“Oh—you,” I say unenthusiastically and peek around her black leather-clad body to make sure the hologram got the message. Swirls of electrified dust coil, evaporating into thin air. Good. The last thing I want to do is tell Turner that one of his stupid hologram machines malfunctioned. Spft.
“Who was that?” she asks suspiciously in her Russian accent.
“Just one of Turner’s inventions,” I explain. “What do you want? I didn’t know you were back.” I lean down to collect the mail.
When I look up, she’s examining me skeptically, probably considering the hologram. I hope she’ll just let it go. It’s not unusual for the professor and Turner to install inventions around the school.
“What?” I demand again and stand straight, giving her the defiant face I normally reserve for my dad, Ray. You could say Terease and I have an uncomfortable history.
Her eyes narrow with her usual contempt. “Meet me in my office, tomorrow afternoon at four. We have much to discuss.”
Before I can turn away, her coal-black eyes engage mine. Our minds lock together, and she lights one simmering spark. The flames explode with the force of lit kerosene. Quickly the uncontrolled wildfire whips and races through my maze of thoughts and memories. I fight her psychological rampage, helplessly attempting to force her out of my head. I squeeze my hands over my temples, clench my teeth, and gag at the taste of sulfur foaming in my mouth. Get out! Get out! I scream inside.
She releases me.
Immediately my muscles seize into painful cramps, and I collapse to the floor on my hands and knees, panting. I look up, and Terease walks away. Her high-heeled boots click the corridor floor.
“Sounds like fun,” I respond sarcastically to her meeting request.
She just laughs her sandpapery laugh. The evil sound echoes, bouncing off the cavernous halls. A sickly cape of darkness follows her, dragging along the marble floor, murals, and columns until she rounds the corner, pulling the shadows from view.
Strangely, I seem to be the one person who evades her special abilities as a Harvester. With a normal Wanderer, she can search their brains, pluck thoughts, pull memories, and extract information. But with me, she can only burn my mind. What purpose this serves, I have yet to understand. For now, I consider it a type of child abuse or an act of dominance.
Recovering on the floor, I rub my forehead. Unfortunately, the short-term results of her burn sessions are massive headaches. The long-term effect—I’m not exactly sure yet, but I’m positive it involves a butt load of lost brain cells.
I moan and roll over. With wavering enthusiasm, I gather my mail, leaving it in a pile on the floor. Turning, I jiggle the door lock, trying to pop the apartment door open from a kneeling position. When the door finally opens, I lean in and hold on to the knob steady myself, then lift my body.
The doorknob pops off in my hand, sending me crashing back to the ground. I rest for a few moments, considering my bad luck. With all the energy I have left, I lug myself into the apartment, drag a nearby chair across the room, and wedge it against the door as a temporary doorstop. It won’t keep out anyone who really wants in, but I’m not expecting any visitors at the moment.
Walking through the apartment, I pick up several pairs of dirty socks, push through my bedroom door, and drop the stack of mail on my bed. My room and apartment are a colossal mess. Sam, impeccable to a fault, will die if she arrives home to this unsalvageable wreckage. She and Bishop, as my team members, are also my roommates. I promise myself to clean it up tomorrow, but first, I need to take care of myself. Immediately, I take an extra long, extra hot shower.
When I slip into my oversized robe, my muscles relax, finally at ease. My burning headache is a dull memory. I linger by the bed, towel-drying my hair and eyeing Bishop’s unopened letter. Normally, I hold off reading them for as long as possible. When I can no longer force myself to wait another minute, the rush of reading his words is all the more satisfying and exhilarating. But today, I can’t wait. The ache of missing him is at a heightened peak, probably because I’m anticipating his return to Chicago tomorrow.
He made me promise not to wander to see him in London over the summer holiday, which is absolutely ridiculous. Somewhere in his Protector mind, he considers me vulnerable. After last semester, he fears Cece and the Underground will hunt me down again.
