by K. C. Archer
His expression tightened. “What’s important. Right.”
She registered his reaction when the words hit. And the realization that followed.
You’re not important.
Not what she meant at all. But more explanations would only make it worse. They turned away from the water and began the uphill climb toward the campus in silence. At the lobby of her dorm, Pyro paused. “Eventually,” he said, “you’re going to realize that you can’t do this alone. I know you think you’re a hotshot poker player, but this time, you mucked the wrong card.”
CHAPTER TEN
TEDDY WAITED FOR THE DOOR to click shut behind her, adding a strange sense of finality to Pyro’s goodbye. He was telling her she’d screwed up. And a little nagging voice whispered that maybe he was right. From the first moment she’d met him, everything about Lucas Costa had screamed EASY SEXY FUN TIMES. But lately? Fun, sure. Sexy? Definitely. Easy? Hell, no. She liked Pyro. More than she wanted to admit. She liked to look at him, she liked to touch him, she liked that thing he did with his tongue . . . But she needed to get serious about her life. There was so much on the line. And the red-hot distraction that was Pyro would derail everything.
Teddy kicked off her boots, noticing that sand had gotten into her socks. She glanced at the empty bed on the other side of her room. If she could talk over this Pyro thing with Jillian, she’d feel so much better. But Jillian was now another problem that Teddy had to worry about. There were only so many things she could keep track of at once.
She flopped down on her bed, hugging her pillow to her chest. Did normal twentysomethings have to deal with all this crap? Or just people like psychics at places like Whitfield?
Whether it was from the margaritas or the sheer exhaustion, Teddy couldn’t tell, but before she knew it—sandy feet and all—she was facedown on her bed, still wearing her jeans, sinking fast into a dark and dreamless sleep.
* * *
She woke to beeping. An incessant beeping. Not chanting. Not sage. Not talks about circadian rhythms. Definitely not naked yoga (which, though she’d acclimated to it, she didn’t really enjoy). She reached out to swat away her alarm, causing the cheap plastic clock to crash to the floor. Teddy rubbed her eyes. She had a headache. She cracked one eye open. She couldn’t see straight, but it wasn’t because of a measly margarita; she was better than that. She just didn’t want to face the day, not after her interactions with Pyro and Jillian.
Speaking of.
Teddy turned to look at the twin bed across the room. Her roommate’s quilt was still tucked in. Teddy hadn’t heard Jillian come in last night. And that was because she hadn’t. The thought set Teddy on edge. Who would have guessed that her roommate would turn into such a rule breaker?
When they’d planned to break in to the FBI last year in order to procure the suppressed information needed to free Derek Yates, Jillian had been the one to point out the moral implication: Either way, it’s wrong. At the time, Teddy hadn’t been sure that Jillian would help. But now she would do whatever it took? Jillian had always been committed to animals, but this was different. This was about Eli.
Teddy shucked off her covers. She picked up the necklace on her nightstand, rubbed the stone in her palm, tried to generate heat, to connect to her mother. The stone stayed cold. Frustrated, she put the necklace in her nightstand drawer and slammed it shut. She needed to clear her head. A run would be just the thing. She threw on shorts and a tee, laced her sneakers, and headed out to the trail.
* * *
Afterward, showered and dressed, she made her way to Harris Hall for breakfast. The chef must have been in a good mood because there were eggs on the menu, not egg substitutes. Saturday mornings, sophomores had class until noon; then they were free for the rest of the weekend. Jillian hadn’t made an appearance yet.
Dara was seated at a table there, however, deep in conversation with her roommate, Ava Laureau. Teddy heard raised voices all the way from the buffet but didn’t expect the topic.
“Do not try to tell me that The Next Generation is the best iteration of the series. Have you seen Deep Space Nine? I mean, have you really watched it?” Dara said, anger at the edges of her voice.
“Of course I’ve seen all of Deep Space Nine.” Ava flipped her hair. “Who do you think I am?”
