Protecting Truth

by Michelle Warren

  “I think I just want to be alone for a little while. I’ll meet you and Sam for dinner later.” I look around his shoulder. Sam peeks out of her bedroom door, assessing the situation. She shakes her head and retreats without saying a word.

  I disappear into my room and lean my back against the closed door, letting out a long exhale. Bishop hesitates on the other side, but finally, his footsteps move away.

  The long day, filled with so much drama, exhausts me. I drop onto my bed and let out a dramatic moan. I burrow into my pillow, then kick off my shoes and curl into a fetal position.

  I want to rest, but I can’t. My oath package sits nearby, taunting me to look inside.

  Well-worn leather encases the ancient-looking box. Gold rivets line the edges. A shining Society of Wanderers crest spreads across the front. A ribbon of Latin text reading Tempus Rerum Imperator floats above a gold obelisk, the sun, and its shining beams of light. A handless clock encircles the scene. I run my hands over the miniature gilt relief, taking the time to trace the edges of each rivet with my fingertip.

  I stare at the box for at least an hour before I finally open it. I place my thumb on the recognition pad. The latch releases with the touch of my finger, and then I lift the top. The hinges lock open and into place.

  There are many items inside, but the one I zero in on immediately is a cell phone. I haven’t owned one since I lost mine when I moved to Chicago. My other self used this phone in London, the day I wandered to see Bishop over the summer. I’m certain.

  As items from that day in London appear in my life—the outfit and the cell phone—I sense something closing in. But what it means, I’m not sure. I toss the phone into the box.

  Next, I pick up the neatly folded uniform. Holding it at a distance, I get a better look. The military-style suit is a fitted gray jacket with black piping, leather shoulder pads, and a metal emblem on the upper arm. Gray slacks, a black hooded cloak, and a pair of steel-toe boots rest inside the case. Obviously I’m expected to wear this on the day of oaths. The thought makes me nervous.

  I pick up the Society of Wanderers handbook and quickly flip through. Whatever it says, I don’t care. I drop it into the box and move on to the next item, a shiny gold credit card.

  My name is embossed in silver letters. When tilting the prismatic reflective surface perfectly with the light, my face appears in 3-D, hovering above the card. Through gossip, I’ve heard the credit card has no spending limit. As unsettling as this is, my mind immediately drifts to a pair of spiky heels I admired in a downtown store window. Knowing Gabe, they’re probably already in my new wardrobe. I just have to get on the floor in the closet and look.

  The last item is my Wandering compass. The leather strap is unique, embossed with the symbol of a Wanderer—feathered wings.

  I reach to close the top of the package, then stop. Instead, I lean in closer to look at a miniature oil painting mounted on the inside of the box within an ornate Victorian frame. Cracks spread along the surface, but their deep grooves don’t mar the beauty of the painting. In puffy clouds, angels swoop from the sky, standing on silver disks. An obelisk sits to one side in front of a beaming sun. Figures on the ground look as though they’re running. Running to wander, I suppose. I squint, looking to see their faces, but time has worn their expressions away.

  The announcement for dinner pulls me out of the painting. I roll out of bed and head for the mirror, pinch my cheeks, and then pull my hair into one low braid. In the closet, I find an outfit to wear, something nice enough for dinner, but also comfortable enough to secretly fight Hologram Turner later.

  When I walk out of the apartment, Bishop and Sam have already left. In the hall, some students are overloaded with shopping bags, rushing to their apartments from outings with their shiny new credit cards. Excitement, much like that of Christmas, buzzes through the school. The scene is no different when I reach the dining room.

  Quinn waves as he zooms past on a brand new long-board skateboard. Scarlett and Agnes appear with matching haircuts, dyed light pink. One hairdo is cropped with spikes; the other is rolled in soft curls like a 1940s pinup girl. Perpetua walks ahead in a new slutty outfit and the same spiky heels I had been dreaming about. Annoyed, I hang back until she takes her normal seat. Then I dart for mine.