When he looked imploringly at me with those beautiful green eyes, I reluctantly promised to lock myself away in the Academy for the summer, with only his letters to remind me of him. And those letters—they’re simply beautiful, romantic letters.
I collect the cream envelope and walk out of my bedroom and into the living area. I grasp the handle of Bishop’s bedroom door, rotate the knob, and peek in. My brain knows the room is empty, but I always hope, wish, that Bishop will appear, leaning back in his chair with his feet anchored on his desk, reading a tattered book, just as he always had during the spring semester.
He’d smile brightly and say, “Hello, love,” in that delightfully British way, his perfect, lopsided smile revealing a ghost of a dimple. The smile would reach his eyes, bending them into arcs, accentuating his thick-fringed lashes. I’d do anything to look into those sparkling green eyes right now.
I exhale when I register the empty room. Afternoon sunlight barely filters through the curtains’ sheers. I meander to his bed, still unmade from my last visit, and sink down into it, relaxing into the fluff as my tiptoes barely graze the wood floor. Rocking back, I swing my legs on top of the down comforter and nestle my head into his feather pillow.
The pillow smells like him, even after all this time—weeks. His aftershave lingers, warm citrus and leather. I inhale the intoxicating aroma. My eyelids flutter. Bishop’s stunning face dances behind them. If I could only hold this thought forever, I’d be in heaven.
Giving in, I break the wax seal on his envelope, slide my finger under the open corner, and tear. Instantly, I regret it. Why don’t I have the strength to wait? Why does he have this unexplainable hold over me?
Ornate script decorates the cream page. He’s been working on his penmanship, practicing calligraphy. He explained that my letters deserved to be beautiful. I smell the paper first. The ink is still tart and fresh.
•
My Seraphina,
All I can think of are the coming days.
When we can unite once more,
promise me this:
Nourish my heart, for it has been starved.
Feed my eyes, for they are weak.
Satisfy my touch, for my hands lay quiet.
Restless. Waiting. Dreaming.
Until I fall into your sweet embrace,
Feel the ebb and tide of your chest,
Become drunk once more
by your sweet breath,
Consumed, forever lost,
in the wild violets of your gaze.
Restless. Waiting. Dreaming.
— Bishop
•
I reread the words out loud, memorizing them with my special gift of perfect recall. I want to capture these perfect, loving emotions in my thoughts forever.
My body and shoulders tighten with each reading and, in this moment, I decide I must see him. I can’t wait any longer. With his beautiful letter in hand, I can wander through time, directly to him. I just have figure out how to leave the Academy without anyone catching me.
::5::
The Launch
I’ve not only been on lockdown at the Academy for Bishop’s sake, even though I pretend that’s the case for my own sanity. The thought of someone telling me what to do always seems like a challenge for me to do the opposite.
Now that Terease is back, she’ll enforce the lockdown herself. The entire staff, at least what is left for the summer, watch me like hawks. I can’t even leave the Academy grounds without a chaperone. They know about my confrontation with Cece last winter and won’t allow a repeat performance. Little do they realize, that’s exactly what I want—eventually.
; I stand in the turret of my room, staring out the bedroom door on the far side of the room. The furniture was a pain in the butt to move, but with it pushed to the side, near the walls, there’s a bare stretch of running space from my bedroom all the way through the living area. Even still, there doesn’t seem to be enough space to run and launch myself into a time-traveling wormhole. I have a sneaking suspicion that the apartments are designed this way on purpose. The Academy doesn’t want students to wander within their rooms, with no security cameras to record the event.
Gripping Bishop’s letter in my hand as a relic, I run regardless. I have to try to wander; I have to see him. If I use his name in my mind as the keyword to unlock the time-traveling door, the relic will transport me to London, where he last touched the envelope.
“Bishop, Bishop, Bishop.”
I pump my arms hard, push my legs to long strides, and hope for maximum speed. I run past the bed, out the bedroom door, past the mini kitchen and the sectional sofa. I close my eyes and pray for a miracle.
My body slams into the living room wall.
