“I’ve never eaten Moroccan before.” I nervously glance over the menu.
“Don’t worry, I’ll order a little of everything. You’ll love every bite.”
Just then, a man in a white suit appears. He places two ceramic cups on the table and pours tea from a silverplated kettle with a long spout, curved like the neck of a swan. The kettle, reflecting the wall colors, hangs in his hand, high above the cups as he pours. He finishes without spilling a single drop. Then the attentive man tilts his body toward Bishop. “Would you like the usual, Mr. Bishop?”
“Yes, but surprise us with a few extra items, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The man ceremoniously bows, closes the surrounding curtains, and steps backward out of our private alcove.
“You do come here a lot.” I smile and reach for the tea. I sip slowly, testing the temperature. Mint leaves swirl on the surface.
“I photograph food for their menus and website and then trade the photos for free dinners.”
“Aren’t you enterprising.”
“It helps when you don’t have money.”
“Well, I guess that will change for us in a few weeks.”
“Yes, the Oaths Ceremony will change everything,” Bishop says thoughtfully. He plays with his napkin, eyes lowered.
The oaths are as ominous as they sound. It’s the day that we dedicate our lives to the Society of Wanderers. It occurs in our junior year by no accident. They give you the first years to decide if this is the life for you—a trial period, of sorts. Since my goal is finding and saving my mom, I’m still in.
Some liken the ceremony to becoming a nun, but I think that’s only half true. The part that’s similar is that the Society hopes that you will feel a “calling” to serve. The part that’s different is the lack of a vow of poverty and, thank goodness, chastity. Although, I haven’t been lucky enough to worry about that last part yet. Bishop’s a perfect gentleman in every unfortunate way.
The poverty part will be remedied by the large allowance that we’ll receive weekly. This includes a new, loaded bank account, credit card, and unlimited access to whatever our hearts desire. In most students’ eyes, the Academy just gets better and better. To me, their lavish gifts feel like a bribe.
“Are you nervous?” Bishop asks.
“A little.” I squirm. “Most people don’t have to decide their future when they’re sixteen.” I sigh. “What if I change my mind?” As soon as the words come out, I regret them. If I change my mind about being in the Society, that means I change my mind about being with Bishop, as his Wanderer, at least. And if I’m going to keep him, I need to be one hundred percent committed to our relationship and our Wandering team.
“I mean—” I stammer, looking for the right words, ones that won’t hurt his feelings.
“It’s okay, Sera. I understand. It’s a lot of pressure to be someone you never knew existed until a year ago. It’s a lot to absorb by anyone’s standards.” He smiles and reaches for my hand, comforting me. He turns my palm upward and traces the creases across the skin. His touch soothes, my shoulders drop, and I slouch into my feather seat.
“You’re right.” I smile.
Before long, plates piled with food in colors of gold, purple, green, and brown cover our table. Bishop explains each dish and watches me sample them. He laughs when I scrunch my nose with dislike for a few dishes.
When we finish dinner, Bishop wraps his arm around my waist and we step out from the sauna of rich perfumes and into the city streets. The air, cool and gentle, refreshes me.
We slowly make our way toward the embankment under a cloudy sky. A long string of light bulbs runs the length of the riverbank. Glowing hazes wrap like nests around each light.
Bishop tours me past his favorite photography spots. The Millennium Bridge, with its twisted steel, arches gracefully across the Thames River. We stroll past the Globe Theatre and Tate Modern Museum. He explains that he only visits to photograph people, tourists in particular. Farther away, he points out the National Theatre, set aglow with purple spotlights, and finally the Royal Festival Hall.
Our route winds inland for a short time and then through a tree-lined walkway toward the water. Shrouded in twinkling blue lights, a row of trees guides my eyes to the end of the park. Before us stands the very tall London Eye. The tallest Ferris wheel I have ever seen glows in beautiful ocean hues of aqua and cerulean. Enormous enclosed crystal capsules, instead of seats, rotate slowly around the outside of the wheel.
We reach the base and Bishop tugs me up the ramp.
“Uh, what are we doing?”
