The Eighth Guardian (17 page)

“Iris!” Indigo pants. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You’re a liar!” I try to push his arm off me, but he just holds on tighter. “All of you! You lied to me!”

I ignore the group of Asian tourists gaping at me outside the Boston Common Visitor Information Center. A tour guide dressed as a colonist—powdered wig and all—tries to divert their attention to the Park Street Church just a block away.

“Nobody lied to you,” Indigo shouts. “They withheld the truth. There’s a difference.”

“There’s no difference.” I duck down and dart left, then grab Indigo’s shoulder and flip him onto his back. “A lie told is no different than a truth omitted.”

Indigo’s eyes pop open in shock, but he doesn’t try to get up. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Iris!”

It’s a different voice this time. A louder voice. An angrier voice. I already recognize it.

I look up to see Alpha running toward us. That’s when I also notice the crowd of people gawking at us from both sides of Tremont Street. It’s not just the tourists. It’s everyone within a two-block radius. Can I turn and run? Doubtful. But there is something I can do. I have
time
at my disposal. I pull the Annum watch out from under my sweater.

“Don’t even think about it,” Alpha growls as I pop open the lid. He’s closing in on me. Only a few steps away.

I spin the top knob a few times. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I don’t want to project—that would be stupid—but I don’t want to be here right now.

“I’ll track you,” Alpha says. “I’ll track you, and I’ll find you, and I’ll strip you of that watch and ship you off to Carswell so fast your head will spin.”

Carswell again. Prison. Texas. That’s far away from Massachusetts, from Vermont, from everyone I know and love. And I have a tracker in my arm. Even if I did run, I’d never make it.

I drop the watch and it plunks against my chest. Indigo pushes himself off the ground and stares at me with worried eyes.

Alpha grabs on to my shoulder, spins me around, and marches me back toward Beacon Street. His grip is strong. “Explain yourself.” He’s whispering, but it’s low and dangerous.

“You explain yourself,” I spit, and Alpha yanks on my shoulder to let me know I’m out of line. But I don’t care. “Chronometric Augmentation is genetic? And I’m your guinea pig?”

“I told you all of that before.”

“No, you didn’t!”

Alpha stops halfway across Boston Common and whips me around so fast I stumble over my feet. “I told you that membership in Annum Guard has been set since it started and that the government wants to experiment with adding new members. So tell me, what exactly did I lie to you about?” Indigo comes to a halt a few feet away and looks at the ground.

“It’s what you didn’t tell me,” I say.

“I didn’t tell you that Chronometric Augmentation was genetic. Fine. Now you tell me. Why is that such a big deal? Why are you acting like such a child over this?”

“I’m not acting like a child,” I say, knowing full well that it makes me sound like a whiny kid. “Your parents were Annum Guard, too. You’re all a part of this secret society, and I’m the outsider.”

Alpha stares at me, long and hard. One second passes. Two seconds. Five. Six. Way longer than necessary. Then he jerks his head toward Beacon. “Walk.”

We cross the Common without saying another word. Indigo follows behind us. I’m dreading reaching Annum Hall. Hall of Lies.

I wonder if this is it. If they’re going to throw me out and lock me up. I never found out about my dad.

My feet feel heavy on the stairs leading to the stoop, and Alpha unlocks the front door. He holds it open for Indigo, then pushes me through.

“I trust you have an assignment to keep yourself busy?” he asks Indigo.

Indigo nods and then shoots me the same look as before. Concern. Genuine concern. Dammit. Why does Indigo have to be so nice all the time? I give him a stone-faced stare in return, and his brow creases and his face crumples. He walks into the library and shuts the door behind him.

“Follow me,” Alpha orders.

I do. I have no choice. We cross the living room to the hallway by the stairs. We’re going to his office. Dread washes over me, threatening to suffocate me.

Alpha stops in front of his office and raises his hand. He angles his back to me but not enough to fully block my view. I pretend to look at my feet but train my eyes up and over to the keypad, just like they taught us at Peel. Never stare at someone when they enter a code. But never miss what they type either.

Alpha enters
940211
, and I’ve already got it broken down and memorized as the door clicks open.
940.
That’s an area code in Texas. It covers Wichita Falls, where my freshman year roommate at Peel was from. The area code would pop up on her phone all the time.
211.
That’s the community service phone number in Vermont. They play it on commercials.
940211
. Got it.

Alpha turns the handle and gestures me inside. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to sit or stand, so I stay on my feet. Alpha crosses around the desk and sits. “I should report this.”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Pleading is a sign of weakness.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.”

Alpha wants a reason? I could give him one. I could call him out. But I don’t. Not yet, at least. “Because nothing happened. I went for a stroll across Boston Common, and that’s it.”

“That’s not it, and you know it.”

“I was upset because I found out you’ve all been lying, and—”

Alpha slams his hand down onto the desk so hard the entire thing shakes. For a second I wonder if it’s going to crack in two.

“If you say that word one more time, you’re done. I am your superior. They taught you this at Peel, no? Listen to your commanding officer; do what you’re told. CIA, FBI, it’s all the same, Iris. It amazes me that someone with such an authority problem made it this far.” Alpha pauses for a few seconds and then continues. “The information I choose to disclose to you is based on security concerns and is done on a need-to-know basis. So stop acting like I’m your father.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Father
. I don’t have one of those. But when I look at Alpha, his light-brown eyes, buzzed haircut, and five-o’clock shadow fizzle away, and I can’t help but picture my dad’s face on Alpha’s body.

The image is fuzzy. All I’ve seen of my dad are two old photos in my mom’s house, but the image is there. What is it like to have a dad who cares enough to yell at you when you mess up? God, do I have daddy issues or what?

