The Eighth Guardian (14 page)

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Open it.”

I hesitate for a second before sliding my index finger under the crease and breaking the seal. I unfold the paper and read.

874
ZEPHYR
%0%

“Memorize it,” Alpha says.

I look at it again.
Zephyr
. That’s easy to remember.
%0%.
So’s that. It’s the numbers to worry about. I repeat
874
in my head a few times—
874 874 874 874
—and look up. “Okay, I did, but—”

Alpha holds out his hand. “Give it back.”

I fold the paper over and hand it to him, repeating the code in my head once more. This is it. My security clearance password. It has to be.

“I passed along the progress report I filled out on you to the folks in Washington,” Alpha says. “They sent that.”

“So I have a new clearance level.”

Alpha purses his lips together and doesn’t respond, probably because I just stated the obvious.

I feel weightless for the first time since Headmaster Vaughn dimmed the lights at dinner and announced it was Testing Day.

“You and I got off to a rocky start, Iris. But I have your back in this. I want you to stay.”

He stands and heads toward the door but then turns around again. He tilts his head toward the computer on the far wall.

“Use it wisely.”

As soon as the door shuts, I spring up and race to the computer. I start it up, and the log-in screen appears. I type in
Iris
as my user name and enter the password that Alpha just gave me. For a second I worry that I remembered the number wrong and that I’ll get the black screen of death, but then a plain white screen appears with the United States seal in the top left corner. There’s a search box; and I click on it, type in my father’s name, and hit
ENTER
. I hold my breath as the screen flashes.

This could be it. I realize I’m not breathing and exhale.

The search results are up, and there it is. A file in an unspecified personnel directory.

Obermann, Mitchell Thomas

I stop breathing again as the mouse hovers over my father’s name. Am I ready for this? Ready to know the truth? There’s only one way to find out. I click on it.

The screen flashes away, and a new one pops up.

Mitchell Thomas Obermann. Born Natick, Massachusetts. Died [XXXXXXXX]

I’m not aware of my sharp intake of breath until my lungs burn. Eight
X
s. I count all of them twice. They’re the computer equivalent of taking a big black marker to a piece of paper and scrawling the word
redacted
on top. A truth I don’t get to know.

I rest my head in my hands before I look back at the screen. My dad’s date of birth is listed, too, as well as his date of death. Dates I already know.
Information I already freaking know
. My breath chokes inside my throat, and I look away. This page isn’t going to tell me anything. Just like the dog tags.

A surge of anger shoots through my body. Anger at the injustice of the whole thing. Anger at how helpless I feel. I’ve worked so hard to make sure I’d never have to feel helpless again, but in this game of life, the house always wins. Screw the house.

Still, a small part of me hopes there’s even one useful nugget of information. I look back and keep reading.

Educational Background
Johnson School, Natick, Massachusetts.
Coolidge Junior High School, Natick, Massachusetts.
The Peel Academy, Upton, Massachusetts.
United States Naval Academy, Annapolis, Maryland.

And now I sit up straight. My dad did go to Peel. I mean, I always suspected he did, despite the dog tags—because how else would I get in?—but you never know. Peel doesn’t exactly keep public records of its students. You won’t find any old yearbooks in the library. No photos of past valedictorians hanging on the walls.

I guess my dad was in the ten percent who didn’t go CIA. That happens. Some go FBI, some go NSA, some don’t go government at all. Like Abe’s dad, who went private sector after Peel.

According to this, my dad went on to the navy. So he graduated from the Naval Academy and then . . . Wait. I stare at the dates I skimmed past the first time. That doesn’t make sense. My dad only spent three years at the Naval Academy. He didn’t graduate.

Something isn’t adding up here. I scroll down the page, but there’s no employment information. Nothing to tell me what my dad did from the time he left the academy until he died. Not even an [XXXXXXXX]. That means it’s really classified.

I scan the Personal Information
section. There’s a bunch of information on my grandparents—my dad’s parents—both of whom are long dead. Walter and Dorothy Obermann. I never knew them. Although—I stare at their birth and death dates—my grandfather died young. I never knew that. That must have been hard on my dad.

My mom’s name is there. I stare at it—

Spouse – Joy Crina Obermann (nee Amar). Born Brooklyn, New York.

I wonder how’s she’s doing today. Is it a manic day? A depressed day? Has she maybe started having normal days again since I left?

I shake my head and move down to the next line.

Child(ren) – Amanda Jean Obermann.* Born Jericho, Vermont.

I blink. Over and over again, but it doesn’t do a thing to get rid of that star next to my name. I’d scroll farther, but I’m already at the bottom of the page. I look at the entire page, but just like I thought, the star isn’t explained anywhere. It’s a stray star hanging there, taunting me.

Which just means that I’ll have to work harder to weasel the next level of clearance away from them.

Screw you, house. I
will
beat you.

I find a note under my door the next morning, and I yawn as I bend to pick it up.

NUMBER EIGHT

My neck snaps up. When Alpha said I was back to training missions, I didn’t realize he meant the next day. I race to my closet and push all the hangers holding my things to the side, eager to get to my historical wardrobe. I find the hanger marked with an
8
and pull it down.

It’s a knee-length baby-blue dress with a wide skirt and a white Peter Pan collar. There’s a matching purse. I wrinkle my nose. That collar looks like something I would have worn on a jumper when I was four. But then I remember the star next to my name and tell myself it’s time to get serious.

