Guardian

by P B Hughes

  She took hold of the ledge and pulled herself up. As she slid through the window, a sharp pain shot through her side. She fell onto the floor and clutched her ribs, her hand soaked with blood. With a curse she stood and glanced back at the window. She had crawled over a shard of glass.

  A flash of lighting illuminated the room: a wide, open space littered with support pillars and beams overhead. Goods lay in piles all around beneath canvas, and several stacks of metal piping lined the wall.

  A ticking noise, like a grandfather clock, sounded above her head. She glanced up at the ceiling.

  That’s strange, she thought, seeing a device fastened to a rafter. It was small and covered in burlap, though she could still make out its cylindrical shape. She thought it an odd thing, but decided to let it be. She had a job to do; each second was precious.

  She moved to the pile nearest her, holding her bleeding side with one hand, and threw off the canvas. Propeller blades—another strange Chimaroo invention. She moved on to the next pile—rudders.

  All the while, she couldn’t shake the thought that she had heard that ticking sound before. And though she could not place it, the sound of it left her unsettled.

  There’s nothing here, she told herself after throwing off the final canvas and finding steering wheels. Get to the third floor. She spotted a spiraling wrought-iron staircase in the corner to her right.

  She hurried across the room, but before she reached the stairs, she turned to look out the window for Jelani. Another flash of lightning lit the alleyway.

  He was gone.

  This time she was sure of it. In the spot where she left him, there was nothing but the tattered laundry whipping in the wind. She searched beneath the eaves and inside corridors. Perhaps he had taken shelter from the downpour, she thought. But there was no sign of him.

  Again, lightning illuminated the sky. Her blood went cold.

  Where Jelani had once been, there now stood a hooded figure, cloak surging about his body in the torrent. The sky went dark; the alleyway fell into shadow.

  Nera fell back, her heart hammering. Waves of fear pulsed down from her head and into her feet. She pulled her staff off her back and limped toward the stairs, blood seeping from her wound as she went.

  Get the gear, she told herself, and get out.

  She reached the stairs, and immediately noticed that they were dripping wet. Confused, she grabbed the railing and began to climb. The clang of her boots against the iron steps seemed unnaturally loud. But whenever she tried to soften her footsteps, the pain in her side stabbed wickedly.

  At the top of the stairs, Nera was met by a long hallway, littered with doors on either side. Rain, in a ray of lurid light, poured in through a hole in the roof. It drenched the floor and turned it into a shallow river that ran toward her, pressing around her boots and down the stairs. Nera felt a jarring panic.

  How am I supposed to find the gear in all of these rooms?

  She headed for the first door—heavy and metal with a rusty bottom—and grabbed the hoop handle. There was a sign bolted to the front that read, Brass Whistles.

  She rushed down the hall, reading each door’s sign as she went—Nuts and Bolts, Knobs, Bells. The rain from the ceiling hit her in a frigid blast. She wiped the water from her eyes and continued. Screws, Connectors, Gears, Pulleys—she froze.

  Gears!

  Her hand shot out and yanked on the door handle. Locked. She aimed her staff and fired a bolt of electricity.

  POP.

  The handle melted into a gnarled twist. She gave it a tug and the door flew open. Darkness. She took the cover off of her staff and sent a wave electricity pulsing through the orb, lighting the space. Immediately, she put out the light and jumped back, letting out a cry of fear. The shadows inside scattered like cockroaches when the light touched them.

  “Stop it, Nera,” she told herself. “Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  She lit her staff again and sighed with relief. This time, everything looked normal. It was a small space, the size of a closet. Its walls and floor were dense, made of some sort of heavy metal. An insulated safe, she thought, thinking back to her father’s warehouses. They were perfect for protecting product from frost and fire.

  Good. That means the gears won’t be rusted.

  Walls of drawers lined the space, and each was labeled. Nera gave mental thanks to whoever had kept the third floor from falling into disarray and ran her finger across each drawer.

