The Eighth Guardian (24 page)

I want to run across the street. I want to bang on the door and beg Ariel to let me in. I want to wander the house I’ve become so familiar with, calling out for Abe. I want to find him sitting on the old yellow plaid couch in the basement, playing video games on an ancient, thirteen-inch TV because Ariel refuses to have a set in the living room. I want to cuddle next to Abe and sink my head into that warm crook in his neck. I want Abe to set down the video game controller and kiss me. Kiss me everywhere. Not to stop kissing me until we hear the creak of the old, rotted stairs and look up to see Ariel holding a laundry basket and hiding a smile.

I drop the gun on the step. Even if I can’t ever be with Abe again, even if I can’t ever
see
Abe again, I’ll never do this. Abe deserves a chance to live. A chance to be happy. A chance to have a family. I can’t take that away. I won’t.

I pick up the gun and toss it into a trash can on the sidewalk.

I’ve failed. My life is done.

So be it.

It’s seven at night when I land back in the present day. I step out of the gravity chamber, expecting to find at least two men in suits waiting, a pair of metal handcuffs dangling from one of their fists. I expect Alpha to hang back, mostly as an observer but also as backup if necessary. He’s a company man through and through, after all. I wonder if any of my teammates will be there to bear witness or if they’re going about their business, as usual.

But no one’s there waiting for me. Not my teammates, not Alpha, not any government suits. Maybe they’re upstairs.

If I’m going to do this—turn myself in—I need to do it now, before I lose my resolve. I trudge up the stairs with my head held high. I should be proud of myself. I did the right thing. I refused to take a life just for my own gain.

But really, all I feel is fear. Overwhelming, swallowing fear.

The living room is empty. So is the dining room. And the library. I glance at the clock to make sure it’s really seven p.m. People are always loitering about this time of night. Dinner even runs long sometimes.

I head down the long hallway off the staircase. Alpha’s office is right there on the left. I reach up my hand and lightly rap my knuckles as I turn the handle. But the door is locked. The handle doesn’t budge.

Where is everyone? Did I come back on the right day? If not, they’ll find me, that much is certain.

I stare at Alpha’s locked door. I wonder if his computer is on behind that door. It’s been on and logged in every time I’ve been in that office. Why not now? If I could only use Alpha’s clearance, I could find out what happened to my dad once and for all. It wouldn’t torment me for the rest of my life. I look at the metal keypad staring at me from above the handle.

940211.

That’s the combination Alpha used before. It jumps right back into my mind. Texas area code, Vermont community service number.

What the hell? What are they going to do if they catch me, tack ten more years onto my life sentence? I type in
940211
, and the door clicks unlocked. I glance behind me, then quietly slip through the doorway and shut the door as softly as I can.

I sit down at Alpha’s desk and swivel around to face the computer. I flick the mouse around on the pad, but the screen stays dark. It’s off. I power it up, then lean back in the chair. I don’t know what I think I’m going to accomplish here. Watching him type in the door combination was one thing, but I wouldn’t even know where to start with Alpha’s computer password.

This doesn’t feel real. My thoughts are clouded. This is a dream. Or a movie. And I can’t even begin to imagine how it ends.

Except . . . I do know the ending.

I should go. Find Alpha. Try pleading.

But then I notice that the top file cabinet drawer is slightly ajar. I slide it out and stare down at a number of plain, unassuming files. They’re alphabetized, and each one has a different name typed on the tab.

J
ULIAN
E
LLIS

I don’t know who that is.

T
YLER
F
ERTIG

Oh, but I do know who that is. These are files on us. On Annum Guard members. Am I in there, or have they already taken me out, burned my contents, and tossed the empty file?

I flip past J
EREMY
G
REER
, followed by four M
ASTERS
, which is weird. How can there be four? Intermarriage? There are three M
C
K
AYS
next in line, and then, there it is.

A
MANDA
O
BERMANN
. I’m still here. I pluck the file out of the cabinet, and my heart skips a beat.

Literally.

Skips a beat.

There’s another file behind mine.

M
ITCHELL
O
BERMANN

My dad.

My hands shake as I lift the file from the cabinet. But there’s another one behind it. W
ALTER
O
BERMANN
. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

I lay all three files on the desk, pushing Alpha’s Moleskine notebook out of the way. I don’t breathe as I flip open Walter Obermann’s file. And then I do. Because the first thing I see is that Walter Obermann was Four. A founding member of Annum Guard. That means—

I flip open my dad’s file. DELTA screams from the page. My father was second-generation Annum Guard. There’s a picture paper-clipped to the front page. My dad stares up at me. He can’t be more than twenty-one. So young. So handsome. He’s smiling at me, and I smile back.

“Dad,” I whisper. I touch the photograph. Then I grab my photograph—I recognize the shot as the one Peel snapped of me my first day of freshman year—and compare them. Our eyes are identical.

I was born into this, too. I have the genetic makeup. The full force of the situation hits me. There is no secret government trial going on. No one took my DNA and inserted it into the machine. There’s no solitary. No Feds waiting to arrest me. I’ve been able to project since the day I was born. Alpha lied to me. They all lied to me. Zeta, Blue, Indigo, all of them.

They knew.

And they lied.

Why?

There are footsteps outside the door.