“I thought we’d take a ride.”
“Bishop, I know you haven’t seen me in a few months, but I doubt you’ve forgotten about my fear of heights.” I giggle nervously.
He stops. “Sera, I’m your Protector. Trust me, please.” His green eyes plead as he squeezes my hands.
Completely helpless against his will, I shrug, consenting, and halfway smile. He drapes his arm around my shoulders and drags me up the ramp. Bishop steps up to the ticket window and chats with the girl behind the glass. I mill around, farther away, holding my stomach in anticipation of the flips it will be taking.
Bishop’s conversation ends with a chuckle. He turns. “Are you ready?”
“If this is really expensive, we should skip it,” I suggest. But really, it’s my last-ditch effort to change his mind.
“Lucky for you, I know the girl behind the counter. We ride for free,” he announces proudly. We step to the capsule entrance. The doors part to either side and he guides me in.
Anxious tingles spread from the heels of my feet, up my legs, and swirl around my stomach. I double over with a cramp and reach for his arm.
“Sera, we haven’t even left the ground yet!” He pulls me to the center of the oval room toward a wood-slatted bench where we sit. “Just relax,” he whispers and rubs my back.
I groan. “How do you know everyone in a city this large?” If he didn’t know the girl, we wouldn’t be riding for free. And just maybe, we wouldn’t even be here.
“Old girlfriend.” He smiles.
I stiffen. A hint of jealously flits around my brain. “Old girlfriend?” It’s not like he isn’t hunky enough to have those—probably a lot of those. Strangely, with our perfect relationship the notion never crept into my thoughts. But now, here it is, the aching sting of jealousy, ripe and ready for the picking.
“Don’t worry, love. She dumped me,” he consoles.
“What’s her name?” I ask, attempting to hide the edge in my voice.
“Claire.” He smirks. Clearly, he’s enjoying my discomfort.
“How long ago?” I whisper, letting my gaze drift to the floor.
“About ten years.”
I quickly calculate with confusion. “You would have been seven!”
“She was quite overwhelmed with choosing between Turner and me. He had a new red bicycle, and I just couldn’t compete with my tattered roller skates.”
We laugh together—I, for my stupidity, and he at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “She just doesn’t know what she’s missed.” Now I feel bad for Claire, who never knew the amazing person sitting next to me.
“Doesn’t matter. I won the girl that matters.” He leans in and traces his finger along my jaw, then nuzzles his nose at my ear. “My Seraphina,” he whispers. His breath tickles my cheek. I squeeze my shoulders upward, pinching them to my ears, and giggle. I turn my back into his chest, and we meld into each other. When I look up, we’re moving. I freeze.
“Here’s the good thing about this ride.” He snuggles closer around my now rigid body. “It takes thirty minutes to get all the way around—”
“That’s not good!”
“I wasn’t finished,” he chides. “And we’ll be completely alone.” He wraps his arms around me. My stiffness diffuses. He pulls tighter. Playfully, his lips brush against my neck.
•
When we leave the London Eye, e
xhaustion consumes my body and my legs fail to function. I trip clumsily on my own feet. It’s late, and I’ve been here for hours. And now, time-traveling jet lag—or schlag—is settling in quickly.
“I think it’s time to go.” I laugh and stumble, steadying myself on Bishop’s arm.
“No, not yet. Come home with me, sleep a few hours, then you can leave.”
A storm cloud opens and a flash of lightning cracks across the sky. Seconds later, we stand in a deluge of freezing rain. “I think I better go now.”
We duck into a covered doorway.
“No way! You’re staying. Besides, there’s something I really need to talk to you about.” Before I can respond, he tosses my arm over his shoulder and grabs my waist, propping me up.
“What?” I ask. A knot forms in my throat. A boy telling a girl that they “need to talk” is never, ever a good thing. My mind races; self-doubt edges in.
“Later, Sera. Just try to keep up.”
Bishop and I step out into the open air, under the sweeping rain, and we run. With schlag taking over, I struggle to keep Bishop’s pace. But what’s worse is my mental hysteria over our relationship status. My internal hyper-anxiety battles with my need for sleep. One wins over and my eyelids droop closed.