  She paused and cocked her head. There was a soft tapping noise coming from the hall. Tick, tick, tick, it echoed loudly in the metal room. It was that device attached to the banister, she realized.

  Flimsy floors, she thought contemptuously, wondering why the hallway was made of wood and the supply rooms were made of metal. All these valuable products are going to waste in this weather-worn shack. She continued her search. Cheaper to have metal storage rooms than to make the whole thing metal, I suppose.

  She felt a jolt when her finger slid across the label: Spider Gears. She threw it open. Dozens of round, beautiful gears glistened up at her. She stuffed two into her pocket.

  She turned around and gasped. An evil-looking shadow—hunchbacked, with elongated arms, and a catlike head—was painted on the floor. “He’s coming for you,” it whispered in a small voice. Then it flit away across the floor with a cackle, disappearing into the darkness beyond the light of her staff.

  Nera’s body ached with fright so terribly that, for a moment, she forgot her physical pain. Everything around her, from the floor to the ceiling, seemed to be alive, watching her with a hundred eyes. They had found her; they had told the Cythe she was there.

  And then she heard it: the sound of hollow footsteps, rising up the stairs.

  Her staff went dim; she pulled the door shut, holding the handle tight. Her body quivered uncontrollably; blood dripped down her side. Tears filled her eyes. She was a child again, afraid of the monsters that lurked beneath her bed and in her closet. But this was no dream; this was real. She listened, her head swimming, but the only sound she could hear was the pouring of rain onto the floor coupled with the tick, tick, tick.

  Maybe he’s gone, she thought. Maybe this is all a bad dream after all.

  And then, a voice: “I taste your blood, thief. It’s in the air, it’s in the water.”

  Nera gripped her staff tightly. She knew she would have to fight; she knew this could be the end.

  “You cannot hide. My eyes are everywhere. The shadows, they’ve come out of hiding, and they fight for me. I will drink your blood; I will suck the marrow from your bones.”

  Wind brushed past Nera’s ear. She felt it; something was in the closet with her. And then, whatever it was snickered in the corner like some impish child, taunting her, amused at her distress. Another voice joined in the laughter, and another.

  I’m going to die! I’m going to die and these creatures will applaud my death.

  She heard the device through the floor. It was louder, quicker. Tick, tick, tick-TICK-TICK-TICK. Then, in a flash of memories, she knew what it was, and why it had left her so unsettled. It was the Chimaroo time bomb Bubbs had given them at the outset of their journey.

  Nera bolted out of the storage room and into the hallway. She turned to face her tormentor. And there he was through the waterfall of rain—a cloaked figure, indistinguishable save for his shadowy frame and the gleam of his two jade eyes hovering like a mirage.

  “Do you hear that sound?” Nera asked.

  The Cythe remained perfectly still and silent. She could see his eyes narrow with interest; he could hear it as plainly as she could.

  “That’s the sound of an explosive device, right beneath our feet. A Chimaroo invention. Someone was here before us. It’s about to go off.”

  TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK.

  Terror coursed through her. She wanted to run, but she knew a sudden movement might draw an attack. “Only seconds left, Cythe. You can come for me and we both die, or, you can run. I s
uggest the latter.”

  Shadows flickered on the wall, whispering, urging the Cythe in alarmed voices.

  Lightning lit the hall, painting it white for a second. And then the Cythe was gone.

  TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK…

  Nera turned and fled the opposite direction toward an unbroken window. She shot a lightning bolt from of her staff, shattering the glass, and—

  The floor puckered; the air caught fire and a vicious blast threw her out the open window.

  Chapter 20

  The wooden chair hurt Gregory’s back. He stood, glared at the rickety thing, and kicked it aside. He folded his arms and flopped down on the floor.

  It was raining harder now; he could see the drops crash against the narrow windowpane with a fury.

  Rain, rain, rain. Forever rain, he thought. What a miserable place! He tapped his foot and stared about the room, feeling claustrophobic. It reminded him of his father’s smithy—rusty tools scattered across a rotting floor, the red glow of the fat stove baking the air stuffy.

