The Paladin Prophecy (14 page)

“Will West, Lyle Ogilvy,” said Brooke. “Greenwood Hall’s provost marshal.”

Ogilvy looked Will over with darting black eyes that radiated furtive intelligence. He took two measured steps forward, offering a moist handshake and an obsequious smile. Something about Lyle, his stooped posture and covert vigilance, reminded Will of an undertaker or a large bird of prey. Brooke edged back as Lyle advanced; she seemed more than a little afraid of him.

“So pleased to have you with us,” said Lyle.

A surprisingly high-pitched voice for a person of his height and mass. Lyle affected a posh accent, halfway to British, the way actors in old movies talked when they wore tuxedos. His tone stayed polite on the surface, but a half-concealed sneer suggested he saw Will as his inferior.

“Likewise,” said Will. “What’s a provost marshal?”

Lyle seemed amused by the question. “We have rules in the residence halls. I don’t make them, but I am charged with enforcing them. Reluctantly on occasion, but at all times, I can assure you, with alacrity.”

He reached over and unzipped Will’s bag. Will thought about stopping him, but a worried look from Brooke dissuaded him.

“You can start by giving me your cell phone and laptop,” said Lyle.

“Why?”

“School policy,” said Lyle. “They’re not allowed on campus.”

“No phones, no texting?” asked Will, addressing Brooke as much as Lyle. Brooke confirmed, with a subtle shake of her head. “I’d like to hear the reason.”

“Students at the Center are encouraged to communicate through more traditional methods,” said Lyle patiently. “Using the neglected arts of face-to-face conversation and the written word. Or, if need be, our system of courtesy telephones, placed conveniently throughout the facilities.”

He pointed to an old-fashioned black phone on a corner cabinet that looked like it had been gathering dust since 1960.

“That seems, nothing personal … completely insane,” said Will.

“Everyone feels that way when they first arrive.” Lyle held out his hand, palm up. Dead serious. He wanted Will’s gear, and he wanted it now.

Will tried to stall. His iPhone he could part with, but he couldn’t afford to lose the phone Nando had given him. “Okay. The phone thing I can see in theory, but no
laptops
?”

Now Lyle sounded annoyed. “The school provides every student with a customized tablet for their personal use. Our IT staff will transfer all your data onto its hard drive—”

“What if I prefer my own?”

“—built with components and software developed in our labs. Considerably more sophisticated than this dreck from your trendy suburban retailer. Isn’t that right, Miss Springer?”

“Yes.” With her eyes, Brooke urged him not to press this.

“When do I get them back?”

Lyle made a visible effort to stay calm. “They’re securely stored and returned to you at the end of term.”

“I’ve got a bunch of stuff on my phone I need to back up to my hard drive,” said Will. “Address book, calendar, personal files—”

“Go right ahead,” said Lyle.
“Now.”

Will’s laptop was his most precious possession, a luxury his parents had scarcely been able to afford. He glanced at Brooke again. She looked panicked:
Please cooperate
. Will took out his MacBook and iPhone, cabled them, and started a sync.

With Lyle watching him, Nando’s cell phone felt like it was burning a hole in his front pocket. He resisted an impulse to touch it while Lyle stared holes in him.

“Can I keep my iPod?” asked Will. “Or do we have to transfer everything back onto vinyl?”

A laugh burst out of Brooke, which she quickly stifled. Lyle didn’t react. He moved to the cabinet in the corner of the room, unlocked it, and collected some printed material.

Will reached into his pocket and pulled out Nando’s cell phone. While Lyle’s back was turned, he pressed it into Brooke’s hand and squeezed her fingers around it. Wide-eyed with alarm, she hid it behind her as Lyle walked back to Will and gave him a booklet and a letter.

“Your copy of our Student Code of Conduct,” said Lyle. “And I need your signature on this release form, which stipulates that you will comply with and be bound by all the rules and regulations herein.”

#68: NEVER SIGN A LEGAL DOCUMENT THAT HASN’T BEEN APPROVED BY A LAWYER WHO WORKS FOR YOU.

Lyle offered a pen from his pocket. Will ignored it.

“Great,” said Will. “I’ll take a look and get back to you.”

Lyle studied him, searching for insubordination, but Will just smiled.

