Fragmented relics are those relics that have been broken. They’re unusable to Wanderers because their time-traveling life paths are scrambled and can send you anywhere in time. In other words, they’re useless.
“Allow me to demonstrate!” Macon says. His wife, Hannah, steps onstage, handing him an ornate vase. He gently places the vase on a stand for everyone to see. Little Elijah appears with a hammer and presents it to his father. With the hammer in hand, Macon takes one quick whack at the vase. Several broken sections crack and crumble into an unrecognizable mess.
Hannah steps forward again and gathers the shards into a square of cloth. She carefully places the shards in the glass box of the unfragmentation machine. She shuts the door tightly, locking it shut.
All together, the trio’s timing is perfect, and I can’t help thinking that I’m watching a skilled magician perform with his assistants.
Macon rotates the large lever on the side of the contraption. At first, there’s only a slow, repetitious cranking noise. The gears grind and rotate, building momentum. A whistle screams like a train. The crowd jolts. The floor shakes, tickling the soles of my feet within my boots. I grasp Bishop’s arm, hoping, praying that the machine doesn’t blow. These are early Wandering experiments, after all. There’s no telling how safe they truly are.
Gray smoke fills the glass box. The smoke creeps and drifts in long, undulating fingers until it meets the vase. Then, like a snake, it coils around the object, engulfing its mass in a rotating cloud of blue electrical sparks. Static electricity zaps and pops, stimulating the pieces, causing them to vibrate. The shards rise, airborne, caught in the circular wind of a miniature tornado. Violently, they spin until they’ve reconstructed themselves into one piece. As good as new, the vase hovers in the glass box.
The crowd breaks into applause.
“Ah! But that’s not all!” Macon assures everyone in a very carny manner. “Suppose you don’t have all the pieces to a broken relic? Hmm? What do you do then?” He looks around the crowd, pretending to search for someone who might have the answer.
There’s a low murmur in response.
“Well, don’t fret, I’ll show you what can be done.” Macon starts the demonstration over with the same vase. This time, after smashing it, instead of putting all the pieces into the glass case, he hands one large shard to Elijah.
“Sera, come forward.” Elijah beckons me to the stage.
The crowd parts, clearing a path to the stage. Bishop and I move forward.
“Hold out your hands,” Elijah instructs. I do as he asks, and he places the shard in my cupped, gloved hands. “Just hold it right here, up high, so everyone can see,” he explains and steps away.
With the audience satisfied that I hold a real piece of the broken vase, Macon starts the machine again. The unfragmentation machine functions exactly the same as before, but this time, when the tornado spins within the case, melding the pieces back together, the shard in my hand disappears into thin air. It reappears in the case, miraculously returning the vase to its original glory.
I gasp and lift my now empty hands in disbelief. The unfragmentation machine can pull pieces from anywhere to reconstruct a fragmented relic. I immediately understand that this machine is extremely powerful. I wonder if the machine still exists in true time. And if so, where it is.
The crowd of Wanderers breaks into a large roar of applause; shrill whistles of appreciation pierce the air.
“Pretty amazing, right?” Perpetua whispers in my ear.
I stiffen, realizing she’s followed us and made it past the bouncer.
::22::
Perpetua
After the demonstration, Bishop drops my hand and drifts to Elijah to chat. He hasn’t noticed Perpetua in the commotion and excitement of the crowd.
“Yeah, it’s awesome,” I respond to Perpetua in a monotone.
“You know what else is awesome, Sera?”
“No.” I grit my teeth.
“Watching you squirm every time I come around you now. You just never know when I’ll spill what I know about you and Turner to your lover boy, do you?” She laughs.
Ticked beyond comprehension, I spin to face her. I lift my fists to rip her face off but she’s gone, disappeared in the crowd. I weave around the bodies, looking for her. At the back of the room, I find a wooden box and stand on it. Now elevated, I spot her. She’s at the front of the room, standing next to Bishop and leaning to whisper into his ear.