  After this is over, I’m moving south and building a home on a sunny beach.

  Desire tugged at his heart. His crown called to him from inside his pack, telling him to put it on, to wear it proudly and banish his misery. It was so shiny, so sleek. How kingly he would look with it glistening on his brow.

  I will wear it at least once before I sell it and pocket the profits, he thought.

  But I can’t wear it; not with Martha around. Imagine the questions she’d ask, the judgement in her eyes. Surely, she’d tell Jelani. That superstitious lug would make me get rid of it.

  That can never happen, Gregory decided resolutely. He needed that crown if he ever wanted to be more than a pauper. Of course, Martha would tell him that he was a Guardian now, and that he would never be destitute; that he was established and would have a good, successful life. But he knew it wouldn’t last. If Caden returned to take back his place, it would all be over.

  Gold was power, he knew. It made men do great things; it made men do evil things. His title of Guardian meant nothing, really. It was the gold he’d eventually earn from the job that would give him power. And it could all be ripped away; he had to protect himself. His crown was a security measure. The others wouldn’t understand.

  Gregory stared into the red mouth of the potbellied stove. He recalled the night he discovered his powers, the night the thieves came and stole the weapons they had worked so hard to make. Fire belched from that stove, spread about the floor of the smithy and consumed it. For a moment, in the flicker of flames, he thought he saw the face of the man who had ordered the theft, the face of the man who had killed his mother. Roderick, his name was—a thin-faced scoundrel with a pointed goatee. To Gregory, it was the face of a fiend, the face of evil incarnate.

  He clenched his fists. His blood turned to steam inside his veins.

  He wanted revenge.

  As a child, he promised to find the man and make him pay. But later he wondered how he could enact vengeance when he was a helpless nobody. No more did he wonder. Now that he had his golden crown, he had the power he needed.

  A crack of thunder brought him back to the basement. He wondered how Sir Weston could stand being out in the storm. The knight had decided to sit watch on the rooftop. Silly, Gregory knew; foolish even—he might be questioned by a patrolman. However, Sir Weston had been moping after being left behind, and it clearly made him feel as if he was doing something important. Thus, neither Gregory nor Martha objected. Better than listening to the fellow huff and puff.

  Gregory’s eyes drifted up to the window. A flash of lighting lit the basement. Nera and Jelani are out in that mess, he thought. I’d be useless in this storm; couldn’t light so much as a spark. Nera should have known better than to ask me to go.

  Gregory used to like Nera. Ordinarily, she let him do whatever he wanted without any sort of comment. She was truly tolerant. But he supposed it was all a ruse. She was not tolerant, she was stockpiling judgement just like the rest of them—Jelani, Ari, and especially Daniel were always chiding him. Now Nera had joined their ranks.

  “How could she say that to me?” Gregory said suddenly, breaking what had been a long silence. He and Martha had quarreled after Nera left. Martha said she didn’t like his attitude, and so, to punish her, Gregory had refused to speak for almost an hour. “After all we’ve been through,” he continued, “that bushy-haired brat has the nerve to call me a coward?”

  “Nera didn’t call you a coward, Greg,” Martha said.

  “She as good as did.”

  “If you take it that way.”

  “She said I was afraid. Tell me, how was I supposed to take it?”

  Martha was sitting in a chair by the stove, reading a tattered book she had found in the basement. She did not respond.

  “Interesting book, Martha?” said Gregory, adopting the sarcastic tone his professors used when they scolded him for staring out the window during class.

  “Some of the words are smeared,” she replied without looking up. “And the cover’s been nibbled on. The story isn’t all that good, but it’s better than the alternative.”

  “Sitting in silence?”

  “No,” she said. “That alternative is still better than the other alternative.”

  “Which is?”

  She turned a page. “Listening to you complain.”

