The pressure of the blade on my skin increases slightly, and I cry out. “No! No don’t!”
Instantly the knife is withdrawn, back in its sheath like it never left. “Why?” he asks.
“Because I don’t want to die,” I say. Tears bleed down my cheeks and I wipe them away furiously, angrily.
“You will die eventually. There is no doubting that.”
“But I don’t want to die yet, not today. Not for as long as I can manage it.” Maybe it’s wrong to want to live. With everything I’ve done, and am, I probably deserve to die. But I don’t want to. Not yet.
Placing his hands on my desk, Mr. Walters leans forward. His wizened features grow eerily strong and firm as he peers down at me. “If you don’t want to die, then you have to embrace who and what you are, Libby. Becoming the Destroyer is the only thing that is going to keep you alive.”
Chapter 6
Risk
Still feeling rather dazed from Mr. Walters’ class, I push through the doors to the parking lot with my eyes on the pavement. Pain behind my eyes is growing into a massive headache by the second. I never did get a chance to talk to Jen today. Telling myself that it’s just because we don’t have any classes together, and because I was here early this morning and I’m leaving ridiculously late, are the only reasons we didn’t find each other today, only does so much to cheer me up. It isn’t because she’s avoiding me.
Intent on convincing myself that Jen is still my friend, I don’t notice the door in front of me swinging open until it is inches away from my face. With no time to move out of the way I throw my hands up in an effort to protect myself and take the full force of the door on my palms. Pain radiates through my wrists and up my arms in a flash.
“Ow! Crap, that hurt.” Since I already dropped the books I was carrying, I’m free to shake my hands and try to get rid of the awful tingling sensation. The door swings back away from me to reveal the culprit.
“Did I hit you?” he asks, sounding only vaguely concerned. His dark grey eyes look over at me from under his raggedy hair.
I stare at him with a scowl. “Milo, right?”
He nods.
“Yeah, you did hit me. Thanks. Like my day hasn’t been crappy enough already.”
Shrugging nonchalantly, he says, “Sorry. I’m usually the only one still here this late.”
It is pretty late. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Detention.”
I have to suppress an elaborate eye roll. It isn’t easy. Of course he was in detention. He certainly wasn’t still here working on some extra credit or anything. “What for?”
“Didn’t turn in a homework assignment to Ms. Hernandez last week. She gets pretty pissed when that happens. But she gets pissed off by just about everything I do.” Milo looks very concerned about that fact. “She’ll get over it eventually.”
“How long did she give you?” Not that I particularly care for Milo’s sake—he obviously deserves it—but just so I know how peevish Ms. Hernandez is for future reference.
“This time?” Milo asks. “A week, or until I turn my homework in, whichever comes first.”
“Then why don’t you just turn your homework in?” I ask drily.
He looks at me like I am an idiot. “I’ve already spent three of my five days in detention. Turning my homework in now would be pointless. I would have wasted the last three days trying to make a point.”
“And what point is that? You’re lazy?” I ask.
Milo stoops down and scoops my forgotten books up off the floor and holds them out to me. “Not lazy, exactly, just incapable of turning in homework assignments.”
I reach out for my books and notice that the right cuff of his frayed sweatshirt has pulled up enough to bare his wrist. The sight of a tiny string of diktats isn’t all that remarkable given that we’re in a talent training class together, but they catch my eye anyway. There is something wrong with them. Before I can really get a good look at the diktats Milo notices my gaze and practically drops the books into my arms. I catch them purely on reflex and hug them against my chest.
“So, is there actually a difference between being lazy and incapable of doing your homework? ‘Cause I’d probably just lump them together,” I say, trying to alleviate the awkwardness.
“Of course there is.”
I wait for him to explain, but he doesn’t. Instead he shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking toward the parking lot. It isn’t the harried pace of someone trying to get away. I get the distinct impression that his ambling walk is an unspoken invitation for me to catch up with him. And for some reason beyond being desperate to have someone to talk to again, I accept. Given how slow he’s walking it only takes me a couple of steps to catch up and fall in beside him.
“So,” Milo says, telling me I was right about him waiting for me, “what made your day so awful? Was it just the typical ‘Everybody knows I’m the Destroyer’ stuff, or something worse, like a broken nail or some other girl drama?”
I can’t even respond for a moment. Milo trying to have a normal conversation with me is weird enough. His talking about my being the Destroyer like it’s no big deal is just bizarre. I was sure back in Perception class that he had no idea who I was.
“You know about that?” I ask. Everyone else in the school did, though I haven’t seen much hint of Howe’s promise to make everyone hate me yet so I assume it was either Lance or Principal Andrews giving the school a heads up.
Without looking over at me, Milo fills me in. “I have first hour with Lance. He pretty much announced it to the whole room. It’s probably a safe bet to say everyone knows by now.”
“Of course he did,” I growl. “I’d slap him if I didn’t think he’d try to kill me again.” My eyes snap over to Milo. I didn’t mean to actually say that out loud. Things are bad enough without everyone knowing my own boyfriend—uh, ex-boyfriend—tried to kill me. Milo just keeps sauntering along without pause.
