ARC: Crushed (5 page)

I groan in defeat. “Alright, Jo. I’ll try.”

She relaxes enough to release my hands, and we melt back into the flood of students leaving the infirmary. By the time we make it back to our rooms, we have just enough time to get ready for breakfast. Jo disappears to get dressed and I pull on my usual uniform of black jeans and a dark T-shirt scored from the local thrift store. The Crusaders take vows of poverty and though I’ve done no such thing, the fact that I’m broke and unemployed keeps me in the style to which they’ve become accustomed. Today’s shirt is an uber-soft and slightly bleach-stained black and red one proclaiming me to be an employee of “Romanello’s Pizza, Pasta & Subs”. I added some artistically located tears.

Jo tromps into the hallway a minute later but stops when she sees my outfit. “You said you’d try to fit in.”

I look down. “It’s jeans and a t-shirt. What could possibly be wrong with jeans and a t-shirt?”

She shakes her head. “You need to try harder. Try to look…” she fumbles for the word, “cheerful.”

I can see why she had trouble finding that one. I don’t think it would naturally jump to the tongue of anyone describing me. “Cheerful,” I repeat dubiously.

“Yes, and happy. And…” She hesitates, again fumbling. When she says it, I see why. “Sweet.”

“Sweet?
” The Temps aren’t the smartest people I’ve come across, and I do have mad-skills in the manipulation department… but
sweet?
Everyone has limits.

Her lips compress into a narrow little line. “Sweet,” she repeats, then ducks back into her room. She comes back clutching something, which she holds out to me. “Like this.”

It appears to be a T-shirt, but…“Jo,” I say in dawning horror. “That’s pink.”

“Brilliant deduction, Watson,” she says, stretching her arm out further.

I shake my head, holding my hands out and taking a step back. She approaches me, unfazed.

“Just wear it, Meda.” Apparently, despite my promise to behave, I am not quite forgiven for last night’s escapade. “You said you’d cooperate.”

I knew I’d regret my promise, just not quite this soon. “
You
don’t wear pink!”

“Yeah, well, no one thinks I’m in league with the devil.” She shoves it into my chest.

I narrow my eyes. “I do.”

Chapter 7

Mealtime at the Crusader school is a bit like stepping in front of a firing squad except they haven’t any guns, much to their dismay. Most of the students can’t forgive me for being a half-demon (which I can’t help). Everyone hates me for being responsible for the demon attack on our last school (which I am), and a third of those believe I brought the demons on purpose (which I didn’t).

I suppose it should bother me to be so hated but, without it, I wouldn’t have the delight of torturing them with my presence. What can I say? My cheerful spirit can’t help but spot silver linings.

I nod and wave to my enemies like Miss America, pausing to blow kisses at the worst of them as I work my way across the cafeteria with a plate loaded with horridly healthy food. While I was out satisfying one Hunger, I should have picked up some Cheetos to satisfy the other. Seriously, since when is broccoli a breakfast food?

Jo watches my production with sour-lemon lips. Apparently donning a pink shirt isn’t enough to completely erase midnight homicide, either. Really, I think this particular shade should be worth at least two.

A small handful of students don’t hate me. One is Mags, a red-headed mess of a girl who sided with me against a bully named Isaiah, back before anyone knew I was a half-demon. Once I was outed, she still stayed on my side, if uneasily. She makes a point of forcing herself to sit with me at meals. She’s a convenient friend to have – hair like that makes her easy to spot in a full cafeteria. I head that way.

Another non-enemy is the jolly giant, Zebedee, or “Zee”, as I haven’t been invited to call her. She’s a friendly and terrifyingly large girl who, as far as I can tell, doesn’t hate anyone. If she did…well, I can only imagine it would be spectacular. She doesn’t exactly love me either, however. She regards me the same way I would a cat – like I’m distasteful, occasionally entertaining, and not to be trusted not to pee on the rug. Which is completely unfair – I only thought about it once.

I had my reasons.

There’s Chi, too, of course. And Jo, who doesn’t hate me – just everything I do, think, or say. Oh, and how I dress, too, apparently.

And, lastly, there’s a small pack of wide-eyed innocents in awe of my Beacon-ness who follow me around expecting me to perform a miracle any minute. Sometimes I screw up my face like I’m trying. Or constipated. They don’t sit with us. I don’t let them.

I plop in my usual seat across from Jo and next to Mags. The redheaded girl can’t help but jump at my sudden arrival. She tries, poor thing, but just because you believe a convict should be released doesn’t mean you’re comfortable inviting her to tea. I don’t give her grief about it. Much.