I shake the image from my mind and look back at Alpha. “I never—”

“Save it. You’ve been trained better than this, and I don’t want to hear it anymore. Just remember what I told you the first day we met. There’s no running from me. I’ll find you. Wherever, whenever you go, I’ll find you. You almost made a very, very foolish decision today. Don’t repeat it. Now go.”

Alpha points to the door. I can barely remember how to walk. But I put one foot in front of the other and leave the office. I trudge over to the stairs and start climbing. Holy Jesus. That was . . . scary.

I shut the door to my bedroom behind me and think about what Alpha said. I clench and unclench my fists, but that doesn’t release my tension, so I do what I always do when I have excess energy. I drop down and start doing pushups. I only get through twelve when I sit up and cradle my head in my hands. Is it really that big a deal that they haven’t told me about the genetic thing before? Why am I so upset over this?

I don’t know the answer to either of these questions.

Alpha doesn’t mention my jaunt through the Common the next day at breakfast. He just hands out assignments as if nothing’s wrong.

“Orange, solo mission that we have previously discussed,” he says.

Orange nods his head, and his mop of orange hair falls in his face.

Alpha looks back down at his notepad. “Green and Blue, historical prep today.”

Green nods his head, but Blue doesn’t. Instead he stares at me from across the table. He’s been doing that since I sat down this morning. Staring. It’s kind of creepy.

“Indigo—where’s Indigo?” Alpha asks. It’s like he’s just noticed that there’s an empty chair beside me. Funny. It’s the first thing I noticed this morning.

“I’m not sure, sir,” Red says. “He didn’t tell me he’d be absent this morning.”

“He’s not feeling well today,” Zeta says as he clears his throat.

“Nepotism at its finest,” Blue mumbles under his breath. Most people in the room gasp and turn to look at me. Only Alpha, Zeta, and Violet don’t flinch. But that’s because they already know that I know the truth.

“Oh, shut up, all of you,” Blue says. “She knows.”

Alpha folds his napkin and sets it down on the table. Then he straightens his tie and stands. “Blue, a word.” He jerks his head toward the door. “The rest of you have your assignments.”

I guess breakfast is now over, even though I have no idea what my assignment is. No one’s assigned me anything in days, except “study the early-twentieth century.” I guess I’ll do more of that today. I scoot my chair back and stand along with everyone else. But Green backs away from me, as if I’m a lion in a cage and everyone just figured out the door is open. Orange makes eye contact and quickly looks away.

Okay, guys, I get it. I’m an outsider here. I’m not one of you because none of your time-traveling mothers expelled me out of her uterus.

I turn to head toward the library.

“Iris,” Zeta says. “Where are you going?”

“Library,” I mutter, not bothering to turn around.

Zeta sidesteps in front of me. “Uh-uh. It’s mission day. Your first real one.”

I whip around. Real one? As in nontraining? “No one told me about this.”

“I know,” Zeta says. “Alpha only decided you were ready last night.”

Weird. Did he make that decision before or after gave me that good verbal spanking?

Zeta whips his head over to the door. “Yellow and Violet, you’re going, too.”

Yellow clucks her tongue in disgust while Violet gives me an icy stare. I stare right back. If she thinks I’m going to blink first, she’s got another thing coming.

“Come with me.” Zeta walks toward the back staircase that leads to the basement. Yellow turns on her heel and prances toward the staircase, while Violet stomps behind her. Stomps. Like a toddler.

“I hate fire missions,” Violet mutters to Yellow on the stairs, and I have no idea what she’s talking about.

Zeta holds the door open for us and gestures to the classroom on the right. We all file in. There’s a projector and a screen set up in the front of the room. I slide into one of the dozen or so desks, each of which has a yellow legal pad and a sharpened number 2 pencil set atop it. Violet leaves a desk between us, and Yellow sits on the other side of her, away from me.

“Ladies,” Zeta greets us, then he looks right at me. “Iris. I believe in trial by fire. You’re not going to learn until you’re thrown into the flames and made to find your own water. All first missions are designed to be high pressure, high stakes, high risk. The chance of failure is great, the chance of violence even greater. It’s, quite literally, do or die. You ready?”

My heart is thumping against my chest. This is what I’ve been trained for. It’s what Peel excels at: training its students for missions such as this. I’ve been on dozens of high-stress simulations but never anything real. Ever. I always got the jitters before, but I’m shaking now. I feel weightless.

“I’m ready,” I say.

But inside I’m crumbling. Because this is just great. I’m about to go on a high-pressure mission with an excellent chance of violence, and my team members don’t even want to sit next to me.

Zeta flicks the light switch and snaps on the projector. The screen becomes awash in a glow of white light before there’s a
click
and an image pops up. It’s a painting. There’s a woman sitting at a piano and another woman standing behind it, her arm raised slightly and her mouth open as if she’s singing. A man sits with his back turned. It’s pretty. So pretty. I squint my eyes and examine the detail on the singer’s dress.

“
The Concert
,” Zeta says. “Painted by Johannes Vermeer around 1660, stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum on March 18, 1990, along with twelve other pieces of art.
The Concert
alone is valued at two hundred million dollars.” My mouth drops open. “The total value of all art stolen that night is about five hundred million. None of the stolen works has been recovered.

“And, ladies, tonight the president himself has authorized us to prevent that burglary from ever happening in the first place.”

I sit up straight in my chair and lean my elbows on the desk. I glance over and see that Yellow and Violet have done the same. My heart is beating faster, but now there’s excitement mixed with nerves. This is what I’m talking about. Forget causing someone to miss a cab.
This
is what I want to be doing.

Zeta clicks the remote again, and a cross-section of the museum pops up on-screen. He grabs a pointer and aims it at a corner of the first floor.