Protecting Truth (4 page)

::6::
London

Attic dust explodes. Wood floors crack, splitting into jagged shards. Metal fencing groans and bends in half. The room rolls over on itself with the force of a crashing ocean wave. The resulting current sends luggage and lost belongings flying through the air. I barely escape a gate threatening to stab my leg before a glittering wormhole swallows me whole. I bounce twice off the rubber-like walls traveling to the location where Bishop last interacted with my relic—his love letter.

A blinding light appears and spits me out of the wormhole, skidding across a sidewalk. In the chaos, I dodge several pedestrians before falling to the ground. Miniscule rocks and dirt impale my knees and hands, and pricks of blood ooze from my rash-burned skin. An older man stops to help me up. I smile, thanking him, and brush my palms on my skirt, happy that the fabric camouflages blood within its red pattern. Large cherry-colored bruises dot my legs, making me look like a schoolchild that’s fallen while playing in a park. But I’m not in a park, and I’m not even at Washington Square Academy anymore. I’m in London, the day Bishop sent this letter.

He must be close.

I tuck the letter into my jacket pocket and lift on tippy-toes to scan the noisy city street. A red postal box stands nearby. I run and jump on it, grabbing onto the decorative finial at the top in an effort to lift my short frame above the crowds. Bishop must have just dropped the letter here, in this box. He’s nearby—somewhere.

The roads, the traffic, the movement of the people all point in a single direction, maybe toward an underground rail station. The sun hides behind silvery clouds, low in the sky. It’s rush hour. These commuters are heading home or to the nearest pub for the evening.

I jump off the postal box and run in the direction of the commuters, hoping that Bishop will be among them. I visually sweep the crowd for his tousled, chocolate-colored hair.

“Bishop!” I weave through people, calling his name.

The crowd tightens, blocking my view, and I search for a new way to elevate myself. A black clock tower stands ahead. I run to it and hoist my body upon the mini version of Big Ben.

“Bishop!” I scream, entwining my fingers into an ornate iron design.

“Bishop!”

A face finally turns in response, acknowledging the name, but it isn’t Bishop. The girl’s waves of dark hair wind around her face, only revealing her blue-violet eyes.

My mouth drops open in shock.

She is
me.

I lock eyes with the girl, looking for her reaction. Is she surprised to see me? Her eyes are red-rimmed and teary, but somehow she’s not shocked that I’m sharing the same space. Unconcerned, she merely turns and moves with the direction of the crowd.

Jumping down, I follow at a safe distance. Whatever that might be; I’m not sure.
Am I dangerous to myself? Stupid to think so.
Obviously she’s from the future, visiting the past. But how far ahead has she traveled from?

The Society of Wanderers frowns upon interacting with yourself. Maybe that’s why she ignores me and walks away, but I follow, regardless. If I really have to, I can go to Bishop’s home later since I have his address memorized. This will be a short detour, I promise myself. What can it hurt?

The girl walks determined as though on a mission, past the iron clock, through the median, and across the road. She confidently dodges several black taxis along her route.

I’m not quite as brave. I stand on the edge of the road; wind blows my hair as autos whiz past. Through wispy strands, I see her run farther in clothes I don’t recognize, past rows of idle red double-decker buses. She ducks into an elaborate window-covered building. Large black letters on its oversized awning read LONDON VICTORIA STATION.

When the traffic breaks, I dart across the walkway with several other determined commuters. The girl, my mirror image, walks far ahead of me, so I run.

By the time I reach the doors to the train station, the crowd pushes in on itself, funneling into the inadequate opening of the facade. I squeeze through, clearing the mob, and find the girl lingering on the other side. When she sees me, she darts away. Maybe she’s meeting someone? Bishop?

The train station’s ceiling soars high above, with glass walls and steel latticework. A mash of people crowd around, chatting in many different languages. The muffled sound of the overhead speaker echoes, announcing train delays and detours. In the commotion, I almost miss the girl, disappearing into a dark tunnel. I follow at a comfortable distance. She stops to buy a ticket at a fare machine and I mirror her action. Thank goodness I have my credit card. How will I explain a charge in London to Ray?

Trailing behind, I follow her down a set of stairs, an escalator, and into the underground rail station. On the platform, a streamlined train screams to a halt. The girl enters one side of the train car, I on the other. From here, I can only see her hair. She’s hidden behind a woman reading a book.

Where’s she going?

Commuters cram uncomfortably into every available nook and cranny. The train speeds forward for several minutes, making silent bobbleheads out of every person. The train stops twice, once at St. James Park and again at Westminster, but the girl stays put. The conductor announces the next stop as Embankment, and she turns to face the door.

The train stops and the door slides open. Commuters push out as many more push in. I squeeze through them and follow the girl as she races along the platform to the exit, up the stairs and escalators, and into the open air. When I arrive aboveground, the scent of the nearby river hits me.

