The Eighth Guardian (3 page)

I guess what Professor Samuels said all those years ago is true. The CIA is my future.

But I’m not asking Abe whether he thinks I’m CIA. I’m asking if he’s sure it will be next year. I don’t press him for another answer. But the green tie lingers in my mind.

Abe bends down and plants a kiss on my forehead, then stands up. “You do kind of stink.”

I playfully push him away. “Yeah, well, you’re no Abercrombie store yourself.” He flashes me another smile, then trots off toward Mace Hall, his dorm on the opposite side of the quad. I watch him jog for a few seconds before I push open the door. Someone’s got a fire going in the common room. It crackles and pops, and a couple of junior girls have collapsed into the armchairs in front of it. I don’t blame them. It’s so warm and inviting in the common room. But I also don’t want to be the one still stuck in line for the shower when the hot water runs out.

I start up the stairs, looking at my mud-stained sneakers, and I don’t realize someone’s coming down until we’ve collided.

“Gah! Sorry!” I say, looking up. It’s Katia.

“Oh, hey,” she says, then immediately looks away, ducks her shoulders, and pushes past me.

I grab on to her arm. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. Katia’s no shrinking violet. She’s gorgeous, with this (dyed) platinum-blond hair that hangs to her waist and legs that are four miles long. She’s one of the best students at Peel when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. No one is quicker with a knife. And she totally knows it. Katia doesn’t walk anywhere. She
struts
. She’s always the life of the party, always the friendly ear. She’s not the girl who ducks her head and tries to stay hidden. Not by a mile.

“What’s going on?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she says. I know it’s a lie because she doesn’t try to loosen my grip on her arm. And she could. She could probably flip me over the banister this second.

“Katia, what’s going on?”

She lets out the softest sigh. “I don’t know.” I give her my toughest, I-haven’t-slept-in-forever-so-just-tell-me-already face. “Honestly. I don’t. I do know that there was a man who followed Headmaster Vaughn back to his office after Testing Day ended. I was in the administration building helping sort files. He said your name twice, but I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. Then they shut the door.”

“And you don’t know anything else?”

“No. Now can you let go of my arm so I don’t have to break your fingers?”

I drop Katia’s arm. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding on to her so tightly. There are four red, finger-size welts on her bicep. “Sorry,” I mumble.

Katia’s halfway across the hall.

“Katia!” I call.

She turns her head.

“What color was his tie?”

Katia scrunches her nose. “Vaughn’s?”

I have to restrain myself from groaning. “No, the other man.”

“Oh.” She thinks. “I’m not sure.”

“Please try to remember. I mean, it’s not like they teach us superspecial skills of observation here or anything.”

Katia cracks the smallest smile and closes her eyes. She opens them a few moments later. “Green. I’m almost positive it was green.”

An invisible fist punches me in the gut. “Thanks,” I mutter. My heart sinks lower with each step I take up the stairs. As I stand in the shower and let the warm water spill over me, I think about what Abe said. And I think about Tyler Fertig. They’re not going to pick me tonight. They’re not.

But the sinking feeling doesn’t wash away with the dirt and grime.

I find Abe in the dining hall, sitting at our usual table. He tilts his head at the seat he’s saved me, and as I glide over to it, I look at Abe.
Really
look at him. He’s not what you would call conventionally handsome, with deep-set eyes, crooked teeth, and a nose that’s been broken so many times the doctors have given up. But to me he’s the most beautiful guy in the world.

I slip into my seat just as Headmaster Vaughn takes the stage. Salads are already on the tables.

Vaughn clears his throat and straightens his tie. His silver hair doesn’t budge as he leans toward the microphone. “A very talented, highly gifted group of individuals is going to graduate tonight.”

Individuals
. He said individuals. Not seniors. I rack my brain, trying to remember if he said
individuals
or
seniors
last year.

“There were some choices made this year that surprised even me.”

Surprises? Like . . . a junior being chosen? Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. I push the salad away and turn to Abe.

“I love you,” I whisper.

He tilts his head to me but doesn’t turn it. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

Headmaster Vaughn continues. “But before we get to the specific assignments made this year, I invite you all to feast.” He opens his arms, and the kitchen staff carries out trays of silver-domed plates.

“Will you wait for me?” My words are barely audible.

Abe turns his head this time. “What are you talking about? Wait for you for what?”

A waiter lifts the dome off a plate of pot roast and sets it before me, but I push it back. It clinks into my untouched salad plate.

“If I graduate tonight. Will you wait for me?”

Abe shakes his head. “Tyler Fertig,” he reminds me.

“Abey, I’ve got this really funny feeling. It’s unnerving.”

Abe puts down his fork and squeezes my hand. “Hey,” he says in the calm, reassuring voice I know so well, “it’s Testing Day. It’s meant to unnerve you. But I guarantee you that this banquet is going to be over in an hour, and you’ll be sleeping in your own bed tonight.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “You guarantee it?”

“Yep.” He looks so sure, so confident. I don’t have the heart to tell him his pep talk did nothing to settle my nerves. So instead I smile.

Abe pulls back his hand and stabs a potato with his fork before shoving it into his mouth. Then he turns to Aaron Zimmer on his left and jumps into a conversation about the water challenge this morning.

I stare at my plate of food. I’m not hungry. I haven’t eaten since dinner the night before, but I can’t stomach the idea of food. I try to nibble on a carrot, then set it down. I’m going to throw up.

Headmaster Vaughn takes the stage again after the dinner plates have been cleared and coffee and cheesecake are being set on the tables.

“Congratulations to you all. Those of you graduating tonight have seen the ceremony before.”

I press my legs together and start bouncing on my toes. His words are careful. He’s deliberately not saying
seniors
.

