by Ryals, R. K.
"Emma Chase?" Dr. Reed says dully as she enters the room.
I turn toward the voice and grimace. While Grace had been a cheerful, encouraging woman, the doctor now making her way across the room is the female version of Attila the Hun. One of the Diplomas on the wall introduces her as Helen Reed. I mentally nickname her "Helga." She is the size of a football player with a huge Grecian nose and large beady, un-waxed eyes. It isn't pretty.
“So, how are we today, Emma?” Helga asks as she steps in front of us, her gaze peering unobtrusively over a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.
I shrug. Helga glances from me to my mother.
"Can I see Emma alone a moment?"
This startles us both. Mom knows I'm not good at conversing with people I'm not familiar with. I am, quite simply, terrified of anything I don't have control over. My fears are part of the reason I'm here. Another symptom, the doctors say. Extreme paranoia. I have developed what they like to call a hyper-phobic disability. Which means, and I digress, that I am literally terrified of everything. Literally. Everything. Spiders, the dark, fire, heights, closed spaces, snakes, . . . everything.
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea . . ." Mom says as Helga starts urging her toward the door.
I don't even have time to argue before the door clicks shut in my mother's stunned face. Helga turns to me.
"I have reviewed your records, Ms. Chase, and I am not entirely convinced you are as sick as you would have people believe."
I am at a loss for words, my heart beginning to pound as I wipe my sweating palms down the side of my dark blue jeans. The long sleeve green cardigan I have on suddenly feels too hot. I know my temperature is rising.
"M-m'am?" I stutter.
Helga's eyes narrow.
"The fever I can't figure out, but according to my charts, your physical tests have all been outstanding. Maybe some sort of neurological disease then? And yet, even with the fever, your mental facilities seem fine.
"D-doc. . ."
She ignores me.
"As for the paranoia . . ."
I am instantly aware of her intentions, and I squeal as she reaches for the light switch on the wall next to the door. There are no windows in the room. If this is a test, it is a bad one.
"No!"
The room goes pitch black. What comes next is not my fault. The screams that fill the room no longer just my own.
Helga pulls at me. I am wrapped around her. How I got there is beyond me, but I can't let go. I won't let go.
Distantly, I hear banging on the door. Helga struggles against me, yelling for help, and shoves me backward so the people in the hall can enter without any resistance. Lights suddenly flood the room.
Helga shouldn't have turned off the lights! Otherwise, they never would have found me there, bear hugging Dr. Reed while frantically screaming and shedding tears of pure unadulterated blood.
Chapter 3
Conor
I was on my way, by taxi, to the airport in Paris, France when the call comes through. The number is a familiar one, and I groan.
"I just left the Council, Will . . ."
"And I just got called in to assist you. We've got trouble," my cousin interrupts.
My foot presses against the floorboard of the Peugeot 406, an unconscious braking effort on my part. I tap the seat in front of me, using my hand to signal the driver. The taxi slows and pulls to the side of the road amidst blaring horns.
"Define trouble."
There is a lot of noise on the other end of the line, and I recognize my aunt's irritated voice. Will is my first cousin, a year younger than me, and has just been accepted into the Inner Circle of Gargoyles. As a Guardian, I had ranked higher, but now . . . .
"The mark is in danger."
It takes a moment for his words to register. The mark? My mark? The taxi driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I open the car door, lowering my voice as I step outside.
"Emma Chase?"
Will grunts.
"No, the Pope, you imbecile."
I clench my fist. I hear my aunt yelling now in the background. She's agitated. It doesn't take long for me to realize Will is gearing up to fly, his mother trying her best to prepare him for the worst. Chills creep up my spine.
"Look, Will, this is my job. If there's trouble, they need to send in a Guardian . . ."
"There's no time, Con. They need someone now. And I'm the closest to the location. Forget the plane. You need to take flight."