“What’s going on, Cannon?” came a voice from behind her. One that could belong only to Kate Atkins. Her tray was piled with eggs, gluten-free toast, and orange juice, as well as a glass of thick green sludge that Teddy really didn’t want to know about.
Teddy nodded toward Ava and Dara as she walked over and took a seat next to the pair. “I think they’ve found common ground.”
“Oh yeah?” Kate raised her eyebrows, then slipped into the chair beside her.
The discussion continued for a few more minutes, delving into the merits of Captains Picard versus Sisko, before Ava broke it off with an exaggerated groan. “If we’re having this argument this early, I need coffee, or whatever chicory crap they serve here.” She left the table.
“Care to explain?” Teddy said to Dara.
“What’s to explain? She’s a Trekkie.” Dara pushed around her oatmeal. Chimes sounded, signaling the start of their first Secret Service class—and still no sign of Jillian.
Teddy, mindful that Kate was sitting next to her, said with all the casualness she could muster, “Seen Jillian this morning?”
Dara’s eyebrows furrowed. “Nope, why?”
Dammit.
“No reason. Thought she came down to breakfast early.” The second chime sounded, and they gathered their plates.
Dara and Kate turned toward the academic halls of Fort McDowell, but Teddy hung behind. Maybe Jillian was back in their room? What happened if a recruit missed class because she was freeing a bunch of animals from a lab in San Francisco?
“You coming, Cannon?” Kate said.
Teddy hesitated. “Going to grab some chicory. I’ll be right there.” She turned back to the buffet, pretending to busy herself with a bamboo cup. When she turned around, she almost ran smack into Pyro.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she said flatly, then looked over his shoulder for any sign of Jillian.
“What, am I boring you already?” His voice had an edge. Anger? Hurt? Either way, she didn’t have time right now.
“Jillian didn’t come home last night. And she’s not back on campus.”
“And you think this has something to do with the hippie?”
Teddy nodded.
Another chime. They’d be late if they didn’t hightail it to the gymnasium. On the way, Teddy filled him in. Not only about Jillian but also about what she’d seen when she’d held Jillian’s bracelet. How she didn’t want Jillian to risk her standing at school for a guy like Eli—even if she believed in the cause.
They stopped at the gymnasium. Teddy could see the other second-years assembled on the bleachers. Wessner called from inside: “I start my classes on time, recruits!” Teddy took a deep breath. Another day at Whitfield was about to begin, with or without her roommate.
* * *
Even before the lecture started, Teddy could tell that she liked Joan Wessner. It wasn’t her perfectly pleated wide-leg gray pants, or her crisp white starched blouse (standard G-man-wear or, in this case, G-woman). It was that she seemed to care. Teddy saw a seership textbook from last year resting beside Wessner’s manual about Secret Service protocol. Many government workers—including Nick—were reluctant to work with psychics. But before them stood a government employee who wanted to learn more about psychics. Refreshing, to say the least.
Wessner scanned the room. “We’re missing someone,” she said. “Who?”
“My roommate,” Teddy said. “Sick this morning. I—”
“Dropped her off at the infirmary,” Pyro said. “With Nurse Bell. She won’t make it to class.”
Both Kate and Dara turned toward Teddy, obviously confused. Dara mouthed, What are you talking about?
<
br /> “How unfortunate.” Wessner frowned, her hand resting on the seership textbook. “I thought psychics didn’t get sick. I was talking to Professor Dunn the other day, and he mentioned that your immune systems didn’t function the same way as nonpsychics’.”
Teddy took a moment to process Wessner’s words. Due to her misdiagnosis of epilepsy, Teddy had spent most of her life thinking of herself as someone with a chronic illness. So it had never occurred to her that she was actually remarkably healthy. As she reflected on a childhood full of the usual flu shots and doctors’ trips, she realized that she’d never had a cold she hadn’t faked in order to get out of something.
Before she could respond, the door opened, and Jillian entered in a tumble of blond hair. “Sorry I’m late, I made—”
“A miraculous recovery!” Teddy said.