I scan for the girl again and easily find her heading north on the river’s embankment. She walks slower now, with a cell phone scrunched between her ear and shoulder.
When will I get a new cell phone?

I hang back, trying not to interact, just watching. I lose sight of her for a few moments, but when I walk past a grouping of trees, something familiar comes into view. The grand obelisk stands sixty feet high, pointing skyward—Cleopatra’s Needle. I’ve been here before with my team, on my way to find my mom with the Egyptian bracelet last semester.

The girl sits at the base of the obelisk, staring at something in her hand. It’s small and shiny. She glances in my direction but stares straight past me. Tears muddled with mascara weave rivers of black ink over her rosy cheeks. Her head falls heavy into her shivering hands.

Instantly my heart aches. Even though I have no idea why she’s crying, I run in her direction, ready to console her. I reach my arm out, ready to call her name.

“Sera!”

But when I hear the name out loud, it isn’t my voice. Rotating, I see Bishop. He stands in the path behind me, staring with a furious and confused expression.

“Bishop?”

I turn to the girl, but she’s gone.

“Sera? What are you doing here?”

I run to him, ignoring his question, and throw my arms around his waist, melting into the curve of his body. His delicious warmth radiates around me. His angry tension releases, and he finally hugs me back.

I look up; he cups my cheeks within his hands and leans down to kiss me. Lightly at first and more determined, maybe, as he realizes I’m really here.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t ever be sorry for a kiss,” he says in his velvety British accent.

“Are you mad at me for breaking my promise?”

“Terribly, I afraid.” He laughs his perfect laugh and kisses my forehead. His long arms seem to wrap around my waist twice, making me feel secure.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“When I spoke to you on the phone a few moments ago, you said you were at Cleopatra’s Needle. And here you are.”

“Hmph.” My
other me
, the one chatting on the cell phone, must have called him.

“Are you still mad?”

“At first, when you called. But then…”

“Then what?”

“I saw you.” He smiles brighter, if that’s even possible. A dimple punctuates his cheek, and he holds me skintight to his side and squeezes.

“I missed you so much.”

“Me too.”

I don’t mention the other me. Apparently, Bishop didn’t notice her. I gaze into his sparkling green eyes, hidden behind a fringe of thick lashes. The only thing I want to worry about is the person beside me—my Protector.

::7::
A Date

Bishop and I settle on a bench along the riverbank. Two ornate cast iron camels hold worn pieces of wood that serve as the seat.

Bishop’s eyes move back and forth as he scans the promenade. He’s always looking for danger.

“So, how did you get here?”

“Your letter.” I remove the crumpled envelope from my pocket.

“Blood?” He tenses, zeroing in the on the red drops feathered along the edge. He can’t control his Protector instincts.

“Rough landing,” I quickly say to calm him and hold up my reddened palms as proof.

He faces me, takes each one of my hands, and kisses them gently at the wrist. “I despise that you’ve hurt yourself to visit me. I feel horrid.”

“Don’t. I’d do anything to see you.”

“Yes, I recall you making a promise to stay home this summer. Why couldn’t you have waited one more day?”

That’s when the words to respond knot in my throat—the only words that will make breaking a promise worth it.
It’s because I love you,
I want to say. But I can’t. We haven’t shared those feelings yet. I can’t stand the thought of saying them out loud and not having him reciprocate. So those three weighted words stay in my heart—ones that I have never said to anyone. Not even to my own father.

“You know I can’t follow rules.” I make a joke instead.

“Oh yes, I’m quite aware.”

He pulls me to stand, grabs my hand, and interlaces his fingers with mine. Electricity shoots through my arm, leaving a trail of prickly goose bumps. I lean into him, dropping my head on his arm, happy to be close after so long.

“What shall I do with you now?” he questions. “You’ve caught me off guard. Usually I have time to coordinate the perfect evening.”

“I’m sure we can think of something. We’re in London.”

He’s thoughtful, probably feeling the pressure to make everything as perfect as he always does. For some reason, I’m the one person he desperately feels the need to please.

“Just show me your favorite things to do,” I suggest.

“Hmm, I think that might be terribly boring for you.”

“Why?”

“I sit home, reading, most nights and pine over you.”

I laugh. “Whatever.” I nudge his body playfully. “I know you go out with your camera. Take me to your favorite places to photograph.”

He leans down and whispers in my ear, “As you wish, my Seraphina.”

His whispers of my name are the exact reason I’ll never allow anyone else to call me by my full name—ever again. My entire body temperature warms, radiating from my ear. If I’m not careful, I’ll melt like warm chocolate, right here in his arms.

