Conspiracy Boy (Angel Academy)

by Cecily White

  “Lyle, wait. Something’s happening.”

  “Mmm.” He looped an arm around my waist. “Girls tell me that a lot.”

  I dug an elbow into his ribs; my ears perked to high alert. Waves from a passing tugboat slapped against the shore, and the faint sounds of music and car engines drifted out of the Quarter. Other than that, the outside world seemed to be hibernating.

  Inside was a whole different story. My heart beat faster. My breath quickened. Energy buzzed through my torso, leaving bright gold traces across my skin. It certainly felt familiar. Almost like—

  Oh, no.

  “Lyle, you need to get out of here. Like, now.”

  “What? Why—”

  The question barely made it past his lips when a gust of breeze swooped in from nowhere and picked him up by the collar. Literally. And dangled him in the air about two feet above the ground.

  Yup. One good thing I’ll say about having a life that uniformly stinks…at least it’s predictable.

  Chapter Two:

  Good Intentions

  “Guardian Purcell. Guardian Bennett.” Jackson Smith-Hailey’s baritone voice rang out over the shink of his blade being unsheathed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  I took a step back as Lyle sputtered above us. “Love of my life. Heart of my heart. Howzitgoin’?”

  “How’s it goin’?” Jack repeated. “Ami, you’ve violated seven, possibly eight levels of Guardian trainee protocols tonight, and you want to know how it’s goin’?”

  “I was being conversational.”

  Jack looked annoyed. “Are you aware of the punishment for this?”

  “Death by coffee?” I said optimistically.

  He frowned but didn’t reply. Normally, a six-foot-plus, sword-wielding dude wearing black Kevlar body armor would have terrified me. Tonight, not so much.

  “Put him down,” I said wearily. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “Define anything.”

  “Nothing a normal person wouldn’t do for a friend.”

  “Define normal.” Jack eyed my demon-charred hair and rumpled skirt. “Then define friend.”

  I had just opened my mouth to admit it was all my idea when Jack drew back Lyle’s jacket to reveal the shoulder holster loaded with a sword and a variety of metal throwing knives.

  “School property,” he said, then ran a hand through the air near my fingers. “And you’re warm. Have you been channeling?”

  “I am not warm,” I objected through the shivers. “I’m arctic. And for your information, this is a perfectly legitimate school exercise. We’re hunting demons.”

  “Grrgggllpbfff,” Lyle choked out from the end of Jack’s fist. Which I’m pretty sure translated to “shut up” in nonstrangulation language.

  “You think hunting demons in a public venue is legitimate?”

  “Yes, I do. And necessary, since no one else at St. Michael’s bothers to do it lately.”

  At that, Jack’s eyes took on a stormy look, like those icy gray stones Meeks kept in the lab sometimes. Hematite, I think they’re called.

  Very, very slowly, he set Lyle down. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Purcell, I need a word with Guardian Bennett.”

  Lyle choked out something that sounded like yessir.

  “And next time you want to borrow school property”—Jack reached a hand into Lyle’s jacket pocket and drew out a pair of serrated throwing knives—“please fill out the proper requisition forms.”

  Then he took three steps back and, as casually as swatting a butterfly, flicked his wrist and sent one of the knives in a glittering arc toward Lyle’s face. Lyle ducked about a nanosecond before it made contact.

  “You,” Jack said, pointing at me. “Come.”

  I swallowed hard.

  It’s a discomfiting thing to have the person you love more than anything in the world toss a knife at your friend’s head and walk away. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that Jack never gets angry. He does. Often. But that’s usually when he’ll start building a house for the homeless or crocheting like some insane elderly person. Happily so, because let’s face it, when Jack lost his temper, the infirmary got a lot busier.

  “Coming,” I muttered and hurried after him.

  By the time I caught up, he was already slouched against a concrete piling beneath the wharf, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other anxiously twirling Lyle’s knife by the hook in its hilt. I slowed to a stop about two feet away, just out of sight of Lyle.

  “So,” I said.