I reach into my pocket, grab enough money to pay the driver, throw it into the taxi and walk away. I'm not used to dealing with foreign currency yet, and I'm pretty sure I just grossly overpaid the man, but I am beyond distracted and it's Council money anyway. My eyes instinctively search the buildings around me. I need a good place to take off. Flying in daylight is risky, but gargoyles have an advantage. We are born with the ability to foil radar.
"Explain," I order as I walk toward a dilapidated building with little foot traffic. It will have to do. Will hesitates on the other end of the line.
"Hell if I know. I wasn't told much. She's been caught in a compromising position, and she has been admitted into the hospital. You've seen her records. You tell me."
"Shit. Where is she?"
Will gives me the name of a hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. According to her records, Emma is from Illinois. She is a long way from home. Her mother is determined to exhaust all medical avenues. She wants to save her daughter. No one can fault her for that. I had been ordered to Georgia where I was supposed to catch the same return flight to Illinois as Emma and her mother. The rest was up to me. I hate when plans change.
"Look, just watch the facility. Don't go in without me. I'm on my way."
I start to scale the building as Will protests in my ear. I ignore him and end the call abruptly, pulling an ear piece out of my pocket and shoving it into my ear. The next call I make is to the Director.
"I didn't think it'd take you long," Gibson says, his voice strained.
"Will isn't a Guardian."
I say the words angrily. Will is family. Being related to a colleague isn't unusual in the world of gargoyles. Gargoyles marry gargoyles. Their children are gargoyles. It is just the way our people work. It is our duty. It is why each family is represented by a crest. Very rarely does a gargoyle deviate from this plan. I am one of the exceptional few, having fallen for someone unsuitable. Worse yet, it had been a mark. Hence my demotion. And even though every gargoyle takes his or her place in the Inner Circle when they come of age, I know Will isn't ready. He's only been in service a few months.
"Neither are you, Reinhardt. Not anymore."
"But I've been trained for it," I argue.
Gibson sighs, the sound carrying across the line.
"We don't plan for this to get out of hand. We only need an Extraction."
"Extractions go wrong," I point out.
I am way out of line, questioning authority, but I'm apparently getting good at being demoted anyway so why stop now.
"Conor . . ."
"Why Will?" I protest.
"He won't be alone. We have Roach working from the inside."
I have a hard time refraining from being completely and utterly insubordinate. Roach is a jackass.
"How bad is the situation?"
Gibson is quiet a moment.
"Not bad . . . unusual. The girl has developed a new symptom."
I am on the roof of the building now.
"Symptom?"
"The doctors call it haemolacria. Crying blood. It's usually indicative of an underlying condition, tumor, head injury, etc, but you and I both know she doesn't have a medical condition. What we don't know is what this means. If it's a new ability she doesn't have control over then . . . we fear she's broadcast her position unintentionally."
"Sweet Jesus!"
I drop the call and take flight, bat-like wings unfurling from my back through a navy t-shirt rigged for impromptu flight. I don't care if Gibson curs
es me a thousand times over for hanging up on him. This Extraction is destined to go awry. If the wrong forces know where the girl is, Will is headed for trouble.
Chapter 4
Emma
They wanted to sedate me. When my mother refused, they suggested a straight jacket. I had, after all, attacked one of their doctors. Not intentionally. Never intentionally, but I had almost choked her to death.
Dr. Helen Reed is insensible now, yelling something about "her impossible strength." Apparently, I had also cracked one of her ribs.
"Adrenaline can heighten abilities," a male voice says from behind the curtain where I am now being held.
I'm not in the cushy Psychology wing anymore. I'm not really sure where I am. I am strapped down to a stretcher, my mother and several medical personnel arguing outside the sectioned off cubicle they had transported me to. There is no fight left in me. My face is stiff, and I know my cheeks are streaked with blood. This scares me. Is this finally it for me?
"Adrenaline, my ass, Franklin!" Dr. Reed practically shouts. I had really scared her. I had scared myself.