Then, for no reason, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Something feels off. I lift my eyelids just enough to glance through the sheets of rain. Bishop’s body tightens, rigid. We run to a nearby stone wall. He lays me down. Exhausted, I collapse on the pavement. He turns and crouches in a defense move we learned from class. Something is wrong.
•
Bishop’s head twitches back and forth, peering out into the darkness. I attempt to stand, but the drops of rain transition into noisy sleet. Each pellet feels like a boulder, so very heavy, pushing me back to the ground. Stupid schlag!
“What’s going on?” I holler.
“Quiet!” he hisses, holding up his palm.
Can he hear something I don’t? I concentrate on the sounds: the pounding rain, beating like a drum over the pavement, cars hydroplaning on flooded streets, and the crackling lightning strikes. I advance beyond those noises, letting them float far away, and when I do, I actually hear a mass pushing through the rain.
By the time I look up it’s too late. From behind the wall, a dark figure flies through the air above us. The person lands, crushing Bishop to the ground. Bishop flips the attacker off his body and the two launch into a full-force fight. They’re equally matched, going back and forth between kicking at each other’s heads and punching in dizzying repetition.
I’ve been practicing for months for this very moment, and now I’m utterly helpless because of the schlag. Hot fury rises through my bones. I attempt to stand again. Using all my strength, I inch my way up the wall.
I force my limbs to move and stumble forward, slamming into the attacker, hoping it will give Bishop the advantage. I must pass out momentarily because the next thing I register is my body being held by my feet as I’m dragged on my back across the sidewalk, arms flailing. My shirt and jacket lift, exposing my bare back. Rocks, dirt, and debris dig and slice into my flesh in the worst case of road rash I could ever imagine.
“Stop!” I scream over and over to my attacker.
My jacket slides over my face, blocking my sight and muffling my screams. I choke on the wet fabric. Now, no one can hear me cry. Finally, the jacket and shirt rip off, sliding over my arms, releasing me. My body halts.
Topless and in pain, I curl into a ball and cry as I’m pelted by the icy sleet.
“Sera!” Bishop rushes to my side. His fingers tremble over my bare skin. He tears off his jacket and gently rolls me into the fabric. He lifts my mangled body from the ground, and I float away, allowing the darkness to consume me.
::8::
Schlag
Muffled shouts interrupt my sleep. When I concentrate on the words, the person shouting says, “Bishop, breakfast!”
My eyes pop open even though I’m overwhelmed with exhaustion and pain. My gaze roams the unfamiliar room and then lands on an arm wrapped tightly around my stomach from behind. Bishop snuggles into my back, and I wince, feeling every scrape.
The nightmare from last night floods back: the rain, the fight, and oh man, the talk. I don’t remember the last part taking place—yet.
Footsteps pound, ascending the stairs, and I jump out of bed, panicked. I’ve never met his mom before, and this definitely is not the way to do it. I lean over the bed and shake Bishop. “Wake up! Your mom’s coming!”
He smiles with a lazy, unconcerned grin and rolls over. When his sleepy brain catches up, he jolts and reacts the way he should. “Right—that would be bad.” He jumps up and scrambles for his shirt.
“Bishop. Are you awake?” she calls. Her steps and voice close in.
He runs to open the window, unlocks the bottom pane, and gives it a strong heave. Paint chips flutter to the sill, and he sticks his head out the window. He ducks in and turns to me as I finish shoving boots on my feet.
“This is going to be uncomfortable for you,” he says apologetically. “There’s a terrace and an iron fire escape ten feet away.”
“Okay,” I say, unsure. I quickly survey the room for other hiding options, but there are none.
“But you’ll have to walk across the roof to get there.” He winces.
I run to the window and look down. We’re at least three stories up. Ugg! My stomach cramps, but I throw my leg over the sill, regardless. Leg dangling, a cool breeze blows past, sending chilly morning air beneath my skirt.