“I’m going to examine the rest of your belongings,” said Lyle. “You’ll find the legal authority for this on page six, article three: Arrival Inspection. Along with a detailed list of banned and forbidden objects and substances.”

Will glanced at Brooke. She confirmed with an anxious nod.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” said Will.

“Empty your pockets,” said Lyle.

Will turned the pockets of his sweats inside out. Lyle opened his bag and poked around, delicately, using the pen. He fished out Will’s dark glasses, then came up with the ones Dave had given him on the plane. Lyle examined them avidly.

“Are dark glasses on the banned list?” asked Will.

“Why do you have two pairs?”

“Rule number ninety-seven: Regarding eyewear and underwear: Always travel with backups.”

“Where did these come from?” asked Lyle, looking through the lenses.

“Boutique label.”

“I don’t
see
any label.”

“That’s what makes them so legit. It’s a West Coast thing.”

Not entirely convinced, Lyle put both pairs back in the bag. He brought out Will’s Swiss Army knife and held it in the palm of his hand.

“Violation,” said Lyle, smirking. “
This
is a weapon.”

“Sorry to quibble, but that’s incorrect. May I?” asked Will, lifting the knife from Lyle’s hand. “It has a blade, yes, but that was originally included so soldiers could open cans of field rations.” Will unfolded each tool. “It also has a chisel, scissors, a bottle opener, a screwdriver, an awl, a wire stripper, and a key ring. They give it to guys who already have rifles, bayonets, and hand grenades. It’s not a weapon; it’s a toolbox, and I’ll call and argue that to the headmaster right now if you take it.”

Fuming, Lyle set the knife back in Will’s bag. After more probing, he lifted out the folded hand towel. Setting it on the table, he unrolled it, revealing the remains of the broken bird.

Damn. I keep forgetting that’s in there
.

Lyle held out a questioning hand, as if this time he didn’t even need to ask.

“Science project,” said Will. “From my old school. I’m still tinkering, so I couldn’t bear to part with it—”

“What is this?” asked Lyle.

“What’s it look like?”

“It
looks
like a mechanical bird.”

“Yes, exactly what I was going for. Fist bump.”

Lyle ignored him. Will sensed Lyle really wanted to confiscate the bird—wanted to confiscate
anything
—but was fishing for a reason.

“Don’t tell me mechanical birds are on the banned list,” said Will.

“Surveillance equipment is.”

“
Surveillance
equipment?”

“That’s a
camera
, isn’t it?” asked Lyle, pointing to the eye.

“That’s flattering, Lyle, but you have wildly overestimated my engineering ability. I couldn’t even program the doggone thing to tweet, let alone fly. I’m hoping somebody here can teach me how to—”

Lyle drew himself up and locked eyes with Will. Will felt a strong, unpleasant pressure in his head, like a steel band had dropped and tightened on his skull, followed immediately by a sensation that someone was poking at the edge of his brain with a penknife. The wound on his head throbbed painfully and threatened to get a whole lot worse. Will didn’t want to show he felt anything, so he turned to Brooke. She looked pale and sincerely frightened.

And suddenly Will understood why: Lyle Ogilvy played some kind of mind music, the way Will knew how to do, but unlike Will, he apparently felt no qualms about using his power on other people.

Will tried to evade Lyle’s psychic prodding by pushing a blank picture at him. It didn’t seem to affect him, but something stirred inside Will, like an electric current twitching to life. He sensed more power there but had no idea how to use it.

As he struggled, his perception of Lyle’s pressure shifted, a new field of vision opening before him. It was as if he could see and hear whispered suggestions oozing out of Lyle, floating toward him like a volley of slow-moving bullets. Poisonous fragments of thought embedded in soul-piercing jackets aimed at his mind:

Let go … stop fighting … let me in … don’t resist … I’m your friend … trust me …

Will recoiled. Instinctively he knew that once one of Lyle-the-Strange-o’s “bullets” drilled into him, he’d find himself doing exactly what Lyle wanted, without a clue about why. No wonder he scared the crap out of kids like Brooke.

The thought of this arrogant cretin intimidating Brooke pushed Will over the edge. His anger ramped up the twitching circuitry in his mind into a unified surge of power, and the mind picture he’d been trying to project assumed the shape of a bright, impenetrable shield. It felt a little like trying to steer a runaway truck by kicking the tires, but somehow Will swung the shield in Lyle’s direction.

