rolls across his lips. “I think,” he says, looking at the ceiling as though he’s in deep contemplation, then starts to pace with a finger at his lips. He stops and turns to face me. “No. We should open it now!” He charges, swipes the tiny box from my hands, and vanishes, running in the opposite direction, out the door of the training room.

Without thinking, I chase after him. His speed, a blur in time, is unmatched by any other student Protector. And I, of course, am merely a Wanderer, not the team member normally known for speed.

When I reach the door, he’s already rounded the corner at the opposite end of the hallway, two hundred feet away, headed through Olde Town, the ancient underground city below Washington Square Academy for Wanderers.

Desperation forces me forward. The last thing I want is for him to open the package. But I know that, being Turner, he will. After so many of his childish pranks, I’m convinced the boy walks this earth to aggravate me.

Several hundred stairs later, I find him, as expected, in the laboratory. Chalkboards with scientific diagrams, inventions, and complex contraptions cram the claustrophobic space. Each seems to be of another, earlier century, although what they do is beyond current technology. Silver steam crawls through at regular intervals. I suspect the fog has much to do with the weather machine Professor Raunnebaum designed to keep Olde Town a perfect, year round, seventy-two degrees.

I maneuver around several intricate machines with large cranks, bronze pipes, and multicolored gauges. If I weren’t so obsessed with defending myself from possible meetings with the Underground and finding my mom, I might visit this room more often to investigate all the intriguing inventions. And maybe, I amend, if the annoying Turner weren’t here all the time, working as the professor’s assistant.

Thick smoke clears just enough to notice the small ripped pieces of brown paper at my feet. Little shreds, like pieces of bread, wind their way through the room on the floor, making a trail especially designed for me to follow. The paper trail can only mean one thing. Turner’s opened my package.

I grind to a stop. Angry heat rushes to my face. My hands clench at my sides, and I consider my options. It’s important to keep my feelings under wraps. I cannot, under any circumstances, allow him to know the importance of the package’s contents.

Taking deep breaths, I control my temper. My blood pressure drops, and I relax my shoulders. When I regain my composure, I walk on to find him.

Turner appears out of a puff of hazy smoke. He smiles, pleased with himself. His sculpted arms hang lazily, flung over the back of a mohair-covered couch. He tilts his head back, relaxing his neck, and stares at the wood-beamed ceiling.

“Seraphina, you’re so incredibly slow,” he says in an exasperated drawl.

“Please don’t call me that.” I frown.

He lifts his head and careless black locks of hair fall forward, partially covering his face. Dazzling eyes land intently on mine, again. Always staring. Turner’s eyes always seem to search mine in that sultry manner. What is he looking for?

I look away from his annoyingly handsome face. My gaze falls on the box. It rests on an overstuffed ottoman before him. He’s unwrapped the outer paper. From here, it’s unclear if he’s opened the box to see what’s inside.

“Don’t you want to open it?” He smirks.

I exhale, attempting to act unfazed, but don’t answer.

“Don’t worry, you can take it now. I’ve had my fun,” he says seriously, but I’m not sure if he’s teasing, still playing games.

I raise my eyebrows and place my hands on my hips, remaining silent.

“Really, take it. It’s yours, after all.”

My eyes never leave his, no matter how uncomfortable they make me feel. He enjoys toying with me, so I’m not positive if he will jump up, grab the box, and disappear again.

I inch toward the ottoman. When my shins butt against the edge, I bend down and quickly scoop up the package. My fingers curl around its edges and I relax, knowing it’s in my possession again.

“See, I told you.”

“Whatever, Turner. Really, you’re a pain, you know?”

“I try.” He grins. “Seriously, why don’t you open it?”

“Later!” Completely agitated, I turn to walk away.

“Professor Raunnebaum mentioned that you needed to discuss something with me,” he calls out.

Right. I forgot. I swing around. “Yeah—that. I need a few more defense holograms.”

“Already? You’ve mastered all thirty-six?”

“Yeah.” I cough, waving away a silver plume of smoke.

“I’m impressed.” He’s thoughtful for a moment. “Although, it seems unnecessary to program more defense routines when Bishop returns tomorrow, and your Defense Arts classes will start soon.”

“About that—”

“Yes?” He says the word with cautious curiosity.

I pace, looking at the floor. “I was hoping—I—we—could keep my summer defense training off the record? I mean…” I exhale, looking for the proper words, ones that seem less alarming. “Of course, Bishop knows I’ve been practicing, but I really don’t want him or anyone to know how intently I’ve been working.” I hesitate and stop to face him. “Like a surprise,” I lie with a tight smile.

He sits in attention, folding his hands on his legs and leans into the conversation. “Really?”

“Yes.” I begin to pace again. “In fact, I want to continue the lessons, shall we say—on the side. Quietly, of course.”

“Hmm.” He sinks into the maroon couch, regarding me with suspicion.