“She’s almost here,” he says. He wraps his arms around my body and helps me slide out the window and onto the slanted roof. My feet catch the brick rim, serving as a gutter at the edge of the shingles. I turn onto my side and securely clamp my fingers onto the window frame.
Bishop lets go when I’m stable, leans into his room, and quickly snaps the curtain sheers shut.
His bedroom door creaks open.
“Wonderful. You’re awake,” his mom says.
“Mum! You need to knock! I’m getting dressed.” He positions his silhouette on the other side of the curtains, strategically blocking any view she might have of me.
“Of course. Sorry,” she says.
The door shuts.
Curtains whip open and Bishop leans out to grab my arms. “Are you okay?”
“Umm,” I reply with a shaky voice.
“Come back in. She’s gone.”
“No!” I yell a little too loudly. Not because I don’t desperately want to get off this roof, but because I’m not ready to have the talk. “I’m already out here and—um—that’s most of the battle.” A bead of sweat rolls from my hairline and down my cheek. “Which way?”
His head tilts to my right, and I look over my shoulder. A rooftop veranda sits nearby. I’m really going to do this. No sweat, just lean into the roof and step across the gutter. Easy—right?
I inhale a long, shaky breath and unwrap my fingers, one at a time, from the window frame and reach to grab a nearby brick column with a decorative cement vase positioned on top. I gently roll to my hip, allowing one foot to rest in front of the other on the gutter. Slowly, carefully, I shuffle across the roofline.
Feeling unbalanced, I grab for a new shingle. At the touch of my hand, several pieces dislodge, sliding down the roof and tumbling over the edge. My entire body solidifies, except for my heart, which races, threatening to take off without me. The casualty of shingles crashes on the ground. I gasp, petrified.
“It’s okay, Sera. You’re almost there.”
Taking several deep breaths, I reluctantly continue. Even in the chilly morning air, my entire body reeks of nervous sweat.
When I reach the end, I fall, relieved, into the veranda and rest on the patio, controlling my ragged breathing. Hoisting my body upright, I send Bishop a sad glance. My heart fills with dread, knowing that this may be one of the last moments we have as boyfriend and girlfriend. I’m certain �
�the talk” is the break-up talk. That thought makes this situation more upsetting. How did we get here? Our outing last night could not have been more perfect—until the end.
Bishop points to the back of the townhouse where two black metal bars attach to the roof and arc over the wall, disappearing over the edge.
I wave a feeble good-bye and traverse the patio. Grabbing the railing, I lean over the wall and look down. Ugh! I feel sick. A rickety metal ladder races down the side of the house. I don’t dare jump over the edge to wander home; I can’t gauge if there’s enough room. I force another breath before a panic attack sets in and swing my legs over the edge for a second time this morning.
•
I don’t leave London right away. Instead, I stalk around the city, working myself into a complete and utter frenzy by overanalyzing everything. I conclude that the “future me” I came across yesterday, the one crying, was the result of my impending breakup. I’m certain.
The person who attacked us last night, I’m not so certain about. If I hadn’t been suffering from schlag, I may have had the energy to identify the person. I don’t even know if Bishop knows who it was. I suspect not, since he didn’t mention it. With his mom interrupting our peaceful slumber, we didn’t talk about anything this morning.
The attacker stole my shirt and jacket. Ripped them right from my body with Bishop’s letter in the pocket. That beautiful, romantic letter—gone. I’m thankful I committed the words to memory. When they race through my mind…restless, waiting, dreaming, the bridge of my nose burns. Tears begin again. I lift the oversized t-shirt, the one Bishop must have dressed me in last night while I was unconscious, and wipe my eyes and running nose. The skin on my face is raw and irritated, smeared with a tear-dried concoction of black mascara and face powder.
Ducking behind a row of tall, vibrant trees, I find a hidden stretch of green grass, a runway to return to the Academy. With one of my boots in hand as my relic and my ticket home, I run. The grass squishes mud between my bare toes as Battersea Park rolls up behind me into the sky. Right before the land crashes and bludgeons my body into oblivion, I catapult through a prismatic wormhole into time.
Kiss Kiss Page 266