"She isn't dangerous," my mother says, her voice small. I can see her now with her tall, skeletal frame, her hands rubbing arms that never seem warm anymore.
"I beg to differ," Reed argues.
I am really beginning to dislike the woman. Maybe her job has jaded her. She obviously has no compassion.
I want to move my arms. They are getting that pins and needles feel from being motionless too long. I hadn't meant to hurt anyone. I had been terrified. Nothing more.
"If you could just tell me what I need to do to get her released . . ." my mother begins.
Dr. Reed cackles wildly, her words so fast and furious, my spinning head can't keep up. The male voice rises again, and I hear him summon more individuals, invisible people, who draw Helen Reed away. Shadowy figures move chaotically beyond my fabric wall for what seems like hours before a hand suddenly grips the curtain and shoves it aside. My heart rate increases.
"Ms. Chase?" a familiar male voice says.
From where I lay, the man looks tall, his lanky body swathed in grayish-blue scrubs. He is a young doctor with reddish-brown hair and an angular face. If they were casting a movie for the modern-day Wizard of Oz, he'd make the perfect scarecrow.
"How are we doing?" he asks as he approaches me. His eyes are small, sharp. They make me nervous.
"Where's my mother?"
He glances over his shoulder at the hall.
"She will be here in a moment," he says cautiously. "Emma . . . can I call you that?"
I nod.
"We need to admit you, run some tests, find out what may be happening to you."
I look down at the restraints on my arm.
"Can you take these off, p-please?"
My voice is small. Anxiety consumes me. I am light-headed and nauseous. Being restrained only makes me panic more.
"They're for your own safety, Ms. Chase. I can sit you up if you like."
I want to sob, but I nod instead. He moves to my side, using a lever to lift the head of the bed. From an inclined angle, he doesn't look as tall as he had before. Lanky definitely, medium height, sharp features . . . .
"I'm Roosevelt Franklin. I work for the hospital."
"R-r-roosevelt F-franklin . . .?"
My teeth are chattering, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from being incoherent. Roosevelt smiles wryly, his dark eyes gleaming in the bright fluorescent room.
"My parents had a thing for great American heroes. Most people just call me Roach."
Roaches are disgusting, sneaky insects whose name makes my skin crawl. My anxiety kicks up a notch.
"Y-you're not a doctor?"
He laughs.
"Hell, no."
Being strapped down doesn't seem like such a bad idea anymore. His crass answer fuels my fear, makes me want to lash out. Fight and flight.
"Where's my mother?" I ask again, slightly panicked.
Roosevelt begins to look annoyed. It isn't a good look for him. His eyes are beady, his face tight.
"Look , Emma . . ."
"You were never good at subtlety, Roach," a male voice interrupts. It has a distinctive Southern drawl I find immediately comforting. A genuine doctor this time?
"And you were never good at following orders," Roach hisses. "I work on the inside."
"Rules were made to be broken," the voice answers. There is an accompanying male snicker. A third man?
"He's incorrigible. Even his own mother refuses to work with him," the third voice says. It is definitely male and as Southern as the voice before it.
I am frozen with fear. There are footsteps on the linoleum floor behind me, and I flinch as a hand settles gently against my forehead. The hand is large and cool.
"Hello, Emma. I'm Conor Reinhardt, and I'm here to help you. Promise you won't run, and I'll take off your restraints."
His voice is low, hypnotic.
"P-please . . ."
"Promise me, Emma," Conor says patiently.
I nod against his hand. The light pressure on my head vanishes as he moves to my side.
"You dimwit! You can't just release her until we're sure she's not a risk!" Roach argues as I get my first look at Conor Reinhardt.
There are no adjectives strong enough to describe the blue jean, navy tee-clad young man I see now before me. He is tall, maybe six foot with dark blond hair and startling blue eyes. His hair is carelessly long, falling onto his forehead as he leans over me, pulling first one strap free and then another. I don't move.
"She's not a flight risk," Conor says calmly as his eyes meet mine. There is an indefinable gleam in his sky blue gaze. Sympathy maybe?