Clocks tick, machines crank, and another plume of smoke rolls through the room. But he doesn’t answer. He only looks at his fingernails, acting preoccupied and bored.

“Well?” I put my hand on my hip.

“Well—you know how I would love to keep the secret for you, but…” He waves his hand with a dismissive flip.

“But—what?” Nerves jolt my body. I cross my arms, trying to control myself. Even telling Turner as little as this without an agreement could create real tension between him and Bishop. I can imagine Turner now, acting like a child, taunting Bishop with the secrets he knows. I roll my eyes, pushing the thought out of my head.

“You’re putting me in quite a predicament,” Turner finally responds.

“Do tell, Turner.” I lean on a nearby machine.

“Well, if Bishop were to ever find out, it would be my extremely handsome head on a platter.”

“That’s the whole idea. He can’t find out,” I force through gritted teeth.

“Well then, I’m afraid, I won’t be able to help you. I’m endeavoring to be a better brother.”

“Ha!” I say reflexively, but when I inspect him closer, he isn’t smiling. “Are you serious?”

“Quite.” He nods.

“Of all the times he has to choose to be a good brother,” I snarl under my breath, and turn to stomp away.

“That is, of course, unless you want to tell me what you’re doing with this lovely relic you ordered from Rome?”

::3::
A Challenge

I stop in my tracks when he says the words and realize the box in my hand is empty. My anger multiplies a thousandfold when I spin to see the new relic I just ordered from Rome, a black beaded rosary, hanging from his fingertips.

“It’s a pretty little thing, Sera.” He looks at me. “So where might this lovely relic be taking you in history?”

“You said you didn’t open it!” I scream and throw the empty box at his face. He ducks to the side, easily evading the flying object.

“Temper, temper,” he tuts, shaking his head. His provoking smirk returns.
The
game continues.

“It must be of real importance to you.” He stands, then circles dangerously like I’m some kind of weak prey.

“I never said that I didn’t open it. You merely assumed.” He smiles. “Quite wrongly, of course. You should know better.”

Instead of thinking, I just attack. I jump, reaching for the necklace, but my small frame can’t compete with his height. He dangles the beads higher in the air. I find myself pawing at his body to gain some momentum. The thought of seriously injuring him crosses my mind, but he speaks before our fight escalates.

“As much as I like this attention, I think you should calm down. I’m positive we can come to an agreement.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I throw myself into a nearby chair, crossing my arms across my body, pouting. No sense in hiding my feelings now.

He sits on the arm of the sofa. “What I mean is, you have a favor you need of me—and well—I have something I’d like to ask from you. In return, of course.”

“Of course!” Agitated, I look away, letting my cheek rest upon my palm. I ignore him for a few moments, letting my gaze drift around the cluttered workroom, allowing myself time to understand his personal agenda and ultimately devising how I might get my way. But there is no way, of course, because Turner is absolutely impossible.

He clears his throat. “It’s not much, I promise.”

“Fine.” I moan, letting my head fall back. “Spill.”

“Well, I’d be willing to keep your secret from everyone, including your precious Bishop, and keep you supplied with new defense holograms,
if
you tell me two little things.” He smiles, knowing he has me.

“What?”

“Tell me,” he stands and paces, “why are you so obsessed with mastering defense, and what are you doing with this necklace?”

“That’s none of your business!” My body flings forward.

“You’ll tell me.” He circles the space, casting his devious eyes over his shoulder, and then he sits, relaxing back into the couch.

My eyes narrow.

“I have a feeling—a hunch really, that they might be related. What do you think of that hypothesis?”

“You’re way off!” I fume. But really, he isn’t. His guess is spot-on.
Am I really that easy to read? If so, I’ll never be able to hide my plan, especially from Bishop. He knows me better than anyone.

I look over at Turner, this time intensifying my evil eye. I wish I had laser eyes for a superpower rather than time travel, so I could burn the word “turd” onto his forehead. But when he flashes those sultry eyes again, I lift myself out of the chair and walk away without saying another word. I’m too annoyed.

There’s no way I’m becoming indebted to him. That would be about as smart as entering into an agreement with the Devil.
I’ll get my rosary necklace back—somehow.

“Seraphina! Really, I’m only looking after you!” he yells in amusement. I cringe, irritated further by my full name.

I wind my way through the smoke-filled laboratory, kicking the pieces of brown paper aside as they appear out of swirling clouds. Then I exit the laboratory, slamming the door on the way out.

In the hallway I pace, conflicted.
Should I return to bargain with him?
I know he won’t give in until he gets his way. And
I
won’t surrender until I get mine. Right now, telling him the truth, answering his questions, simply isn’t an option I can entertain, because not one soul knows my plan for that necklace—to use it as a relic to go back and rescue my mom from the Underground.

The rosary relic was sent all the way from Rome, Italy, because finding a suitably aged relic in the Relic Archives had proven impossible. Anything within a year old would still be waiting to be cataloged by Argus Matchimus, the relics curator.