  “Check it out.” Macey holds up her arm and jiggles a new stack of multicolored bangles around her wrist.

  “Sweet!” I act happy. Why shouldn’t I be?

  “So what have you bought so far?” She leans in with a smile.

  “Nothing.”

  She shoots me a look of horror.

  “Yet,” I quickly add. This seems to calm her.

  “We have to plan a shopping excursion, ASAP!” She reaches for her menu and points to an entrée for the waiter hovering behind her.

  “Sure. Yeah, whenever you want,” I agree as I point to lasagna on the menu.

  “Ser—ra,” Macey whines. “You should be excited. And you don’t sound like you’re excited. Can you please be excited?” Her words trail into a high pitch, her eyes pop wide, and her dark curls bounce.

  “I’m excited!” I throw my hands in the air to please her.

  She gives me another disapproving look. “I’ll get into it, eventually,” I promise. “It just seems so—”

  “What?” Sam asks, joining our conversation.

  “It seems—superfluous.” I sip my water.

  “That’s a big word for you, Sera,” Sam says. “Have you been hitting the S.A.T. books?” she asks with a laugh.

  I kick her leg underneath the table.

  “Will you ever grow up?” she yells.

  “You love me,” I insist with a smirk.

  She rolls her eyes as she always does when she disapproves, but instead of agitating the conversation further, her gaze falls behind me.

  I turn. Bishop strolls into the dining room with a shopping bag under his arm.

  “You’ve been shopping, too?” I ask him when he sits on the bench next to me, his back facing the table.

  “No, not really.” He smiles, handing over the bag.

  “What is it, then?” I ask, peeking in.

  “A present.” His beautiful eyes sparkle, smiling back. “Open it.”

  I pull out a box. Marbled sage and maroon swirls stretch across the wrapping paper. An emerald-green velvet ribbon encircles the width with a large loopy bow.

  “This is so beautiful, I don’t even want to open it.” I gaze at him, overwhelmed with his thoughtfulness.

  “Go ahead.” He nudges me playfully.

  My hand skims under the tape at the ends. The wrapping paper pops open. Carefully, I set the package on the dining table, reach into the open end, and slide out a hardbound book.

  The green crushed velvet cover seems to move with the light. My fingers sweep over the front. The fabric changes hues, from light to dark, with each pass of my hand. I flip the book open. The edges of each page are rough and unfinished, and the paper is thick and textured as though it’s handmade.

  On the first page, in large hand-printed calligraphy, says the words, “My Seraphina.”

  “You made this?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Keep flipping,” he urges.

  I slide my hand to the edge, folding my fingertips around the deckle-edged page and flip to a letter—the first love letter he ever wrote to me, the day after our first date, just one of his many beautiful, romantic letters. I carefully flip again and again. The entire book is filled with the love letters he’s written. I stop on the last one—the one stolen from me in London.

  “How?” I ask, confused.

  “I wrote duplicates of each one, knowing that I could give this to you for our first anniversary, but I can’t wait that long. So whatever today is will have to do.” His hand reaches for mine. “Do you like it?”

  “I absolutely adore it,” I say, but I don’t smile. The gift touches me deeply. I lean into his chest and slide my arms in and under his open blazer, locking my finger
s tightly behind his back. The entire room disappears and in my mind, we’re alone. I’m huddled into Bishop’s strong arms and wrapped in our perfect relationship.

  ::19::

  Selfish

  Guilt surges through me. After Bishop gave me the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received, I lied to him. I told him that I had plans with Aunt Mona, only so I could face off with Hologram Turner again.

  Staring into the classroom mirror, I search for the answer to why I’m so selfish. What’s wrong with me? My life is perfect in every way: perfect boyfriend, perfect school, perfect everything. Why do I need to have a mom too? I’ve gone sixteen years without her. Why can’t I just let Terease and the Society of Wanderers hunt Cece and the Underground by themselves? If capable, my mom will come and find me when she’s saved.