“Uggh!” I hit the floor, crushing my shoulder, knocking the wind from my chest. Above my head, the TV wobbles, unsteady. I scramble out of its path, but thankfully, it doesn’t fall.
“That’s not going to work,” I grunt.
Annoyed, I rest, thinking of alternate locations. With no conclusion, I pick myself up off the floor and walk around the school to scope out other possibilities—if there are any.
•
I begin in a place I’ve never ventured—the Academy’s attic. The elevator’s cage opens into a rough space with slanted ceilings. There’s a light switch, a large cast iron bubble anchored to the wall with two buttons. I push both at the same time. A buzzing noise shoots electricity through wires in the ceiling, breathing life into the overhead bulbs with an electric pop. Orange sparks rain down from the fixtures, and the lights flicker eerily.
I glance around, searching for the blue blinking lights that accompany the video surveillance system, otherwise known as the E.Y.E.S. Happily, there are none.
In the small room, there’s an oversized door. A crooked sign reads, “NO STUDENTS. ACADEMY PERSONNEL ONLY!” The words are handwritten and faded. The poster hangs, barely affixed with a tack. I rip the sign down and toss it to a nearby table. I wonder if they really think a sign will deter me. There must be something good in there.
I reach for the doorknob but hesitate. Even though there are no cameras, an alarm might sound. You just never know in this place.
Curiosity has the better of me at this point, and I step forward. The elevator door slams shut with a clack. I jolt at the sound and turn to see the cage dropping out of sight, droning off for another floor. I release my breath, now realizing I had been holding it all this time.
When I return my attention back to the forbidden door, it’s popped open, just an inch. No alarm. I push the door with my fingertip. It creaks, drifting halfway open. Tipping my head in, I survey the space before committing to a full entry.
Open-caged rooms wrap confusingly, making an iron maze. Deciding I’m alone, I walk to the nearest cage, grab onto the iron bars, and rest my cheeks between them to survey the contents. Boxes, clothes, and furniture stack from the floor to the ceiling, nestled in neat, tidy, shelving compartments. The lock on the gate is old, at least a hundred years. I turn it over. A name is etched into the back. Maybe these are personal effects of teachers or something, like a storage facility, but I can’t be sure.
The droning sound returns and the cage door of the elevator clacks open. Two people move about the entrance area, chatting. Worried that I’ll be caught, I run, searching for a hiding spot.
“You left the door open?” one man accuses another.
“I don’t know, man. Maybe. So what?”
“So what? If Terease saw this, we’d lose our jobs!” The man grunts with understandable annoyance. “Just watch where you’re pushing this thing!”
Two men appear from behind the door, rolling a cart full of luggage. I crouch down farther.
They stop. One man takes out a clipboard and reads it. “Each of these goes into a different locker. Looks like they go back here.”
I imagine the man pointing in the direction I’m hiding because that seems to be the direction they’re moving. As the sound closes in, I crawl on my hands and knees through the maze. Somewhere in the middle, I find a new spot. Peeking through the piles of boxes and assorted crap, I barely see them.
The man in charge takes out a clanking set of keys and unlocks several gates. He reads out numbers from the clipboard as the second man finds the correlating bag, lugs it into the proper cage, and shoves it neatly into a compartment. They repeat this about ten times before they finally leave, locking the cages and finally the main door behind them.
“Great!” Locked in. Now I really have to find a way out.
I drag myself from the floor and walk the maze, looking for the blue blinking lights of the E.Y.E.S. When I’m positive there are none, I walk the room again, seeking a long stretch of space that will allow me to run and launch myself into time, hopefully to be with Bishop.
From my view, there’s one possible exit. The long walkway against the south wall is mostly clear and definitely long enough to send me to London. There’s just the matter of moving the two oversized objects that seem very strategically placed on its path. The smaller item I manage to move with the full weight of my body leaning against it. The distance, only a few inches, makes all the difference in the world. The second, a cast iron safe the size of a dishwasher, won’t budge. On its own it weighs a ton, not including whatever resides inside.