“Yeah, you really looked like crap this morning, Jillian,” Pyro said. “Must have been a bad headache.” Jillian gave him a hurt look, and he added, “No offense.”
In truth, Jillian did look bad. Dark circles beneath her eyes, her face unusually pale. Gone were the signature fringe jacket and the vintage prints. Instead, she wore skinny jeans and a dark henley that looked like they’d come from Teddy’s own wardrobe.
As the attention centered on her, Jillian froze. Teddy could see her trying to process these obvious clues and then, after literally mouthing, Oh, she coughed once. “Yeah, feeling a lot better now.” She sat down in an empty chair next to Teddy.
Wessner looked down at her paper. “Ms. Blustein, I take it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jillian said, and then whispered to Teddy, “I owe you one.”
“Just tell me you didn’t do anything stupid,” Teddy said under her breath, “and we’re even.”
“It’s not stupid.” Jillian pressed her lips together and turned to face the front of the classroom.
Wessner began. “I want to tell you a little about myself before we learn the protocol of the best and most challenging job in the United States government.” As she walked the length of the room, Teddy couldn’t help but notice the way she leaned on her right side.
“I was raised Catholic,” Wessner continued, “so the psychic stuff is new to me. But I’m here to learn, just like you. And I trust that as much as I make the effort to study and respect your craft, you, in turn, will respect mine.” She scanned the room, stopping at Jillian.
From the back, Teddy heard someone scoff. “Walking beside a limo, guarding some political stiff in a parade, doesn’t seem that hard,” Zac Rogers said.
Wessner’s gaze snapped to where Zac sat. “If that’s all you think the Secret Service does, you’re sorely mistaken, Mr.—”
“Rogers,” he said.
“The Secret Service started as a counterfeiting agency. We still serve in that role. In addition to protecting high-level government dignitaries, the Service is involved in various areas of intelligence and investigation. Do not mistake me. This is the highest level of government service.”
“It was just a joke,” Zac grumbled.
“And we joke that our agents go to the FBI when they need a vacation. The type of training you will be doing in my class will test your mental, physical, and psychological strength. If you want to succeed, you have to forget every defense strategy you’ve been taught in your other tactical classes. In order to give your life to protect someone else, you’ll have to overcome the most basic instincts of self-preservation.” Wessner paused, shifting her weight to her good leg. “Ordinarily, when shots are fired, you assume a defensive stance. You seek cover. In this classroom, when shots are fired? There’s no hesitation. You’re not seeking cover. You are the cover.”
Wessner’s speech silenced everyone.
“And that brings me to my second point. If shots are fired, you’ve already lost. Think Lincoln, Kennedy. None of those shooters needed a second shot to get it right. Your job is to surveil and identify threats before anything happens. You may be psychics. But my agents would give any of you a run for your money.”
Teddy glanced to the obstacle course on the other side of the gymnasium with fresh eyes. In Boyd’s class, they’d assessed every hurdle to minimize impact and conserve energy—the exercises had been in survival, even for a team. What plans did Wessner have that changed that? To the left of the course, Teddy saw a massive tarp covering a lumpy pile. Whatever Wessner had in store, odds were it lay under there.
Wessner’s next words proved that guess correct.
“Meet your clients,” she said. She walked over to the course and pulled off the black tarp, revealing a pile of burlap dummies. They’d seen those dummies. Last year in Boyd’s first obstacle course from hell. “These are your protectees for the morning. They’ll be your charges as you make your way through the obstacle course.” Wessner blew a whistle, and the doors opened. Several students Teddy didn’t recognize walked in. “I’ve solicited the help of some underclassmen and some paintball guns. Your job will be to complete the course without your protectee getting shot. That means you do what you need to to get the job done. It’s not elegant, but we like to call this tactic ‘being a meat shield.’ You’re going to get as big and wide and tall as you can.”
Liz’s hand shot up. “What if you’re, well, vertically challenged?” Her petite frame had worked to her advantage when she was a gymnast, but in this test, not so much.
Wessner raised an eyebrow. “I do not think that assassins trying to kill the president of the United States care how tall you are, Ms.—?”