After twenty minutes of strolling, we find ourselves inside the most exquisite restaurant. Spicy colors in saffron and deep, warm reds cover the walls. Hundreds of glass-patterned lanterns in rich turquoise and sapphire hang from wide wood beams. There are several archways of creamy marble, inlaid with intricate tile work. The aroma pulls me into the space even before the hostess greets us. I spin, inhaling the rich spices, only to open my eyes and see Bishop with his hand on his chin, smirking.

“What?”

“If I would have known I could have gotten this reaction out of you, we would have come here much sooner.” He chuckles. “You’re incredibly cute.” He pulls me close and kisses my forehead, and then drops his hand to my lower back, guiding me forward.

The hostess seats us in a cozy, octagonal room on low chairs covered with feather-filled pillows. I reach out to stroke the silk curtains, billowing around. She rests menus on the table before bowing to leave.

“I’ve never eaten Moroccan before.” I nervously glance over the menu.

“Don’t worry, I’ll order a little of everything. You’ll love every bite.”

Just then, a man in a white suit appears. He places two ceramic cups on the table and pours tea from a silverplated kettle with a long spout, curved like the neck of a swan. The kettle, reflecting the wall colors, hangs in his hand, high above the cups as he pours. He finishes without spilling a single drop. Then the attentive man tilts his body toward Bishop. “Would you like the usual, Mr. Bishop?”

“Yes, but surprise us with a few extra items, please.”

“Yes, sir.” The man ceremoniously bows, closes the surrounding curtains, and steps backward out of our private alcove.

“You
do
come here a lot.” I smile and reach for the tea. I sip slowly, testing the temperature. Mint leaves swirl on the surface.

“I photograph food for their menus and website and then trade the photos for free dinners.”

“Aren’t you enterprising.”

“It helps when you don’t have money.”

“Well, I guess that will change for us in a few weeks.”

“Yes, the Oaths Ceremony will change everything,” Bishop says thoughtfully. He plays with his napkin, eyes lowered.

The oaths are as ominous as they sound. It’s the day that we dedicate our lives to the Society of Wanderers. It occurs in our junior year by no accident. They give you the first years to decide if this is the life for you—a trial period, of sorts. Since my goal is finding and saving my mom, I’m still in.

Some liken the ceremony to becoming a nun, but I think that’s only half true. The part that’s similar is that the Society hopes that you will feel a “calling” to serve. The part that’s different is the lack of a vow of poverty and, thank goodness, chastity. Although, I haven’t been lucky enough to worry about that last part yet. Bishop’s a perfect gentleman in every unfortunate way.

The poverty part will be remedied by the large allowance that we’ll receive weekly. This includes a new, loaded bank account, credit card, and unlimited access to whatever our hearts desire. In most students’ eyes, the Academy just gets better and better. To me, their lavish gifts feel like a bribe.

“Are you nervous?” Bishop asks.

“A little.” I squirm. “Most people don’t have to decide their future when they’re sixteen.” I sigh. “What if I change my mind?” As soon as the words come out, I regret them. If I change my mind about being in the Society, that means I change my mind about being with Bishop, as his Wanderer, at least. And if I’m going to keep him, I need to be one hundred percent committed to our relationship and our Wandering team.

“I mean—” I stammer, looking for the right words, ones that won’t hurt his feelings.

“It’s okay, Sera. I understand. It’s a lot of pressure to be someone you never knew existed until a year ago. It’s a lot to absorb by anyone’s standards.” He smiles and reaches for my hand, comforting me. He turns my palm upward and traces the creases across the skin. His touch soothes, my shoulders drop, and I slouch into my feather seat.

“You’re right.” I smile.

Before long, plates piled with food in colors of gold, purple, green, and brown cover our table. Bishop explains each dish and watches me sample them. He laughs when I scrunch my nose with dislike for a few dishes.

When we finish dinner, Bishop wraps his arm around my waist and we step out from the sauna of rich perfumes and into the city streets. The air, cool and gentle, refreshes me.

We slowly make our way toward the embankment under a cloudy sky. A long string of light bulbs runs the length of the riverbank. Glowing hazes wrap like nests around each light.

Bishop tours me past his favorite photography spots. The Millennium Bridge, with its twisted steel, arches gracefully across the Thames River. We stroll past the Globe Theatre and Tate Modern Museum. He explains that he only visits to photograph people, tourists in particular. Farther away, he points out the National Theatre, set aglow with purple spotlights, and finally the Royal Festival Hall.

Our route winds inland for a short time and then through a tree-lined walkway toward the water. Shrouded in twinkling blue lights, a row of trees guides my eyes to the end of the park. Before us stands the very tall London Eye. The tallest Ferris wheel I have ever seen glows in beautiful ocean hues of aqua and cerulean. Enormous enclosed crystal capsules, instead of seats, rotate slowly around the outside of the wheel.