Chi sits on Jo’s left. He still looks happily surprised every time she sits next to him and always drapes an arm around her. I suspect it’s because he’s too terrified to pinch her to make sure it’s real. As much time as they spend together, I would have thought the shock would have worn off by now, but then, Chi’s always been a slow study. The time Jo spends not policing me is spent in Chi’s pocket. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say he’s in hers. It’s hard to tell – it’s an Escher painting of in-each-other’s-pocketness. Had I foreseen how she’d abandon me, maybe I wouldn’t have tried so hard to help them get together. Every evening they’re off together, and I’m in my room desperately wishing for a TV with more than five channels. Or a computer. Or any form of entertainment from the twenty-first century.

I wonder if she told him about my activities last night.

Chi looks at me, wide-eyed and too innocent. “Sleep well last night, Meda?”

Of course she did.

Jo elbows Chi hard enough to make him “whoosh”, and throws “shut up” eyes at me, before pointedly looking at Zee and Mags, in conversation next to us.

Hmmm… maybe I can toss Jo another victim to take my spot on her shit-list. I look at Chi angelically. “Why, yes, I did. Thank you, Chi.” I look down demurely, like I have no idea what he’s talking about. And like I love broccoli. For breakfast. Honestly, I think that’s the bigger lie. I snatch a bite to complete my disguise, even though the dinosaurs haven’t offered prayer yet.

Chi’s never been much of a rule follower, plus he blindly trusts me, unlike Jo who’s far too clever and who knows me too well. He would find my escape an adventure, not a disaster. Sometimes I think I picked the wrong BFF.

But I know I never picked her and she never picked me. The universe, God, or, I occasionally think, possibly the devil, picked us for each other. All I know is, whoever did it, has a phenomenal sense of humor.

As predicted, Chi can’t let my ploy rest. His blue eyes sparkle. “Really? I heard you got hungry for a little midnight snack,” he says slyly.

Jo elbows him again, hard enough to make him cough to cover his grunt. I crack and grin. Sometimes, I think the universe also has pretty good taste.

She turns on me and her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “What are you laughing at?”

Blast. Looks like the shitlist’s got room for two. There are pros and cons to having a violent best friend with a ferocious temper: she’s almost always entertaining, but sometimes she wants to kill me.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice your cute little act. Can’t you even walk through the cafeteria without antagonizing anyone?” As if she’s bloody-damn Mother Teresa. More like a mother hen – and I am severely hen-pecked.

I look to Chi for backup. His eyes go from Jo to me, back again, and then toward the ceiling.

“Coward,” I hiss; at the same time Jo says, “
Chi
.”

“Err, ah.” He looks at Jo and clears his throat. “Meda, look. Part of being a Crusader is getting along with other Crusaders, not just me and Jo.” He warms a little to his subject, leaning in. “You’re going to be living with us, working with us, putting your life in our hands.” He doesn’t seem to notice my blanch. “Joining the Crusaders basically means surrounding yourself with us ‘till the day you die,” he finishes cheerfully.

I look at him squinty-eyed. “I don’t think you’re making the point you think you are.”

The room gets unusually quiet and I notice a line of adults making their way into the room. Most of the Crusaders prefer not to eat with the hundred or so students crammed into the cafeteria. There’s usually only a few present for supervisory purposes, and old Crusader Crips who loves to give the prayer. Today however, Headmaster Reinhart and the Sarge lead a mixed group of Mountain Park Crusaders and Corps.

I inspect Sargent Graff. Despite his grey hair, he doesn’t appear to be quite as old as Headmaster, who has a bit of a bend in his stance. He looks cool despite wearing a suit in a crowded, air-condition-less room – as if his pores wouldn’t dare exude water without his express permission.

Jo’s paying attention to the new arrivals, so I look to Chi for an explanation as to why they might be here, but he only shrugs. Once the adults take their places, there’s a shuffling as everyone climbs to their feet for prayer. A throat clears. It’s the Sarge’s – another surprise. A brusque, warlike woman, she’s not one to spend a lot of time with children, and I find it hard to believe she’s suddenly offering to lead the morning prayer. I shoot an uneasy look at Jo and she trades a worried one back. The Sarge oversees the Crusaders in the field, and, after the attack at the last school, she’s taken over security. As in, she stops demons from sneaking onto campus – or, more relevant to me, students from sneaking off it.

“Students, by now you can probably already guess what I’m here to talk about.” The Sarge’s laser-beam of an eye drifts over the crowd, the other long-replaced with a scar that twists half her face in a permanent grimace. Her gaze brushes over me but doesn’t pause. I take that as a good sign. I look back at Jo and see her forehead scrunch, then smooth.

She can guess what’s coming, and we’re not caught. I let out a breath.