Their energies collided. Lyle’s bullets shattered as they hit Will’s shield. At the moment of contact, Will knew that whatever mojo Lyle could throw at him was ten times stronger than his own. A violent shock wave ran back into Will, like he’d touched a live wire. But Lyle felt a kickback, too, and as his eyes lit up in shock, Will realized something:

He’s never been challenged like this before
.

Lyle’s eyes redlined with anger. With his new awareness, Will could see Lyle’s power regroup into a dark and dangerous mass. If his prior intent had been to probe, now he meant to punish.

Will knew he’d have no chance this time. So instead of trying to block him, Will feinted forward, then yanked his shield back and to the side. Like pulling a chair out from under someone halfway sitting down. The hammer blow of Lyle’s fury blew past him, as if a freight train had missed him by an inch.

The faintest breath of wind rippled a few strands of Brooke’s hair. On the wall behind them, a framed photograph of the Center sagged ever so slightly off center. The energy in the room sizzled and then vanished with a snap.

They stood there looking at each other, exactly as before. They’d hardly moved a muscle during their psychic jujitsu.

Lyle smiled confidently, showing his canines. “I’m quite certain somebody here can teach you something.” He placed the bird back in Will’s bag.

A tone sounded, indicating Will’s iPhone and MacBook had synced. Lyle disconnected them and placed them in a plastic tray.

“As soon as the data transfer is complete,” said Lyle, “your new tablet will be sent to your quarters. Miss Springer will show you to them now.”

Lyle nodded at Brooke, who opened the outer door. She couldn’t leave the room fast enough. Will zipped up his bag and winked at Lyle.

“See you round campus, pal.”

Lyle didn’t respond until Will reached the door.

“West. Let me offer some personal advice: At the Center, we say that problems exist only in order to inspire us to find solutions. Don’t be an inspiration to me.”

Lyle disappeared into his inner office. Will walked outside and joined Brooke. After a few steps, he staggered and had to brace himself against the wall. The same blackness and nausea he’d felt at the airport washed over him, although this time it was much worse.

“Are you all right?” asked Brooke.

He grunted, holding his head. She leaned against the wall beside him, close. Still afraid.

“How did you do that?” she whispered.

How much did she see, or sense, of what went on in there?
Will wondered.

“Do what?” he whispered back.

“Stand up to Lyle that way. I’ve never seen anybody manage it before.”

#91: THERE IS NOT—NOR SHOULD THERE BE—ANY LIMIT TO WHAT A GUY WILL GO THROUGH TO IMPRESS THE RIGHT GIRL.

“I don’t like bullies,” he said.

She pressed Nando’s phone back into Will’s hand. He slipped it into his pocket.

“Come on, let’s get you upstairs,” she said, taking his arm. “Your head’s bleeding.”

POD G4-3

Brooke decided Will shouldn’t take the stairs, so a large, lumbering elevator conveyed them to the fourth floor. Will held it together for Brooke’s benefit but felt as if someone had scooped out his insides and dumped him down a well.

The elevator deposited them into a central lobby full of light and brightly colored couches. Corridors ran out from the lobby like spokes from the hub of a wheel. She helped him down one of the corridors. Shorter passages fed off to either side. Turning down the last one on the left, Brooke took out a key card. They approached a white door marked with red raised letters: G4-3.

“Four floors to each hall. Twelve pods to a floor. Five students to a pod.”

Will quickly did the math:
1,360 students at the Center
.

She scanned the card through a box above the handle. An electronic tone warbled. They entered a large octagonal central space, punched with wide skylights that cheerfully brightened the room. Clusters of comfortable couches and overstuffed chairs in muted colors softened the sharp architectural lines. She guided him to a dining table with five chairs that sat outside a small, efficient kitchen.

“Sit here,” she said, easing Will into one of the chairs. “Be right back.”

She disappeared through one of five doors that led off the great room. Will looked around. Built-in bookshelves lined the walls. A single step led down to the heart of the room, where large pillows and throw rugs surrounded a round rock fireplace. Two old-fashioned black phones sat on opposite ends of the room. There were no TV or computer screens in sight, which made the room seem strangely timeless.