"Where's my mother?" I whisper.
He grins crookedly, his face full of an assurance I don't feel.
"She's safe, sweetheart. But you're not. That's why I'm here."
"We're here," a sullen voice interjects. Conor looks over my head and grins.
"Cousins. Now they are incorrigible." He motions idly. "That scruffy imbecile behind you is Will Reinhardt, bane of any woman's existence."
Roosevelt Franklin flaps his hands angrily.
"Can the introductions, Reinhardt! You sorry, low-life, inbred . . ."
I stiffen.
"And that charming jackass," Conor says as he waves his hand at the fluttering man beside him. "Isn't worth your time."
Conor moves to my feet, removing each restraint as gently as he can.
"You have the gall to call me a mule! You wretched, moronic . . ."
"Write it in your journal and call it a dictionary, Roach. We don't have time," Conor says.
I sit up slowly, pain flaring in my extremities as blood rushes back down into my hands and feet. I feel my face heat, fear making electric tingles shoot down my spine. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to do something other than listen to the men insult each other.
"You promised, darlin'. No running," Conor chides as a slightly shorter, but no less impressive version of him moves toward me. Will Reinhardt?
I scoot away and the boy freezes, throwing his hands up in a gesture of peace. It is a no-win situation. Every time I edge away from any of them, I move closer to another. I am feeling closed in. A scream works its way into my throat, and a hand suddenly clamps over my mouth.
"No yelling. I wasn't lying when I said you were in danger."
Conor's breath wafts against my ear, and I squeal, my eyes wide. I try shaking him off, my teeth bared against his palm.
"She suffers from pantophobia, you idiot! She fears everything," Roach snarls.
I am shaking uncontrollably now, my body a mass of nerves. Nausea rips through my stomach, and I gag against Conor's hand. I am having trouble breathing. Distantly, I hear Will swear as Conor freezes behind me.
"And that's what they meant by shy. Gotta love getting the run around," Conor whispers against my ear.
My pulse is beating to
o rapidly now, my heart a war drum in my chest. My skin is heating. I whimper without meaning too, my mind and body refusing to surrender. I thrash violently, my teeth bearing down.
"Don't!" Conor warns, and I watch in horror as his hand transforms, turning to stone against my lips.
"You'll only shatter your teeth if you do that."
I scream against his granite-like palm, my hands coming up to grip his arm. It isn't hard like his hand, and I dig my nails in ruthlessly. He doesn't even flinch. He chuckles instead, the sound causing me to tense as he pulls me off the bed and against his chest.
"It's nice to see the fear doesn't immobilize you."
Roach growls. "And you wanted to take off her restraints! Do you really believe she would have been tied to her own bed if she wasn't a risk? Her fears make her insensible. They make her dangerous!"
"They make her fight," Conor says quietly. "And she's going to need a lot of fight where she's going."
I am crying now, blood-tinged tears spilling over Conor's stone hand. He has turned to stone! Stone! I am losing my mind. I am hallucinating! I am finally dying and these are my last moments, a hospital room full of crazy men with outrageous abilities. Is it possible to be aware of your own craziness?
"We need to go," Will says shortly. Conor doesn't argue.
"We had to battle . . ." Conor pauses as if he is afraid what he's about to say will render me even more senseless. I hate to tell him, but I am already well beyond insanity. Even though I know it is pointless, I keep thrashing. I will fight until there isn't any fight left in me.
"We had a little skirmish outside. They know she's here. Unless you want real trouble on your hands, we need to go," Conor says to Roach. Roach still looks angry, his face almost purple with rage, but he doesn't argue anymore.
He goes into action instead, moving equipment around angrily before transforming in front of my eyes. One moment he is a beady-eyed man, the next a serpentine figure, a mix of snake and dragon. I scream and scream, thrashing and fighting until I feel myself beginning to tire. I sag a little against Conor's chest, still fighting.