  “So,” he replied. “So.”

  And suddenly things were awkward.

  Mega awkward. Like last fall never happened. Like we’d never practically died for each other. Like we weren’t part bonded and crazy in love with each other. My stomach churned. My heart fluttered. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. It made me want to vomit, run away, and ask him to prom, all at once.

  “Omelet,” he said, after a quiet minute, “what are you doing?”

  I lifted the knife out of his hand and ran my finger along the metal hilt. Omelet was a nickname Jack had given me while he and I were hiding from the Guardian Elders. It brought back a thousand warm memories with him—none of which made me feel like an obedient Guardian trainee. “Why? Are you asking as my trainer?”

  “I’m not your trainer.”

  “Why are you here, then? Dad put you on babysitting duty again?”

  Jack frowned. “Do you really think Bud would call me if he thought you were in trouble?”

  Honestly, I had no idea who my father would call if he thought I was in trouble. Since I’d been in trouble more often than not over the past decade, one would think he’d be used to it.

  In the distance, a purple haze shimmered over the city, signaling the coming dawn. Or maybe a ton of smog, I couldn’t tell.

  Jack frowned. “It’s Lisa, isn’t it?”

  All I could do was sigh. It bugged me that he could read me so well, especially when I didn’t want to be read.

  “Lisa contacted you, and you didn’t tell me. You went to Lyle for help instead,” he said, super quietly.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “That you trust Lyle more than you trust me?” he said. “Because that’s what it looks like.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Are you planning something? Is it Luc? Just tell me.”

  “You’re never around,” I yelled.

  For a long time, he couldn’t answer. Since Jack had given up authority over me last fall, it was rare that he’d allow himself to be in a position of having to discipline me. Or listen to me. Or interact with me at all, actually. It might have made sense for us flying under the radar, but it sucked for my mental state.

  In silence, I pulled out the note Lisa had left for me and handed it to him.

  “Here. If you want to break up with me,” I said, watching his eyes absorb the text, “I won’t blame you. I won’t even be mad. But Jack, I can’t just sit around and let her get hunted. And I definitely can’t help the Elders. She may be our number-one most-wanted criminal, but she’s my sister. I need to find her.”

  He looked at the ground. “Amelie—”

  “It’s cool. Dad can buy me a bunch of cats, and I’ll dress them all in matching sweaters and be one of those psycho cat ladies who eats Spam and yells at the neighbor children,” I said. “I’ll keep to myself and mutter about government conspiracies and how evil hedgehogs are. You can go on avoiding me. In fact, you won’t ever have to see me again—”

  I had to stop then. Not because I was done with the self-pity rant, but because my lips were suddenly occupied with something way more compelling.

  “What are you doing?” I mumbled against his mouth.

  In silent answer, he slid his hands up my back and pulled me closer until the heat of his skin radiated through his shirt, warming my body.

  As long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to
the sensation of being kissed by that boy. It’s like gravity, and fire, and jet propulsion, all wrapped in a warm, velvety package and topped with candy corn. My heart skittered to life as his lips brushed mine, as soft as I remembered and every bit as intoxicating.

  Within seconds, my mind quieted. My body went floppy in his arms as the vivid edge of a vision nudged my brain.

  Jack and I sat huddled in a small clearing with a narrow stream burbling nearby. A moss-covered cabin stood behind us, and a carefully laid fire cast soft licks of orange and red across our bodies. But that was nothing compared to the bond. It glowed brilliant gold beneath our skin, its threads snaking through me like a hug. And all I could feel was that overwhelming chorus of yes.

  Yes, this was right. Yes, this was where I needed to be. Yes, this was my future.

  He reached to tuck one side of my hair behind my ear. It was an oddly intimate gesture that left me feeling shaken and wobbly inside.

  While we’d kissed, a slow sheen of light had spread across Jack’s skin, liquid gold trickling up the veins on his wrist. And the longer I stood pressed against him, and the harder his fingertips dug into my hips, the more the air around us began to swirl and buzz and twitch, until eager strands of gold light throbbed around my chest.