  I think she will.

  And that’s my problem, right there. If she’s capable, maybe she won’t come to find me. Maybe she doesn’t need me the way I need her. If she really has been alive all this time, why hasn’t she come looking for me? Given the opportunity, she may never look for me, and I’d lose her in time forever. Because maybe—she doesn’t care.

  The only way I’ll know for sure is to find her myself. If I can see her, face-to-face, I can ask her the things I’ve wondered about since I discovered she was still alive. Then, if she wants to, she can leave.

  But at least then I’ll know the truth. I need to do this for myself, to know my own truths. I need to be a better fighter, I need the rosary necklace, and I need to find her again.

  I stretch out as the hologram machine counts down. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Hologram number—thirty-seven—on.” The robotic voice announces. A fizzled haze of electricity appears, but something’s different. When Hologram Turner solidifies and turns, he’s dressed in a pair of slacks, a vest, and a long-sleeve shirt. Not an outfit for fighting.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, fisting my hands on my hips. “You’ve changed the hologram.”

  “I didn’t say you’d be fighting the same routine every time.” He struts forward. “I’ve seen how you’ve mastered the other holograms over time. I can’t allow you the upper hand, can I?” His eyebrows arch and his lips curl at one side.

  “I’m curious,” he continues, “what will you do to get this lovely little relic back?” He reaches into his vest and pulls out the rosary, inspecting it carefully.

  “You’re changing the agreement!” I yell. It’s useful that Bishop will not feel my anger toward a hologram, since the training image isn’t a threat.

  “There was never an agreement—just me offering you a chance. And I’ll change the conditions of that chance if I please.” He paces, flexing his muscles. He brushes the cross to his lips.

  I just stand and gawk, allowing his actions to play in my head. I quickly realize he never intended to give me back the necklace. After our first match, he realized I might beat him and now, he’s switching everything around.

  “You win!” I scream the safe words. Hologram Turner smiles before he dematerializes into sparkling dust, and the machine turns off.

  Angry, I run out the door of the gymnasium and down the hall into Olde Town. I bolt up the hidden emergency steps to the fourth floor of the Academy. Then I storm down the hall to Turner’s apartment.

  I don’t bother knocking. Instead, I kick the door open and then slam it shut. My fists clench into tight balls when I see Turner. He sits, arms hung lazily over the sides of a leather chair, facing the door.

  “Seraphina,” he says, knowing the name will fire me up further. “I’d calm down if I were you. That is, if you don’t want Bishop to know you’re here.”

  I freeze when he mentions Bishop. He’s right. I need to clear my head so I can speak in a mild manner and not alarm my team members. As time wears on, they’ve become more in tune to my emotions, especially anger and fear.

  I close my eyes and inhale deeply, telling myself to relax my shoulders, my jaw, my chest, my arms, and everything down to my toes, just as Mr. Tash taught. In an almost meditative state, I inhale deeply again and open my eyes.

  Free of my anger, I take time to survey the room. Dull lights flicker an orange glow on the wall. Stacks of drawings and strange little mechanical inventions sit on nearby tables. Music swirls around the space, Italian opera. The room smells like Turner, a delicious spicy musk.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” he says. “Take a seat.” He gestures.

  I do as he asks, trying not to think about why I’ve come. The thought will only work me into a frenzy again. I throw myself onto the worn leather couch.

  “Gabe lets you keep a beat-up couch?” I ask to distract myself. Any time Gabe notices as much as a scrape on a table in our apartment, he fixes the item and returns it the very next day.

  “I don’t let him in here. I prefer to choose my own possessions and not be controlled by the Academy,” he says, glancing around the mismatched apartment.

  “I didn’t know we had a choice.”

  “You always have a choice, Seraphina.”

  I glance around the large apartment, sensing an empty loneliness throughout.

  “Turner—why—why don’t you have a team?” I ask in the most tactful voice I can muster.

  He stretches his neck, rolling it around on his shoulders, allowing himself time to search for the correct words to explain. “I had a team once,” he says, looking sad.