I scramble as the code is being entered into the door. My picture falls to the floor, and I don’t have time to grab it as the door swings open. Alpha’s eyes pop out when he sees me.

“Iris!” His tone is one of shock.

I narrow my eyes. “You lied to me.”

His eyes dart between the file cabinet and the open folders on his desk and then fly to the notebook I pushed out of the way. His face is panicked. He knows I’ve caught him.

“I didn’t lie to you,” he says calmly.

“My father was Delta? My grandfather was Four? There is no government program, is there? And there aren’t any agents coming for me.”

Alpha holds up both of his hands. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly. And I’m getting the hell out of here. Away from you, away from everyone.”

Alpha backs toward the door. “No, you’re not. You’re not going anywhere.” He glances at the notebook again. “Let me explain it to you.”

“I’m not going to believe a word you say!” I yell. “Ever! You basically ordered me to assassinate an innocent man. You’re using me because of my connection to the Stenders. Why?”

“Because—”

“Don’t answer!” I swipe my hand through the air to bat him away, even though he hasn’t reached for me. “I don’t care what you have to say. I told you I’m leaving, and I’m going. Now.”

Alpha stands up straight and grits his teeth. “And I told you that you’re not going anywhere.” He stares at me with cold, hard eyes, as if daring me to try to get past him.

But I don’t have to try to get past him. In one motion, I grab the three files off the desk as well as Alpha’s Moleskine notebook, then I whip open my watch necklace and spin the year dial. I’m not even counting the ticks. I don’t care where I go. I just have to get out of here.

“Iris, no!” Alpha yells.

He leaps at me. His hand closes on my wrist. I twist away and snap the watch lid shut.

Alpha’s office dissolves from view as I’m ripped away. The physical pain of projecting without the gravity chamber is intense, but the emotional pain is worse. My head stretches and pulls, and I hug the files and the notebook to my chest and scream.

I’m falling.

        Still falling.

                 Still falling.

This won’t end. I’m going to die. Inside my chest my heart is exploding, and I’m not going to make it.

And then it stops. I stop. I open my eyes, expecting to be standing in the same office, some years earlier. But I’m not. I’m in the middle of a forest.

I whip around. Forest, as far as the eye can see. Holy shit. How far back did I go? When was Boston founded? Sixteen hundred . . . something. Oh no.

My mind flashes to what they told me before, about how the farther back you go, the more time elapses in the present. A minute four hundred years ago really passes two days in the present. Fifteen minutes is a month. What if I’m five hundred years back? Six hundred? I choke.

I open the watch face again and turn the year dial forward. I give it two full turns. That’s a hundred and twenty years. I turn again when—

POP!

What was that? I drop the watch, and the pendant
thunk
s to my chest. I whip around, hugging the stolen files tight.

It’s Green.

I gasp. The tracker! They’re tracking me!

Green holds up a taser. “Don’t move!” he yells.

My hand fumbles for the chain of the necklace. I find the watch and snap it shut.

Green disappears, and I’m plunged into darkness. My body is yanked apart again as I fly up into the future. I scream. It hurts. It hurts so much.

I land again and open my eyes. Where am I?

I’m not in a forest. I’m in Boston. Colonial Boston. It has to be. It looks exactly like it did when Zeta and I went to the Boston Massacre. I’m even standing in front of Hancock Manor. I have to be sometime in the eighteenth century.

Why am I standing here? I have to move! I tear across a dirt-covered Beacon Street into Boston Common while already turning the year dial.

POP!

Here we go again!

I whip my head around as I run. It’s Violet.

“Iris, stop!” she yells.

“Screw you!” I slam the watch shut.

I hear Violet’s voice screaming, “You can’t run forever!” as I fly through darkness. Pain rips at my entire body.

I’m in Boston Common again. It doesn’t look that different. There are a few more buildings and more people around, and—oh no. People around. They’re screaming. Why are they screaming? And then I realize. It’s me. They’re screaming at me. Because I’m wearing clothes from 1962 and have just materialized out of thin air.

I keep running with my head down. People jump out of my way. They’re afraid of me.

POP!

No! Not again!

I look back as I run. Orange is on my trail, and he’s fast. He’s too fast. I pop open the watch face and spin the year dial. I need to get closer to the present! I don’t fit in here.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” Orange yells behind me.

I snap the watch shut. I didn’t turn it nearly enough. I’m only going a few years. I fly for a few seconds. My body barely has time to register the pain when it stops.

I gasp when I land. The Boston before me hasn’t changed that much, but there are even more people now. They scream. A woman faints. I throw myself out of Boston Common and onto Tremont Street. There are horses clomping through the cobblestone streets.

Violet is right. I can’t run forever. I have to get this tracker out of my arm. But how?

And then I see a man selling cheese and eggs from a wooden pushcart. There’s a knife sitting right beside him.

Oh my God. Can I do this?

POP!

I have to. I spin the year dial a half turn, grab the knife, and shut the lid as Yellow lurches toward me.

My body explodes again.
I can’t take this.

I’m gasping for breath on the side of Tremont Street. People are still yelling. It’s a never-ending symphony of screams, a cacophony of horrors, shrieks following me through time. I run down a side street. I don’t know when I am. Sometime when women wore long dresses and men wore top hats. But there’s no time to process. I have to do this.