“Cook.”
“Get creative, Ms. Cook. Use your abilities.” Wessner flipped through the papers in her hand. “Says here you were on the short list for Team USA in 2012. Seems like you’ll figure it out.”
As they left the bleachers and moved toward the course, the door opened again. Boyd, Nick, and Clint entered. Teddy had almost forgotten. They would be evaluated at every turn. Just what she needed: more pressure to get it right.
“I think I’m going to name mine Cannon,” Kate said, hefting a dummy onto her back.
Teddy snorted. “Yeah, and mine is Atkins. We’ll see who has the last laugh when they finish first.”
“If you don’t complete the course, you’re out,” Wessner said. “If your dummy gets shot, you’re out. Today I’m not looking for technique. I’m not looking for pretty. I’m looking for who has the raw material. Who can use what they’ve got to make it to the end. Who can fight against their instincts to protect their target.”
Teddy picked up a dummy, hoisted it onto her shoulders. She could barely make it across the vault solo. And with an extra hundred pounds? She looked over her shoulder and saw Jillian yawn and struggle to grab one of dummies under the arms. She’d obviously been up all night with Eli.
Beside her, Kate nodded toward Jillian. “Looks like someone has a future as a security guard if she keeps this up.”
Teddy’s heart sank. She wanted to help Jillian, but she needed to ace this thing. She was already on Clint’s shit list, and the semester had barely started. Nick wouldn’t be doing her any favors. Boyd hated her.
“On my whistle,” Wessner said.
Here’s nothing.
But really:
Here’s everything.
The chance to look good in front of her instructors, the hope of getting FBI track, the opportunity to kick Kate Atkins’s ass. And then all Teddy could think about was how to lug a hundred pounds through Boyd’s wet-dream obstacle course without getting shot with paintballs, falling on her face, or dropping the damn dummy. She was ready.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NONE OF THEM MADE IT through the obstacle course.
“Failures. All of you,” Wessner pronounced.
It had been optimistic, to say the least, when Teddy had dreamed of smoking Kate Atkins. Hauling a dummy though that hellscape had proved insanely difficult. Teddy had held out long enough to make it across the vault about three seconds after Kate hurled herself over. And Zac had eaten his words about th
e Secret Service when Wessner had personally shot both him and his dummy with a paintball halfway through the course.
The rigor of Secret Service training, on top of their military tactics, seership, and other casework, increased the second-year course load dramatically. So much that Teddy hadn’t considered what loomed ahead on Monday afternoon until it arrived: her first tutorial with Clint.
Last year, they’d met to work on her telepathy and telekinesis. This year, they would be studying astral travel. She wanted to use the necklace to visit her mother’s past. She wanted to know the truth, but deep down, she was a little afraid. Okay, maybe not afraid. Hesitant? Reluctant? A tiny bit nervous?
But she needed to learn how to master this skill. Which meant making Clint think she was fully on board with whatever plan he had to find Marysue. No—make that capture Marysue. So as she hiked the stairs to Clint’s office in Fort McDowell, she did what she had to do. She put her mental shields up. And her wall? Supercharged.
She gave a sharp rap on his door and stepped inside. Her eyes went to the chalkboard behind his desk—a creaky relic in a wooden frame that looked like it was from the seventies. On it, he had drawn some sort of crazy diagram filled with multiple lines, x’s, and o’s. It looked like a hallucinogenic football play.
“Am I trying out for Whitfield’s first psychic football squad?” Teddy said, pointing to the chalkboard. “Because I’m not really into organized sports.”
Clint pressed his lips together in what Teddy knew was an effort to suppress a smile.
She yearned for things to be the way they had been last year—when she had played eager screwup and he her willing mentor. But too much had happened between them to ever go back to that.
“Have a seat,” he said.
She dropped her backpack and slipped into the chair opposite him.
Clint took a deep breath. “This is serious, Teddy. Astral travel is dangerous. You could get hurt. Alter history. Trap yourself on the astral plane forever.”