  “Omelet,” he murmured again, pressing his forehead against mine. “Don’t you get why I avoid you? Why I send Marcus to deliver your assignments? Why I want you to stay away from this thing with Lisa?”

  I shivered at his touch as light threads spilled into the air. I did get it. When he worried about me, stuff happened. Weird stuff. Powerful stuff. And if anyone saw that we were bonded, they’d try to separate us again. Because I was too dangerous. We were too dangerous.

  Eyes shut, I leaned closer, my hands tracing up the bumpy indents of his ribs. He’d lost weight since the last time I’d touched him, and his body felt different. The same layers of lean muscle over bone, but harder now, more wiry.

  “So don’t go back to school,” I urged. “Let’s run away.”

  “To where?”

  “Alaska.”

  “What’s in Alaska?”

  “No clue,” I whispered. “Find out with me.”

  Jack dropped his hands but left his forehead pressed to mine. “Until you turn eighteen, I’ve got no claim on you. The Council of Elders would strip us both of our rank, assuming your father didn’t kill me first.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him I didn’t care—that Dad could come live with us in an Inuit hut if it meant being together. Away from the Guardian Elders. Away from the Immortals. Away from Lisa and her stupid civitas terrena Post-it.

  I’d just begun to formulate the wish when something shifted and the air got quiet.

  Unnaturally quiet.

  I can’t really explain it beyond that—it was just a heavy, weighted silence that seeped through my skin and rested at the bottom of my stomach.

  “Jack, what—?”

  The words had barely formed before a crack of lightning ripped across the sky, making it bleed pure white. In the space of a heartbeat, Jack twisted me behind him.

  “Shields,” he ordered.

  I summoned the protective channel between my fingertips and tossed it at the air in front of us.

  Before either of us could speak, Lyle’s voice spilled across the rocks from the parking lot. “Sir, I think we have a breach.”

  “A breach?” I asked, tightening the channel in my hand. My blood fizzed with the taint of the Crossworlds. “Is that like a rift?”

  In silence, Jack drew a Magic 8 Ball key chain out of his jeans pocket and pressed it into my palm, drawing some of the Crossworlds poison off me. “Go wait in the car. You’ll be safe there.”

  Through the darkness, I cast a doubtful glance at the dilapidated blue Gremlin Jack had bought last October. As much as I loved the guy, I had to disagree with the word “safe” being applied to it. I might take issue with the term “car,” too. Rust covered the bottom half so thickly you could barely tell its original color, and the top looked like it’d been chewed by a demon. Which, to be fair, it probably had.

  Jack had made it only a few steps toward the docks when a series of sharp thudding sounds rang out and I turned. Immediately, I could tell something was wrong.

  Several things, actually.

  The first was that the sky, instead of calmly existing like a sky is supposed to, now swirled in angry funnels.

  The second was the river. Only moments ago it had been a lovely shade of sludge flecked with white froth. Now it blazed purple fire.

  But the last thing—the thing that left me wanting to curl up in a corner and suck my thumb for an hour—was Lyle. On the ground. Facedown in the water.

  Utterly still.

  Chapter Three:

  Down the Rabbit Hole

  “Lyle!”

  Blood spilled out of a cut on his forehead, staining the moonlit shore a deep scarlet. Tentative waves lapped at his pale body. Apart from the cut above his brow, I didn’t see any marks on him. But given the bizarre damage our enemies could inflict, that meant very little.

  Jack dashed toward the water at a full sprint, sword drawn and ready. “Get Lyle,” he ordered me, “and stay down.”

  I ducked as a chunk of stone flew through the air at my head. Like I needed to be told to stay down. Did he think I was an idiot?

  Jack’s car keys clattered to the ground as I dodged flying debris.

  “Inergio,” I whispered to myself, calling open a channel. It pulsed heat between my fingers, making the skin under my fingernails burn. Of course, I had it dialed to kill mode, not heal mode, but that could be adjusted once Lyle was out of danger.