I take a quick shower and zip up the dress. It looks even more ridiculous on me than it did on the hanger. With a pair of white wrist gloves and some sensible heels, I’d be ready for bridge club in the church fellowship hall. I have no idea what to do with my hair, so I throw it back into a low ponytail. I add a thin layer of black eyeliner and a smidge of a shimmery brown eye shadow, then I swipe a few dabs of mascara onto my eyelashes—only because I’m afraid Alpha would put me through another Yellow makeover if I don’t. I take one quick look in the mirror, and the mascara tube clatters to the floor.

I look so much like my mom with the makeup. The old pictures of her. The ones from before her diagnosis or from shortly after, when she was still medicating. The ones when she was young and happy, full of life. Her eyes are green and wide, while mine are brown and close set—my dad’s eyes; but everything else is my mom. In this mirror, I am her.

I hope and pray every single night that looks are the only thing I inherited from her. She wasn’t that much older than I am now when she got the diagnosis. There could be a ticking time bomb lying dormant inside of me, waiting for the right moment to explode its mania and desperation all over the normal life I’m trying so hard to build. I chew my bottom lip for a few seconds, then I’m out the door.

There isn’t. I’m not.

I slide into my place next to Indigo and try to delete my mom from my mind. Indigo leans over and lifts one of the flaps of my collar. “Cute.”

I bat his hand away but then notice he’s ditched the Civil War getup today. Instead he’s wearing a pair of high-waisted, pleated pants and a charcoal tweed skinny tie over a short-sleeved white button-down. His hair is slicked back with probably an entire bottle of gel. It’s not the best look for him.

“Iris,” Alpha says. “We were just discussing you.”

I look at the clock on the wall. It’s seven on the dot. I’m not late, am I?

“This morning you’ll be going on your second training mission.”

“Great!” I say. “You and me? Where are we going?”

A few people at the table exchange worried looks, which is not lost on me.
What did I say?
Alpha takes in a breath through his nose and closes his eyes for a short second.

“Ah. No. Zeta handles all training missions.”

Ugh. Awesome.

“And Indigo will be accompanying the two of you,” Alpha continues.

I look at Indigo. That would explain the hair. He leans over and jostles his shoulder into mine. “We’re a team, kid.”

I’m not sure why, but I bristle when Indigo calls me “kid.”

Alpha pours a dab of cream into his coffee and gives it a quick swirl with a sterling spoon. “The car will be here in ten, so eat quickly.”

Car? What car? But I don’t have time to think about it, because trays of food are set in front of us. I try to inhale it, but I’ve only managed a piece of toast and a few bites of a scrambled egg when Zeta stands up and announces it’s time to go.

Zeta punches in a code to disengage the alarm before we go out the front door, and once I’m outside it dawns on me that I’ve never been out this way. Just through that little door on the side street, and even then, only in another time.

And now here we are, standing on the sidewalk in modern-day Boston, watching the cars go whizzing down Beacon Street. A group of schoolkids passes us on their way to school, and Zeta gives them a quick nod of his head. On the other side of the street, a young mother speed walks down the steps into Boston Common, hoisting a small toddler to her hip while balancing a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and holding a cell phone up to her ear with the other. She doesn’t even pay us a second glance. These people are our neighbors. They go about their lives every day and have no clue that there’s a group of time travelers living next door with a freaking
gravity
chamber in the basement.

I turn back around to look at the house. There’s a small bronze sign tacked to the door that reads
THE CLAREMONT SCHOOL
.

Must be our cover.

A black Lincoln Town Car pulls onto the street and stops in front of Annum Hall. The driver hops out, but Zeta waves him off and opens the back door for Indigo and me. Indigo slides all the way over, then I get in after him. Zeta sits in the front.

“Logan,” he tells the driver.

“We’re going to the airport?” I ask.

“Affirmative.” Zeta reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out two envelopes. He hands one to me and one to Indigo. Indigo and I look at each other before opening them. A driver’s license bearing my picture and the name Kelly Hodges tumbles into my lap, as well as a ticket to Washington DC’s Reagan National Airport and several bills and coins. I look over at Indigo, who’s also holding a ticket, ID, and money.

“Hold on to them carefully,” Zeta says. “Otherwise you’re going to be hitchhiking your way home.”

The three of us get through the security line in record time. The plane is boarding as we walk up, and it’s not until we’re on the plane that I realize we’re sitting in first class. I stop in my tracks in front of Row 2. Indigo comes up behind me and leans down so close that I can feel his breath blow on my neck. It sends shivers down my arms.

“Aisle or window?” he asks.

“Window,” I say.

“Then get in there and quit holding up the line.” He’s smiling at me, so I playfully punch him in the arm and climb in. Zeta takes the seat across the aisle and instantly pulls out his phone and starts typing an e-mail. Or maybe he’s changing national security codes. I have no idea really.

“I’ve never flown first class,” I say, settling into the roomy leather seat. I could get used to this.

“We always fly first class,” Indigo says. “Although don’t get too excited. This flight is barely more than an hour, and you’re not going to be happy when we land.”

I’m about to ask him what he means when a man comes around and offers us bottles of water. I reach up to the seat in front of me to unhook the tray table, but there isn’t one.

Indigo chuckles behind me and taps the armrest of my seat. “It’s in here.”

I stare out the window as we take off, then close my eyes and lean the seat back. I’m starting to think I was too quick to judge Annum Guard before. I’d always thought I’d live a high-pressure life where I was constantly all over the world, putting my life in danger almost daily, never having a permanent address. But now I imagine myself jetting across the country, maybe even the world, traveling back in time and
enhancing
our history, then making it home all in time for dinner.