“No offense, but I don’t know what you ever saw in that guy. I thought he was a prick the first time I met him.” He didn’t move his gaze from the ground, but I swear I saw him smirk a little as he trashed Lance.
Not that it’s any big surprise that a guy like Milo would detest a guy like Lance, but I appreciate the sentiment. “I guess I’m not as good a judge of character as you are. It took his knife barely missing my throat to clue me in,” I say. The piddling joke actually makes me feel a little better. “Feel free to warn me next time, okay?”
Milo actually glances over at me. “Sure thing.”
Silence fills the space between us for a few seconds as we reach the first line of empty parking spaces. Without warning, Milo stops. Not wanting to abandon the only person still talking to me, I pause as well and look back at him.
“Did he really try to kill you?”
My long brown hair is hanging down around my face, covering my neck. Rather than answering, I pull my hair back and tilt my head to the side so the inch long proof of Lance’s attack can be seen plainly. “And right after that a Guardian came in and almost finished the job,” I say.
Whatever I expected Milo to say, I would have been wrong.
“Does that kind of thing happen to you often?” he asks.
The slight turning up of one of the corners of his mouth is the only indication that he’s joking. Again, my stress seems to lighten by the smallest degree.
“Well, if you count all the times I’ve almost died purely by accident or stupidity, or getting in trouble with Guardians, then yeah, it happens pretty regularly. But if we’re just talking about homicidal boyfriends and Guardians, that was a new one even for me. Although I suppose it probably won’t be the last.” Despite the truth of that, I find myself smiling, too.
Milo’s smile widens slightly. “Maybe you should take to wearing one of those dog collars with the spikes to fend off a repeat of that. It’s a little Goth, but with your dark hair and pale skin, I think you could probably pull it off.”
>
“I’ll have to think about that one,” I say with a laugh.
“What did you mean about getting in trouble with the Guardians?” Milo asks.
I shrug. “Sneaking out at night, mostly. If my mom bothered to check on me and found me gone, she’d call them in to haul me back.”
“You said mostly. What’s the rest of the reason?”
“Not going with them willingly when they found me.”
Milo nods in understanding, and maybe even with a hint of approval.
We reach a dark blue Toyota Corolla and Milo pauses. It must be his car. He doesn’t move to get in it right away, but I feel like my brief moment of normalcy is quickly drawing to an end. Milo is strange and a little grimy, but he’s still talking to me. And whether that makes him as crazy as Mr. Walters, or just weird, it’s hard to walk away from him. But I have to. I raise my hand to give him a casual wave before I say goodbye, but a sudden change in his expression stops me.
“You know how I said everybody knows about you by now?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say slowly.
He looks past me. “Well, I was wrong. Only everyone at school knows. But five minutes from now the entire world is going to know.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
Milo’s gaze slides past me. My stomach lurches and plummets to my shoelaces. I don’t want to turn around, but my body moves without my consent. Dozens of panel vans are tearing into the parking lot behind us. Big, bold letters of television and radio stations are plastered on their sides. These aren’t just the local flunkie reporters, either. CNN, Fox News, CNBC, CBS News, and every other major news outlet are here. For me.
This is the first step in Howe’s plan to make the entire world hate me.
I turn back to Milo in a panic but he only shrugs and leans against the back of the trunk. “Word was going to get out eventually, I guess. That was faster than I thought.”
“What do I do?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Talk to them?”
I grunt my disapproval.
“Then don’t talk to them. They’ll probably follow you home. Stake out your house, maybe. Hound you until you do talk to them. You can run, but I bet they find you pretty quickly. Most reporters are either Concealers or Visionaries. That’s why they’re so good.”
I have a quick flash of wonder about whether Jen will have a talent for Vision or Concealment before the rolling sound of a wave of reporters barreling toward me makes me want to cry. Milo is right, unfortunately. They’re not going to go away even if I run. This day just keeps getting better and better. Milo settles himself on the hood of his Corolla so his face is conspicuously turned away from the cameras and crosses his arms over his chest.
He may be safe from the viewers, but not from me. I can still see at least half of his expression. He takes on a look of mild interest in what is about to happen, but I get the impression he’s keeping a close eye on me and the reporters. It’s an odd sensation coming from him, but I’ll take whatever I can get at this point. Frowning intently, I turn away from him and face the onslaught. The bubbling thrill of a chase reaching its happy, or unhappy, end if you’re me, is stretched tightly across every one of their faces.
They start calling my name, yelling it as if I weren’t ten feet away from them and perfectly capable of hearing their calls. They slide to a scrambled stop inches away from my face.
“Libitina Sparks! Libitina, is it true that you’re the Destroyer?”
“Libitina! Can we see your diktats?”
“Was there an attempt on your life last night? Have there been any more attempts on your life? Rumors are flying that Vice President Lazaro does not support President Howe’s decision to let you live. Is that true? Has he made any threats against you?”
“What? Who did you hear that from?” There’s no way Howe let that part slip. Lazaro must be running his own campaign against me. Fabulous.