We reach the base and Bishop tugs me up the ramp.

“Uh, what are we doing?”

“I thought we’d take a ride.”

“Bishop, I know you haven’t seen me in a few months, but I doubt you’ve forgotten about my fear of heights.” I giggle nervously.

He stops. “Sera, I’m your Protector. Trust me, please.” His green eyes plead as he squeezes my hands.

Completely helpless against his will, I shrug, consenting, and halfway smile. He drapes his arm around my shoulders and drags me up the ramp. Bishop steps up to the ticket window and chats with the girl behind the glass. I mill around, farther away, holding my stomach in anticipation of the flips it will be taking.

Bishop’s conversation ends with a chuckle. He turns. “Are you ready?”

“If this is really expensive, we should skip it,” I suggest. But really, it’s my last-ditch effort to change his mind.

“Lucky for you, I know the girl behind the counter. We ride for free,” he announces proudly. We step to the capsule entrance. The doors part to either side and he guides me in.

Anxious tingles spread from the heels of my feet, up my legs, and swirl around my stomach. I double over with a cramp and reach for his arm.

“Sera, we haven’t even left the ground yet!” He pulls me to the center of the oval room toward a wood-slatted bench where we sit. “Just relax,” he whispers and rubs my back.

I groan. “How do you know everyone in a city this large?” If he didn’t know the girl, we wouldn’t be riding for free. And just maybe, we wouldn’t even be here.

“Old girlfriend.” He smiles.

I stiffen. A hint of jealously flits around my brain. “Old girlfriend?” It’s not like he isn’t hunky enough to have those—probably
a lot
of those. Strangely, with our perfect relationship the notion never crept into my thoughts. But now, here it is, the aching sting of jealousy, ripe and ready for the picking.

“Don’t worry, love. She dumped me,” he consoles.

“What’s her name?” I ask, attempting to hide the edge in my voice.

“Claire.” He smirks. Clearly, he’s enjoying my discomfort.

“How long ago?” I whisper, letting my gaze drift to the floor.

“About ten years.”

I quickly calculate with confusion. “You would have been seven!”

“She was quite overwhelmed with choosing between Turner and me. He had a new red bicycle, and I just couldn’t compete with my tattered roller skates.”

We laugh together—I, for my stupidity, and he at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “She just doesn’t know what she’s missed.” Now I feel bad for Claire, who never knew the amazing person sitting next to me.

“Doesn’t matter. I won the girl that matters.” He leans in and traces his finger along my jaw, then nuzzles his nose at my ear. “My Seraphina,” he whispers. His breath tickles my cheek. I squeeze my shoulders upward, pinching them to my ears, and giggle. I turn my back into his chest, and we meld into each other. When I look up, we’re moving. I freeze.

“Here’s the good thing about this ride.” He snuggles closer around my now rigid body. “It takes thirty minutes to get all the way around—”

“That’s not good!”

“I wasn’t finished,” he chides. “And we’ll be completely
alone
.” He wraps his arms around me. My stiffness diffuses. He pulls tighter. Playfully, his lips brush against my neck.

•

When we leave the London Eye, exhaustion consumes my body and my legs fail to function. I trip clumsily on my own feet. It’s late, and I’ve been here for hours. And now, time-traveling jet lag—or schlag—is settling in quickly.

“I think it’s time to go.” I laugh and stumble, steadying myself on Bishop’s arm.

“No, not yet. Come home with me, sleep a few hours, then you can leave.”

A storm cloud opens and a flash of lightning cracks across the sky. Seconds later, we stand in a deluge of freezing rain. “I think I better go now.”

We duck into a covered doorway.

“No way! You’re staying. Besides, there’s something I really need to talk to you about.” Before I can respond, he tosses my arm over his shoulder and grabs my waist, propping me up.

“What?” I ask. A knot forms in my throat. A boy telling a girl that they “need to talk” is never, ever a good thing. My mind races; self-doubt edges in.

“Later, Sera. Just try to keep up.”

Bishop and I step out into the open air, under the sweeping rain, and we run. With schlag taking over, I struggle to keep Bishop’s pace. But what’s worse is my mental hysteria over our relationship status. My internal hyper-anxiety battles with my need for sleep. One wins over and my eyelids droop closed.

Then, for no reason, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Something feels off. I lift my eyelids just enough to glance through the sheets of rain. Bishop’s body tightens, rigid. We run to a nearby stone wall. He lays me down. Exhausted, I collapse on the pavement. He turns and crouches in a defense move we learned from class.
Something is wrong.

•

Bishop’s head twitches back and forth, peering out into the darkness. I attempt to stand, but the drops of rain transition into noisy sleet. Each pellet feels like a boulder, so very heavy, pushing me back to the ground.
Stupid schlag!