The small jewelry dealer I purchased the rosary from sat mere blocks away from the church in which I found my mom on the day I used the Egyptian sundial bracelet to wander from Chicago to Rome. To be sure, I don’t know if I found her in “true time” by skipping (moving from one moment to the next without losing or gaining time), or if the encounter transpired sometime in recent history. Using the Egyptian sundial bracelet had made it impossible to know for sure.

When I think to the piazza in Rome that day, everyone appeared to be dressed in clothing from the current time. But the biggest clue was that Francis and Jessica were there. As Seers, they would have arrived in a normal way, not via wandering. Still, pinpointing the exact day is difficult. And I refuse to ask Sam, my Seer, even though her ability to see the events as they transpired through Bishop’s eyes will allow her to make an educated guess. Sam is the only other person who knows my mother is alive. I swore her to secrecy months ago. Bringing up the experience again might alert her to my plan. I can only hope that she’s forgotten. Or, to be more accurate, I hope she’s filed it away in the back of her mind, as much as a Wanderer can.

I lean against the wall, angry with myself for losing the relic to Turner’s games. I press my hand to my stomach, feeling sick.

Footsteps approach from behind the laboratory door. Not wanting to confront Turner until I can consider my options, I keep moving.

I mope through Olde Town, taking my time, letting the fake sun warm my skin. I collapse into a metal chair under a tree and watch the champagne-colored butterflies dance around the golden obelisk. The pillar stands several stories tall in the center of the plaza of the underground city. The top third of the obelisk sits aboveground, outside, in the courtyard of Washington Square Academy for Wanderers.

I glance around the buildings. Olde Town is completely empty, except for a few tropical-looking birds that have made the city their permanent home. A manufactured breeze rolls through. It ruffles the bright green leaves in the tree’s canopy and pushes the butterflies farther away, toward a crumbling building with Victorian details.

True, I’m not ready to face any aged Wanderer, Protector, or Seer to fight for my mom. They’d be much more powerful than I, even with all my hard work. If I’m being honest with myself, I still might be years away from the peak of my abilities, whatever they may be. So if I have to weasel the necklace away from Turner over a short time, it would be okay. This eases my mind. After more consideration, I’m mostly disturbed by Turner’s games and his obvious attempt to control me.
Why can’t he just leave me alone, be nice, and choose another girl to stare at with his hypnotic eyes?

The clock on the Tower Building strikes twelve with a deep gong that vibrates my skin. This cheers me slightly, and I roll my aching body to stand. I walk through the nearest stone archway, the Lion’s Gate, and cross the worn redwood bridge, leaving Olde Town.

Two metal lions stand guard on their pedestals. Their rusted gears grind and activate, creating a dull roar. I should be used to it by now. The Animates always stir when I’m near, but I quickly jump into the ornate elevator and slam the retractable gate shut, locking it into place, just in case they decide that this is the day they will finally attack. I crank the handle until the elevator ascends toward the main floor of the Academy.

A few moments later, I stand in a large vestibule off the main entrance. Mailboxes stack high, twenty feet into the air on the walls, encircling me. But these are not normal mailboxes. They’re of the Animate variety. Similar to the lions in Olde Town, they and other metal statues here magically live and breathe.

When the mailboxes sense my presence, they snap to attention with a metallic whack. With the precision of a fine timepiece, wheels and cogs revolve and click, rotating the boxes from top to bottom and left to right, like the largest Rubik’s Cube known to man. The Animate, solving the intricate puzzle, presents my mailbox—number 42508.

I touch my finger to the recognition thumb pad, and the mailbox lock clicks. The bronze door swings open, and I shove my hand into the dark cubicle, grabbing a wad of envelopes. Huddling the stack to my chest, I close the door and step away as the mailboxes rearrange themselves.

Leaning against a nearby column, I shuffle through the papers. I stop on a beautiful postcard. Fancy script announces, “Greetings from Taormina, Sicily.” Aunt Mona returned to Italy for the summer on a painting tour.

I flip to the next piece of mail—a large golden envelope from my dad, Ray. I keep going, pretending not to care about what he’s sent. I’m still angry with him for our non-summer. We’d planned to spend several weeks together, even planning a Hawaiian vacation. But not long after I returned home to Miami, work summoned him. Annoyed, I decided not to wait around. I’ve never been a priority in his eyes. So one week after school ended, I returned to the Academy and started a rigorous training schedule.

Finally, I flip to the envelope I hoped for—a letter from Bishop. I smile and admire the red stamp of Queen Elizabeth. Just this small item eases the annoyance of the morning’s activities.

Thrilled, I dart up the main staircase and down the long marble corridor to my apartment. I shove the mail between my legs and pull out my keys to unlock the antique crystal doorknob.

“Seraphina.”

I look over my shoulder to see who calls.