“Do you have any plans as of yet?”
That last one makes me flinch. “Plans?” I ask. The gaggle of reporters falls silent. “Plans for what?”
“For the destruction of our society,” one of the reporters says frankly. His wind tossed hair looks out of place among the rest of the polished members of the press staring at me. A quick glance down at his microphone clues me in. The blocky letters of the local news station out in Grants, where my cousins live, tags him as newbie trying to work his way up.
“I’m not going to destroy anything,” I say to him.
“That’s not what your classmate Lance Parsons said, or your own mother, for that matter. They both spoke to me on the phone and confirmed President Howe’s announcement that last night you were named Cassia, the Destroyer, by the Inquisitor who was training your father to take his place before his untimely death.”
Wow. He’s quick for an underling. How on earth did he already get interviews with my mom and Lance? The other reporters glance at him with the same question. His handsome face turns smug under their gaze. My own hardens to steel.
“I don’t care what any of them say, I’m not going to hurt anyone.” A dozen more questions spring up and I lose it. “This is all just a big mistake,” I shout over the din. “I’m not going to harm anyone or anything. I’m just a teenage girl, for crying out loud! I couldn’t do anything even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’m just a kid. Now, leave me alone, please.”
A striking brunette pushes her way to the front of the pack and thrusts her microphone in my face. “Are you calling Inquisitor Moore a liar? Are you saying he somehow lied during an Inquest, something we all know is physically impossible? Are you saying you do not have the diktats proclaiming who you really are?”
“No. No, I’m not calling Inquisitor Moore a liar. He’s a good person. He’s honest,” I argue. Even if he could have lied he wouldn’t have.
“Then what are you saying, Libitina?” she asks.
“I’m just saying this is all a big misunderstanding. I’m not the Destroyer. I’m not going to hurt people. I want to be an artist.” I’m pleading for them to understand, but none of them are really listening to what I say. They’re just trying to keep me talking as long as possible to get some good sound bites for the evening news.
“Show us your diktats,” a blonde man yells from the middle of the crowd. “If you want us to believe you aren’t the Destroyer, show us you’re not!”
“Yeah, prove it to us,” shouts another man.
Hands start grasping for me, the fear I would have expected from them overpowered by competition to get the best story. Someone grabs hold of my wrist and I slap it away and yank my hand back. “Stop it! Leave me alone!”
They press closer.
“Get away from me!”
“Just show us your wrist,” the same blonde man says.
I snap my left hand behind my back. These people are worse than the football players. I try to make myself look as threatening as possible. He freezes for a second, probably reminding himself of who I am, then greed proves the winner and he lunges for me. My right hand balls into a fist and rushes forward to meet him. The crack of knuckles on perfect cheekbone echoes in the sudden silence. Even though I was careful to hold back any talent-born power from my punch, Pretty Boy Reporter has likely never been hit before and drops like a wet noodle. The throbbing in my hand is oddly exhilarating.
“I thought you weren’t going to hurt anyone,” a brave but quietly muttering voice from somewhere in the middle of the pack says.
The liar I just made of myself stings more than I would have expected. Is this what Howe meant? Even if it is, I can’t back down from these leeches. “Keep your hands off me and I won’t,” I say as calmly as possible.
The entire group takes a collective, unconscious step back.
“I don’t have anything to say to any of you. Now leave me alone.”
I turn away but a redheaded woman steps forward and I pause. She looks straight at me, and asks, “Do you really just expect people to go about
their business like their own murderer isn’t walking around free as a bird? Nobody is going to stand for that, Libitina. People are already calling for you to be locked up.”
“They can’t do that,” I say in a panic. “I’ve only been named to the Destroyer class. I’m not anything until I turn eighteen. You can’t touch me until then.”
The redhead cocks her head to the side as she considers that. “So when you do turn eighteen…”
“Lock me up, kill me, do whatever you want,” I say, shocking everyone, even Milo, “if…if you still think I’m going to hurt anyone.”
“If?” she asks. “What makes you think anyone will be willing to take that risk?”
Forcing every bit of confidence and strength into my voice that I can manage, I say, “Because by the time I turn eighteen, I’ll have proved to everyone that I’m not the Destroyer.”
Chapter 7
Hero
I watch the horde of retreating news vans in relief. I don’t think they ever would have left if Principal Andrews hadn’t come out and banished them from the premises. She stormed back to her office right after looking angrier at me than them. My knees are shaking, and all I want to do is flop down on the pavement and bang my head against it. I might have if Milo hadn’t been staring at me. Despite the fact that he sat in that same irritating, slouchy position during the entire attack with an expression of detached curiosity, I stagger over to his car and plop down next to him. Jen would have hugged me. Lance would have kissed me and rubbed my shoulders until he felt the tension dissolve. Milo just sits there.
“Thanks for the help,” I say, my annoyance blatantly obvious.
“I thought you did great. Especially when you clocked that guy in the mouth. You can bet that bit makes it on the evening news,” Milo says casually.
Inquest Page 6