  “What happened?”

  “I suppose you could say it just didn’t work out.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, because I can see the pain in his eyes. “How are you able to stay, then?”

  He leans forward. “I still have an interest in this life, and I enjoy working as the professor’s assistant. And maybe I have a vested hope that my team members will change their minds, however impossible that hope is.” He regards me. “Nevertheless, it’s nothing for you to worry about, Seraphina, it’s not of your doing.”

  “Please don’t call me that. You know it irritates me.” I sigh.

  “Very well.” He stands and sits on the couch next to me, draping his arm behind my back, resting it on a pillow.

  I slide away slightly. “Can you please just tell me what you want, so I can leave?”

  “What I want,” he pauses and leans in, “is for you to stay,” he says sheepishly.

  “And why on earth would I do that?” I cross my arms. “I can see you have no intention of giving back the rosary.”

  “I will. I told you I would, but only after you’ve stayed.”

  “You’ve been playing a game, Turner. And it’s really starting to bother me. It feels like you’re using the necklace as a reason to spend time with me.” I hadn’t even known the words were true, until I said them out loud. I look over at him with shock.

  “Yes,” he says softly and looks away. “Of course, you see right through me.”

  “Turner, you need to stop. Really, I mean it. I’m in love with Bishop. I’m with Bishop.” I have no intention of hurting his feelings. I do care for Turner, even as much as he annoys me. I start to reach for his hand, to comfort him, but I stop and pull away. It will only give him the wrong idea.

  “Just give me a chance, please, you’ll see,” he pleads softly. His beautiful ashen-gray eyes hold me, locked in a tethered gaze.

  “I—I’m sorry.” I can’t help the guilt I feel with the apology.

  He grabs both of my hands, sending goose bumps racing up my arms, the same energy that surged through my body the last time we touched. Turner looks down, noticing the pricks on my skin. My face flushes warm and red, igniting an unusual feeling in my stomach. This shouldn’t be happening. He shouldn’t make me feel like this.

  “Seraphina.” He whispers my name so gently, the breath from his mouth stirs a stray hair that’s loosened from my braid. It tickles my face. He brushes his fingertips to my cheek and just for this moment, I allow myself to look at him, to really see every part of his beautiful face—his slate-colored eyes, angular black brow
s, the coal-black wavy hair framing his chiseled features.

  As if I have no control, my eyes shut, and I inhale his intoxicating spicy musk. In my heart, I see beyond his features and into his beautiful soul: charming and provocative, hidden behind a facade of misplaced anger and hurt. Anger that he desperately wants me to understand but is forbidden to explain. To touch him would release his secrets. To kiss him would set him free. My eyes flutter open. His lips, so full, so enticing, are inches away from mine. They whisper, seducing, drawing me closer.

  “I’ll show you everything, be everything for you.” He gently gathers me into his arms.

  My breath hitches in my throat.

  “No!” I jump up, looking at him in confusion. Without thinking, I turn to quickly leave.

  “Sera, wait!” Turner reaches for me.

  I swing open the apartment door.

  Perpetua stands on the other side, hand lifted, preparing to knock. She’s shocked, taking me in, but she instantly glances into the room. I can only imagine what it must look like with the romantic music and low lighting, and Turner looking as though he was about to kiss me.

  “Oh—I’m sorry. I can see I’m interrupting something here.” She laughs her evil laugh and relaxes. She peeks into the room again, allowing her eyes to soak up every incriminating detail.

  “Don’t worry, you aren’t.” I push past her and stomp down the hall.

  “Sera!” Turner shoves around her, chasing me.

  So I run.

  “Sera,” Perpetua yells. “Give my regards to Bishop.”

  And that’s when I hear Turner scream. I turn. Terease swoops in from out of nowhere and grabs his collar, yanking him away.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Terease asks him.

  He fights without saying a word. Finally, he drops to his knees with his head cradled in his hands, sobbing.