My heart stops. She lured me away. Without a thought, I run for them, bulldozing through the crowd, hoping to defend myself from whatever crap she’s spouted. Whatever she’s said, it won’t be easy to explain away.
When I arrive, Stu, her Wanderer, has joined them. I crash into them like a renegade bowling ball, knocking down pins.
“Sera, are you all right?” Bishop catches me before I hit the floor.
“I can explain, I promise.” Desperately, I plant a kiss on his lips, wrap my arms around his shoulders, and hang on for dear life.
“Explain what?” He stares down into my eyes, confused.
I shoot Perpetua a look of shock. She smirks. “We were just discussing this amazing machine.” She gestures to the stage. “Do you know how it works, Sera?” She cocks her head. She hasn’t told Bishop anything, not yet. She’s enjoying messing with me too much.
Ninety-nine percent of me wants to rage at her, but one percent, a small voice of sanity, holds me back. “Let’s go, Bishop.” I grab his hand and pull him away. If I keep looking at her face, I won’t be able to control myself.
“Sera, wait! What’s wrong? Is she still pestering you about her crystal? If so, I’ll make her stop, don’t worry.” Bishop turns to confront her.
“No, that’s not it.” I press my palms into his chest, holding him back.
“Is everything okay? You’re acting strange.” He stops to survey me.
“Stranger than normal?” I ask, subduing my true feelings. Every time I look at him, I realize just how much I suck. He’s too good for me in so many ways.
“No, I suppose not.” He relaxes and smiles, then leans down to kiss me. We receive a few gasps at our public display of affection. When we realize our faux pas, we pull apart and quickly fall back into character, returning to our refined and subdued nineteenth-century alter egos.
For the small amount of time we have left at the exhibition, I do my best to stay out of Perpetua’s way. It’s not like me to run away from bullies, but I really need to decide how to deal with her. I need time to think.
•
My thoughts run wild well into the next day. In fact, I’ve spent the last twenty hours analyzing everything that’s wrong with myself. Even with my endless internal dialog, I’ve yet to determine the perfect solution.
Somehow, I have to figure out how to tell Bishop about my mounting secrets. First, I need to talk to him about Turner, before Perpetua does. That discussion will lead to my next secret—that I’ve become a better fighter, which I need to reveal before Ms. Swift’s class on Friday. And last, but not least, he needs to know that I’ve been looking for my mom.
In my heart, I know I’ve hidden the truth only because I’ve wanted to protect him from being hurt on so many levels. His body from being physically hurt by the Underground again, his ego from my wanting to become a better fighter, and his heart from my friendship with Turner. I’ve had my reasons, yes…but are they admirable ones? Something within my soul fights fiercely to protect Bishop at any cost, and I don’t understand why.
For today’s class, Relics II, I hope I can get lost in my studies and avoid everyone until I can answer that question.
Argus Matchimus, the curator, stands before us in the enormous archive of relics. Somehow, I always expect the room to look smaller, but it never does. Rows and rows of wooden shelving, whose end I can’t see, hold ancient artifacts. Each contains endless amounts of histories within their life paths.
Argus waddles amongst the students, his voice as rough as sa
ndpaper, and welcomes us back for our second year. After a short speech, he sends us on our way with instructions to explore the archives on our own. He escapes to a nearby desk in a dark corner and proceeds to eat a pastry.
Perpetua strategically sits nearby, taunting me with her evil gaze. She pops up and sashays over to my team, dropping a palm on Bishop’s shoulder.
“Bishop, we must chat soon and catch up!” she says with bubbly exuberance. He tenses under her touch, and her eyes dart to me. “And how are you doing today, Sera? Sleep well?” Her lips tug at one corner.
“Slept great.” I smile, disguising my distress.
“I bet you did,” she says, pushing our game further. How long will she torture me? She struts off with Stu and Jessica.
“Perpetua’s getting annoying. Why can’t she just leave you alone?” Sam asks, typing on the computer.