I stand on one side of the long stretch, considering the possibilities. If I run from this direction, the safe sits at the farthest point in my run. I might be able to jump on top and launch myself into time at the last second. Maybe. If I don’t succeed, it will really hurt.
At the far end of the room, I take my position and roll my neck, jiggle my arms and legs, then crouch into a starting stance. I remove Bishop’s letter and grasp it in my hand.
“Bishop.” I say his name out loud as though he’s my religion, completely certain that my faith will take me to him.
“Bishop.” I say it again, imagining every alluring part of him.
“Bishop.” I inhale, imagining his sublime scent encompassing my body.
I clench the letter and say his name again, forgetting everything else.
“Bishop.” His name becomes the keyword in my mind that will send me to him.
I open my eyes, certain that I see him at the end of my path. I run toward the vision, arms pumping and legs stretched, running like lightning. Cages fly past, filled with forgotten boxes. I launch my body onto the large safe, toes grabbing, projecting me off the iron box, my arms reaching toward the sky.
“Bishop.”
::6::
London
Attic dust explodes. Wood floors crack, splitting into jagged shards. Metal fencing groans and bends in half. The room rolls over on itself with the force of a crashing ocean wave. The resulting current sends luggage and lost belongings flying through the air. I barely escape a gate threatening to stab my leg before a glittering wormhole swallows me whole. I bounce twice off the rubber-like walls traveling to the location where Bishop last interacted with my relic—his love letter.
A blinding light appears and spits me out of the wormhole, skidding across a sidewalk. In the chaos, I dodge several pedestrians before falling to the ground. Miniscule rocks and dirt impale my knees and hands, and pricks of blood ooze from my rash-burned skin. An older man stops to help me up. I smile, thanking him, and brush my palms on my skirt, happy that the fabric camouflages blood within its red pattern. Large cherry-colored bruises dot my legs, making me look like a schoolchild that’s fallen while playing in a park. But I’m not in a park, and I’m not even at Washington Square Academy anymore. I’m in London, the day Bishop sent this letter.
He m
ust be close.
I tuck the letter into my jacket pocket and lift on tippy-toes to scan the noisy city street. A red postal box stands nearby. I run and jump on it, grabbing onto the decorative finial at the top in an effort to lift my short frame above the crowds. Bishop must have just dropped the letter here, in this box. He’s nearby—somewhere.
The roads, the traffic, the movement of the people all point in a single direction, maybe toward an underground rail station. The sun hides behind silvery clouds, low in the sky. It’s rush hour. These commuters are heading home or to the nearest pub for the evening.
I jump off the postal box and run in the direction of the commuters, hoping that Bishop will be among them. I visually sweep the crowd for his tousled, chocolate-colored hair.
“Bishop!” I weave through people, calling his name.
The crowd tightens, blocking my view, and I search for a new way to elevate myself. A black clock tower stands ahead. I run to it and hoist my body upon the mini version of Big Ben.
“Bishop!” I scream, entwining my fingers into an ornate iron design.
“Bishop!”
A face finally turns in response, acknowledging the name, but it isn’t Bishop. The girl’s waves of dark hair wind around her face, only revealing her blue-violet eyes.
My mouth drops open in shock.
She is me.
I lock eyes with the girl, looking for her reaction. Is she surprised to see me? Her eyes are red-rimmed and teary, but somehow she’s not shocked that I’m sharing the same space. Unconcerned, she merely turns and moves with the direction of the crowd.
Jumping down, I follow at a safe distance. Whatever that might be; I’m not sure. Am I dangerous to myself? Stupid to think so. Obviously she’s from the future, visiting the past. But how far ahead has she traveled from?
The Society of Wanderers frowns upon interacting with yourself. Maybe that’s why she ignores me and walks away, but I follow, regardless. If I really have to, I can go to Bishop’s home later since I have his address memorized. This will be a short detour, I promise myself. What can it hurt?
Protecting Truth Page 3