The Sarge is speaking again. “As you may have heard from friends in the field, for the past several months the demon attacks have been increasing in number and ferocity, targeting not only Beacons, but the Crusaders assigned to guard them.” Her words are clipped and business-like. Several heads bob around the room. “I see no need to sugarcoat,” the Sarge says unnecessarily. As the broccoli on my plate evidences, they don’t sugarcoat anything around here, not even breakfast. “We believe they are just practicing, feeling us out for a full-blown attack.” She pauses half a breath, then, just in case we didn’t get it, she clarifies, “War is coming.”

My attention snaps back to the Sarge’s grim face and I hear the babble of students around me. They may have predicted that the Sarge wanted to discuss the attacks, but apparently they did not predict this. War.

One group stays silent – mine. I look around my little group and none of them look surprised, just tense and ill. Jo looks white enough to faint. None of them meet my eyes. Somehow they all knew already, and no one told me.

“
War?”
I hiss at Jo. “I thought demons and Crusaders weren’t supposed to fight each other directly.” That was something I’d been taught in my Crusader History class. Demons and Crusaders are supposed to fight over neutral souls, not with out-and-out warfare.

“Things have changed,” she says faintly without turning.

Obviously. “But why now?” I ask. Seriously, am I just that unlucky? Centuries of little skirmishes, and I happen to show up when full-scale war breaks out. Before she has time to answer another thought cuts in. “And you knew!” I hiss. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She finally looks at me. “I didn’t
know
, I
guessed
. The demons have been attacking us directly for months – war was the next logical step. Why did you think there have been so many wounded?”

There have been a large number of injured Crusaders winding up in our infirmary, but I didn’t think anything of it. If anything, I chalked it up to us having a brand-new facility. “I don’t know what’s normal around here!”

Her mouth sets. “Not this,” is all she says.

“But why now?” It comes out a bit like a whine.

She pauses, as if she’s considering how much to tell me. The Sarge begins speaking before Jo can, apparently tired of waiting for us to shut up.

She doesn’t waste any breath on reassurances, but instead jumps right into logistics: what the war is going to mean to us, how we will prepare, how we can help, how selected seniors may be drafted early.

At that, Jo’s hand clamps on Chi’s.

A year ago, even six months ago, a statement like that last would have earned an excited cheer from the students. Now, after the brutal battle at the school, they are not so naïve. Grim faces fill the hall.

The Sarge ends abruptly with a, “That is all.” Despite her words, it takes a moment for the hall to realize she’s finished. The Headmaster takes over for his wife, introducing the Northerners – not that anyone cares at this point – and then leads the prayer. It’s full of all the reassuring platitudes and inspiring nonsense that we didn’t get from the Sarge. Finally he, and the rest of the hall with him, chants the Crusaders’ motto:
dum spiro spero
; which means something along the lines of “in life, hope,” then an obligatory “amen”. The students explode into conversation before their butts even hit the seats.

“War? War?” I sputter, my gaze darting among my friends.

Zee’s the first to answer. “Relax.” I wait, baited-breath, for her to explain why, but the tall black girl only shrugs. I hate the stoic, hero types.

“She’s right, Meda. You need to calm down,” Jo says, but she looks barely calm herself. She picks up her fork but grips it so hard it’s shaking in her hand. “You heard the Sarge, we’re safe here.” Then she looks at Chi and Zee, almost certain to be among the first drafted, and corrects herself. “
You’re
safe here. They’ve worked really hard to keep the location of this school a secret.”

That does calm me a little.

“And Meda, as far as you’re concerned there’s a silver lining.” Her eyes move back and forth across her plate, as if they’re keeping pace with her equally rapid thoughts. She then looks at me, who is waiting with baited breath for good news. “With the war coming, I bet Headmaster can use the fact that this location is a secret to keep you here, under his custody.”

If she meant to calm me, she failed. Spectacularly. “What do you mean? Where the hell else would I go?”

She sets her fork down carefully with a clack. She has that doctor-with-bad-news expression. “The Corporates, Meda.” She takes a breath. “I think they’re here for you.”

“
What?
” It’s more squeak than word. “But the war, they could just…”

But Jo’s already shaking her head. “They wouldn’t come here to discuss the war, they’d just call. We’re not that important. Except for one thing: you.”

“And the Beacon Map,” Chi adds, and I look at him hopefully.

Jo taps her fork on her plate. “Maybe,” she concedes but she doesn’t look like she believes it. “But if anything, it’s probably both.”

“Can they just do that? Take me?”

“I don’t know, but they’ve got a good argument. Think about it.” She leans in a little. “They’re the most important, most powerful chapter, while we’re a tiny half-constructed outpost. They think they can keep you from the demons better than we can.” Her face sours. “Plus, your mom was Mary Porter and you have friends here. They think we’re biased on your behalf.”