“Getting annoying? Hasn’t she always been?” I ask.
“Yeah, she’s a mega-witch.” Macey walks over, joining the conversation.
I snort with laughter. “Something like that.”
“So when can we go shopping, Sera? I need to get out of this hole and have some fun. You’re so serious these days,” Macey complains and sits.
“Just name the time and place, chick.”
“This Saturday, before the dance. Let’s go get our hair done.”
“My hair is looking pretty drab these days,” I admit.
Bishop picks up a strand of my hair. “You should add that strip of color back in,” he suggests.
“Maybe,” I consider. If I weren’t mentally fighting my self-serving ways, I might relax a little and just be a teenager for once. The conversation dies, and I type random letters into the computer, pretending to be engaged in classroom studies.
Seers sit on the floor in meditative states. Relics float above their cupped palms, bathing in warm glows, revealing their life paths. Wanderers and Protectors stand in line to use the relicutionist, the machine that reads relics and visually shows their life paths like a movie.
Needing more of a distraction, I stroll to no place in particular through the archives and find myself at row eighty-nine. I turn right and stop at a box at eye level. When I remove the wooden case, Perpetua stands on the other side, peeking through the shelf. She followed me.
“I guess it’s better if we chat back here,” she says and leans in, resting her arms on the shelf and dropping her chin into her hand. She blows one long breath and a whirl of dust billows into the air.
I cough. “What do you want?” I sit the box on the floor and stand to face her. I school my face into a hard expression to hide my guilt.
“Well, I thought long and hard about this, but I wanted to discuss it with you first,” she says as though she’s going to present an offer.
“And what’s that, exactly?”
“It would be so easy to run tell Bishop what I saw between you and Turner, but where would be the fun in that?” she considers with a malicious chuckle.
“I don’t know what you think you saw but nothing happened.”
“I know what I saw, and when I investigated further, Bishop informed me that you spent that evening with your aunt. So I think he’d be surprised to learn the truth. Don’t you?”
“What do you want?” My cool facade’s crumbling fast.
“You know what I want.”
“I already told you, I don’t know anything about your stupid rock.”
“I understand,” she says with fake sympathy, “but you will. And more importantly, you’ll find it, or I’ll tell Bishop the truth.” Her voice sings with evil excitement.
“I don’t even know what the thing looks like.”
“We’ll chat later.” She walks away, waving over her shoulder and disappears.
Bishop appears next to me and crouches down to open the box I pulled from the shelves.
“What was that about?” he asks, as he pops the latch and raises the lid.
“Nothing, you know how she is. Blah, blah, blah, where’s my crystal?” I say, hoping to appear unfazed.
“Right. Are you sure you don’t want me to say anything?”
I crouch next to him. “Positive. There’s nothing I can do any—”
A forceful explosion rips through the air, tossing Bishop and me across the room. We crash into a shelf of relics and fall into a heap on the dusty floor.
::23::
An Attack
Shelves collapse over us. Clay pots, glass miniatures, and thousand-year-old relics smash, shattering on the floor. Bishop wraps his arms around my body and drags me away from the debris. Thick green smoke with the smell of rotting garbage makes visibility difficult. Students scream in the distance. Shocked and confused, I don’t understand what’s happening.
I lift myself, pulling away from Bishop, but there’s nowhere to go. We’re stuck underneath a wooden teepee made of archive shelving.
“We need to get out of here!” I’m forced to yell because of the din that surrounds us. People are screaming, some in pain. Others add to the cacophony with grunts, thuds, and crashes. The sounds of combat.
“You’re hurt,” Bishop says. I look down. Blood soaks through my sleeve. Now that I see it, pain shoots through my arm. Bishop props me against the wall, rips off a piece of his shirt, and wraps it around my wound, tying the fabric in a tight knot.
“We need to keep pressure on it.” He squeezes.
“It’s nothing, really, we need to help!”