  Gregory folded his arms across his chest and stewed. Martha always did that. She always scolded him for the slightest grumbling. It irritated him to no end. She believed herself to be perfect, a regular angel; she never complained about anything—nothing, that is, except when Gregory upset her. Then the floodgates would burst and she would nag, nag, nag.

  “You never take my side,” Gregory said, laying his head back on the floor. “Just once—just once—I’d like for you to have my back.”

  Martha sighed and splayed the book across her knee. “You’re grumpy, Gregory. Whenever you’re sick or hungry you become intolerable.”

  “Yeah? Well, now I’m both. I haven’t had a good meal in days.”

  “And so we have to deal with a double dose of grumpiness.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t be so grumpy if you’d share some of your bread with me.”

  “You already stole my last raisin loaf. You wolfed it down like you’d never eat again; don’t think I didn’t see you get up last night, because I did.”

  Gregory felt a tinge of guilt. He knew he shouldn’t have taken it, but he was just so darned hungry. Under normal circumstances, he would have left it alone and chewed on his own stale bread. But last night felt different. He wasn’t himself. New thoughts had risen in his mind, most of them centering around one simple fact: he was being used by the Empire to do their dirty work. Sending a bunch of kids on a diplomatic mission to one of the most dangerous places in the world? They might as well have sentenced them to death! If the Empire wasn’t looking out for him, he had to look out for himself. In the moment, he decided if taking care of himself meant stealing bread from his friends, then so be it. But now he regretted the decision.

  My friends aren’t using me, he thought to himself. There’s no need to punish them.

  “I’ll give you some of my food as a replacement,” he said. “But most of it’s no good.”

  “No need for that,” she replied. “Please, keep your food—I know you’re not feeling well. I’m sure that last night you were just delirious, that’s all.”

  There she went again, being merciful even when he didn’t deserve it. Gregory knew it wasn’t delirium. He remembered the whole thing; he remembered deciding to steal it, reasoning that she didn’t need as much food as he did because she was smaller. Of course, it was all nonsense, but at the time he believed his own lie. Maybe, he thought to himself, maybe I have been acting terrible.

  “Yes,” he said, scratching his nose. “I was just delirious.” He rolled over onto his elbows and stared up at Martha. She looked pretty in the orange light, her braid trailing down
over her shoulder. “Why are you so good to me? Even when I act like a monster, you treat me kindly.”

  Martha looked at him, and then dropped her gaze to her hands. “Mordecai says it’s a weakness in me,” she replied. “He says I shouldn’t make excuses for your bad behavior.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “I don’t know. Maybe because I can see things other people can’t see.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re not bad so much as you’re, well—” she bit her lip and searched for a word “—different.” She nodded decisively. “Yes, different. People get irritated with you—for always running late, for your wandering mind, and your free-flowing speech that gets you into trouble. They act like you’re some naughty child.”

  “Yeah,” said Gregory sarcastically. “That’s me all right—always breaking the rules. I’m surprised Mordecai never threw me out of school as many times as I was late to class. One of my many mortal sins.”

  “But you see, that’s just it. They aren’t mortal sins. Our teachers always treat you like there’s a wickedness built up in you that can only be removed with a punishment. But mostly, those things are just who you are. That’s not to say that you aren’t mischievous; because heaven knows, Gregory McPherson, I’ve had to deal with my fair share of your pranks over the years. But that doesn’t mean you’re bad, either. As a matter of fact, I think you’re great. You’re one of the most honest, authentic people I know.”

  Gregory felt touched by her remarks. It must have taken quite a bit of tolerance, patience, and understanding for her to get to know him so well. That meant Martha paid attention; that she cared enough about him to not dismiss him as an oaf like so many others. “Well,” he said, “I’m glad someone sees me in such a good light.”

  A knot twisted in Gregory’s gut; he was sorry for being rude to her earlier, for stealing from her, for taking her for granted. He wondered why he acted that way and if he’d ever be able to stop.

  If only she knew the real me, he thought, she might not think I’m so great.