“Assignments are strictly confidential”—though it’s pretty easy to guess—“so when I call your name, I will hand you an envelope, which you will read once you have proceeded to the back room. Look around, students, and say your good-byes now, because this is the last time many of you will be in this room.”

Look around,
students
. I bend over and rest my elbows on my thighs. My legs bounce higher.

Abe puts his hand on my back, then leans over next to me. “Are you all right?” There’s genuine concern in his voice.

I shake my head.

“Matthew Alder,” the headmaster calls. A boy from a few tables over gets up and walks to the stage as the crowd applauds.

“Hey,” Abe whispers, “it’s fine. I promise.”

It’s not fine.

Headmaster Vaughn goes through rest of the
A
s, then the
B
s. Our school isn’t that big, so he’s flying through the alphabet. Once he gets to the
M
s, I can’t breathe.

“Alyssa Morrison.” I hear a chair scrape back somewhere but can’t look.

“Portia Nichols.” Closer. We’re getting closer.

“Samita Nori.” And my heart stands still. Time slows to a halt. I suck in my breath. Here it goes. I have to be next.
Please,
I beg,
please no.
I’m not ready to say good-bye to Abe. Not yet. Not today.

I look at Vaughn, willing him to skip to the
P
s. Vaughn’s face goes very still, and he places two hands on the podium.

He’s pausing.

And then he opens his mouth.

“Amanda Obermann.”

No one claps. But just about everyone gasps. I feel every head in the room turn to look at me. The plates on the table swirl together in front of me, a mess of coffee and cheesecake. How is this happening?
Why
is this happening? I failed the water challenge. I must have finished in the middle of the pack. Why why WHY?

Headmaster Vaughn clears his throat into the microphone. I don’t make eye contact with him, but I don’t have to. I can feel him staring at me. I look over at Abe. His mouth has fallen open, and his eyes are moist. He reaches over and squeezes my left hand.

“Amanda Obermann,” the headmaster repeats with firmness.

I push back my chair and stand. The sound of the chair scraping against the floor echoes throughout the stunned room.

“I’ll wait for you,” Abe gasps. “And you wait for me. It’s just a year. Just a year.”

I squeeze his hand back. “Just a year,” I whisper. Then I pull away and walk toward the stage. My legs trudge up the five steps and over to Headmaster Vaughn. His lips are pressed together in a smile as he hands me a plain white envelope with my name typed in the center. I take it and look out over my fellow classmates. They’re all wearing the same expression of shocked silence. I have to look away.

Logic tells me I should be happy. I’m the youngest student to graduate in a generation. This is an honor. A privilege. But my heart wants to be back at the table next to Abe. Where I belong.

The headmaster gestures offstage to the door leading into a meeting room. The dining hall is spinning. I stare at the American flag pin the headmaster wears on his left lapel to find my bearings, then at the bald eagle pin on his right—although I’m so dizzy it looks more like a hawk with a bad perm right now. My legs move again, taking one step, then another, on their own because my head’s not there. I glance back at Abe once more before I open the door. This is the last look I’m going to get for a year. He has his hand clenched into a fist over his heart, as if he’s fighting to keep it inside his chest. I make the same gesture and open the door.

The room is empty save for one person. A man.
The
man who was watching me so intently before. His green tie stares at me.

“Who are you?” I ask.

The man draws himself up to his full height. He’s tall and trim and intimidating as hell. He looks as if he could be a hit man or something. His light-brown hair is shaved down, though it’s not short enough to hide the receding hairline creeping across his scalp. And even though he’s wearing a suit, it’s obvious that he’s pretty ripped—not as bulky as a body builder, but enough to where you’d be stupid to try to pick a bar fight with him. I have no doubt he’s trained in some sort of martial arts. I try to guess how old he is and decide he’s probably around the age my dad would be if he was still alive.

For one brief second my heart pangs at the thought of my dad. I wish he was here with me. I could use a father at this moment.

“Open the envelope,” the man says.

I look down at my name, then flip over the envelope to the back. It’s sealed with red wax. There’s a symbol in the wax, and I bring the envelope closer to my face to inspect it. It’s an owl. But not a cartoony-looking owl. A scary owl. A hold-you-down-and-peck-your-eyes-out owl. I look up. The last time I checked, the CIA didn’t use an owl as its symbol.

“Go on,” the man says.

I slide my finger under the flap and break the seal. There’s a single, folded sheet of paper inside. I flick it open, and my head pops back. It doesn’t say Central Intelligence Agency. Not even Federal Bureau of Investigation. No, there in the middle, in fancy script that looks as if it was scratched on with an old-fashioned quill, it reads,

Annum Guard

“What the hell is Annum Guard?” I look up at him.

And then I gasp. The man is standing only a few inches in front of me now. He’s holding a black cloth bag in his hands, and I know what’s about to happen. I drop the letter and raise my hands to fight, but I’m too slow. The bag goes over my head, and I inhale a faint, sweet smell with obvious chemical overtones.

Chloroform.

I kick.

I scream.

“No!”

I can’t breathe.

I can’t. . . .

I open my eyes. Light swirls in front of me. Foggy shapes become clearer the more I stare. I’m lying down. There are fluorescent tubes lining the ceiling, each set to the maximum wattage. I drop my chin to my chest and squint. My mouth is dry. My head is pounding.

Where am I?

I try to lift my arms, but they won’t budge. I’m strapped down. I turn my head to the side. There’s a needle stuck in my arm, pumping blood into or out of me—I don’t know which.

I gasp. I thrash on the gurney. This is wrong. This is all wrong. No government organization would do this to me, would it? I’ve been kidnapped. I’ve been taken by someone. I have to get out of here.

A man appears over me. He’s changed his tie. It’s red now.