The screaming and sounds of fighting continue. We hear shouting, as more people arrive, hopefully the Society Security, the ones sent to protect us. Bishop and I push the bookshelves, attempting to lift them, but they won’t budge, not one inch.
“Over there!” I point to a small opening. “I think we can crawl through.” I scramble on hands and knees, ignoring the pain.
I crawl through the newly made tunnel of shelves that runs along the outer walls of the Relic Archives. Near the end, I squeeze through a smaller opening, scraping my bad arm on the edge of a shelf, and pull myself into the open air. The putrid smoke has cleared somewhat, allowing more visibility. We’re at the back of the archives, far from the fighting.
I race to the combat zone and immediately collide with a foul-smelling man, whom I can only presume is a member of the Underground. He takes a quick whack at me with his club, engaging me in battle. I land a few decent blows before Bishop hurls me out of the way, taking my place.
Atticus flies across the room, landing nearby. A woman covered in tattoos and piercings jumps him and pounds his head. I leap with a running start and launch my feet at her body. Upon impact, she soars through the air.
Like a cat, she lands on her feet. She turns her attention to me, leaving Atticus out of harm’s way. She attacks, lodging her shoulder into my stomach, ramming me until my back crashes against the wall. The impact knocks the air out of me. Her hands clench my neck and squeeze. I kick and thrash, doing anything I can to push her away, but my vision begins to blur.
I stab my thumbs into her eyes. She falters, and then I jab a knee into her rib cage. She steps away, screaming in pain, and I slam my elbow into her chest for another blow. This sends her back a few paces, but she’s the resilient type. Even though her eyes are bleeding, she charges again.
Punch. Jab. Kick. Spin. My fist shatters her face several times. And then, when I momentarily have the upper hand, I consider her weakness. It’s staring me in the face, literally shining. I grab the chain connected from her nose to her earring and rip it from her skin.
She screams in hideous pain, simultaneously grabbing her head and ear. One last swift kick sends her hurling across the room. She plunges back, smashing her head onto the rubble. Her lifeless body dangles over a shelf.
When I spin to see how I can help the next person, I notice Ms. Swift standing in the war zone, machete in hand, smiling. She’s seen what I can do and now, I realize, so has Bishop. The adrenaline that’s been surging through my veins while fighting turns heav
y like a drug. The high crashes into a depressing low. I turn, searching for Bishop, immediately wanting to explain myself.
The foul-smelling man clenches Bishop in a headlock; I hurdle over debris to come to his aid. Angry, I throw my knee into the man’s lower back. There’s a sickly crack of his spine. The man folds in half backward before he hits the ground. Bishop rolls away and leaps to his feet, safe. I run to him and throw my arms around his shoulders, but the moment is short. He jolts, then pulls himself away and jerks his head from side to side, scanning the rubble.
“Sam!” Bishop screams. He takes off looking for her, searching for her familiar mind.
The smoke has completely cleared, and I can see that the fighting has mostly stopped. Society guards have overwhelmed the surviving Underground stragglers and work to restrain them. Students lie scattered around the floor, some moaning. With so many bodies, I don’t even know what to do first.
I panic.
I run to the person lying closest to me. Atticus. I hadn’t noticed how bad his injuries were before, but now I see. He’s bruised and bloody, barely alive. Scarlett lays nearby, a lump on the ground. She’s still breathing, but her arm is mangled and broken. Agnes rushes to their aid, but she can barely contain her tears.
The room becomes crowded as teachers and school medics stream in, ready to help.
In the distance, Bishop lifts Sam upright. I breathe in relief, happy for her safety.
“Sera,” a weak, but familiar, voice says. My eyes search for Macey. Her bloody hand reaches for me.
“Mace!” I climb over mounds of debris, making my way to her.
Her lower body is pinned under a large bookcase. I strain to lift it, but it’s too heavy.
“Bishop!” I yell. “Help, someone!” Several hands come to my aid, and together we lift the massive shelf. I let them hold the considerable weight momentarily while I crouch down to pull her out from the rubble.
Protecting Truth Page 14