  At the shoreline, I rolled Lyle over and lowered my face to his mouth. No breath, no heartbeat. Beneath the silence, I felt something else wiggle restlessly. Something small, but important.

  His soul. Still intact.

  “Jack, what do you see?”

  Near the water, my bondmate ducked and twisted as rocks flew by his head. A few glanced off his sword, then skittered across the rocks. Most just whizzed past harmlessly. It was weird how chaotic their strike pattern was—more like a tornado than an actual assault.

  “I don’t know. Can you close it?”

  Leaving one hand on Lyle’s quiet chest, I lifted the other toward the source of fire. Immediately, my palm ignited with power.

  “Concedia! Exitus!”

  The dismissal and closure commands sliced through the night with a vicious zip, then fizzled into the air. Like something had swallowed them. A moment later, the power swirled, and another burst of purple flame shot out of the water. It slammed into Jack and sent him sprawling against the rocks.

  “Can’t close it.”

  “Got that, thanks.” Jack ducked as another missile smashed against the stone pillar by his head, sending up a spray of chalky black dust.

  With soft breaths, I shut my eyes and shifted the channel between my fingers to the hand that rested on Lyle’s chest. Instantly, the energy took on a lighter feel—more peach sunrise than flaming sky.

  “Salve pacem,” I whispered into the darkness, pressing my hand to Lyle’s forehead.

  Warmth coursed through me, igniting the nerve endings beneath my skin. Healing was a skill they taught us in grade school, even before Channelers got our full powers. It was one of the few Guardian skills I’d always felt comfortable with, and one that drew significantly less energy off the Crossworlds. So instead of the usual headache and blood fizz, the sensation left me with a sense of well-being and empowerment.

  Which I totally needed now.

  It terrified me that Jack couldn’t see what was attacking us. More so, that I couldn’t feel anything, either. If a portal had opened, or if there was a swarm of angry demons funneling in from the Crossworlds, that would have been bad, granted. But the fact that no rifts were present meant that whatever had attacked Lyle could have been here the whole time.

  Watching. Listening.

  I
t could be anywhere.

  “Salve,” I said again, drawing more energy into Lyle’s body.

  In the distance, thuds and clangs sounded as Jack deflected the onslaught of flying rock.

  As much as I wanted to stand and fight, I had to trust that Jack could give me enough cover to heal Lyle. I’d only been in two active battle zones, both of them last fall. Regardless, I’d taken enough classes to know that healing during a battle was always a dicey business. If there are injured Watchers on the field, a Channeler needs to heal them. It’s the only way to get them back into the fight. The problem is, most Watchers don’t just heal in an instant and go straight back to active duty. They’re disoriented for a few minutes, then they do the whole where-am-I thing. If you’re not careful, they (and you) might get killed by a dive-bombing demon before anyone can convince them to pick up a damn sword.

  No way would I let that happen to Lyle.

  “Lyle”—I prodded my fallen friend—“wake up.”

  No response.

  As gently as possible, I slipped my arms under his body and used one of the rocks to brace myself for the effort. I needed every advantage. We’re talking 180 pounds of dead weight. Of course, it wasn’t the weight part that bothered me. It was the dead.

  “He’s gone,” I said, then realized I’d said it far too quietly for Jack to hear. “Jack, Lyle’s dead.”

  “So, call him back.”

  Call him back.

  Simple enough. I mean, that’s what Wraithmakers do, right?

  Yeah. And if I could have snapped my fingers and brought him back to life, I would have. I would have prayed and chanted and channeled until I turned blue. I might have even given up a few years off my life or whatever the stupid source of my power demanded. But it just felt so…futile.

  Lyle and I had worked on the whole raising-the-dead thing a few times at school and again at his house last October. After hours of failure and a few epileptic seizures from the Crossworlds energy draw, it usually ended with me in tears and Lyle making jokes to lighten the mood. Then he’d feed me cookie dough and we’d watch Comedy Central till his mom came home.