Conspiracy Boy (Angel Academy)

by Cecily White

  But first things first.

  “Inergio.” In a violent rush, power surged through me. A gash ripped into the Crossworlds, and silver smoke poured out like blood, spilling into a cylindrical, mirrored funnel cloud. It was strange how the funnel seemed to grow straight out of the rocks, narrowing gradually until it disappeared into the sky a few dozen yards above us. In its reflection, I could see the first hues of sunrise peeking over the horizon—pink and blue cotton candy streaks that twisted with the movement of the silver demon fog.

  Which meant I had very little time.

  The girl’s talons glittered in the rising sunlight, eyes glowing red as she lunged at me. I managed to knock her sideways a few feet, but she still catapulted into me, spinning my body into a concrete piling beside the portal. The cut at my head pulsed again, and the sky spun dizzy circles.

  “Incendia!” I ordered, and again, the air fell silent. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, she burst into flames. Not just a few flames, either. Like, a full-on bonfire. A silent, deadly, completely inexplicable purple bonfire.

  My mind went fuzzy as the world slowed.

  Jack’s ragged breath softened. Lyle’s moans of distress faded. Even the waves seemed to quiet as the burning girl teetered at the edge of our world. Behind her, the endless abyss of the Crossworlds stretched out in a silver lake.

  If I hadn’t been so wobbly, that might have been the end of it. She might have fallen in, never to torment innocent people again. The flames might have consumed her like a dying sun in supernova mode. But, as is often the irony with my life, things didn’t quite go as planned.

  In a last, flame-filled thrust, her claws ripped into me, scraping across my skin to catch on the strap of my stupid dress. I reached out to Jack, but my balance was off.

  For a terrible second, the world stopped.

  Jack stared at me, stricken. I watched him scramble upright against the wharf ledge, jerky and awkward, then collapse again.

  As I looked up, the weight of the sky crashed down, yanking me through the portal into the Crossworlds.

  Unprotected. Unshielded.

  Un-freaking-believable.

  Chapter Four:

  Home Sweet Hell

  Death is not cool.

  That sounds like a no-brainer, but given the number of suicides and murders that happen every day, I can’t help thinking there’s a statistical percentage of desperate idiots who don’t get it. But I do.

  Death is dark. It’s lonely. And most of all, it hurts like a mother stink monkey.

  I dragged myself back to consciousness through a thick film of mental peanut butter. The hot scent of burning tar attacked my nose, and my ears rang with the high-pitched wail of a banshee. Or maybe it was a teakettle, I couldn’t tell.

  I didn’t care.

  The edge of a nightmare still clung to my brain, and no matter how hard I pushed, it wouldn’t quite fade.

  It had started like the vision I’d had at the wharf—of me and Jack in the meadow—only this time it was midnight instead of dusk, black-winged vultures instead of night birds, and the stream beside us boiled with angry patches of green-flecked demon fire. Bitter fields stretched out in all directions, a checkerboard pattern of black and ash, broken only by the charred bodies of fallen Crossworlders. Even the moss-covered cabin behind us had been burned to rubble. But Jack didn’t seem to notice. He held my hand contentedly, his thumb stroking soft circles over my palm as he kissed my fingers. It wasn’t until his kisses stopped and his lips curved into a frown that I followed his gaze.

  There, scratched into the tender flesh of my wrist, was the same glyph I’d seen on the girl. Two linked circles, lightning-bolt slash, with a soft twist of leafy vines in the shape I’d initially taken to be coils. Only instead of glittery gold like hers, my glyph burned black fire.

  I tried to pull my hand away, to slap at the fire, but Jack held me in place.

  “Sorry, Omelet,” he whispered in a voice so sad it made my heart clutch.

  My lips were cracked from the heat, my skin seared black and papery. I barely even felt it when he slipped a hand behind his back and drew out the curved dagger he always carried.

  “It’ll only hurt for a second.”

  Gasping, I shook myself out of the nightmare and forced my eyes open.

  The world swung around me in a dizzy haze, like being drunk on a merry-go-round. Every inch of me ached, both inside and out, and my chest felt tight. Absently, I pressed a hand to my heart, waiting for the precious beats I knew still lived there.

  Bah-bum.

  Okay. I was alive.

  But how, exactly? Even the strongest Channelers in Guardian history couldn’t pull off a solo portal jump without a designated exit locus key. So how in the world had I done it? Granted, I had a little extra cushion with Luc’s blood in me, but that should score me a three-hundred-rohm draw. Maybe 320 if I hadn’t channeled in a while. Nowhere near the 450 I’d need if I wanted to open a portal, dump off a demon, and make it to a safe drop point without serious mental damage. The only times I’d been able to draw that much power was with—

  “Jack,” I breathed, sitting up.

  Something rustled in the corner, then a little girl’s voice answered, “He ain’t here.” It registered as familiar, but I couldn’t, for the life of me, place it.

  It wasn’t until she stepped into the lamplight that my muscles loosened. She wore the same white nightgown I remembered, with coarse black hair pulled into braided pigtails behind each ear. Only this time, instead of a smile, the child’s pretty mouth was drawn into the most sardonic, jaded, world-weary smirk I’d ever seen on a ten-year-old.

  “Delia,” I grumbled. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, Ah-muh-lee.” She said my name slowly, like talking to a disobedient dog. “I got every right to be here, which is more than I can say for you. Shouldn’t you be out killin’ or prostitutin’ or whatever your kind does?”

  I scowled at her. “For the last time, I am not a prostitute.”

  “You sure?” She glanced at my now-torn minidress. “And don’t go askin’ where Uncle Jack is. Momma says neither him or Uncle Luc is allowed to see you. Not till you get yourself cleaned up and they settle some.”

  A faint shudder ran under my skin at the mention of Luc.

  I remembered darkness and falling and screaming—me screaming, to be exact. And I remembered thinking I was going to die alone inside a demon portal. Then Luc was there.

  Inside the portal.

  Not his physical self, exactly—that would be impossible. It was more like a dream version of him. Or a memory of his scent, maybe. Him, but not him.

  “How?” I asked, not sure I wanted the answer.

  “He tracked you. Mom helped him set it up.”

  Delia tapped the silver pendant at my neck, and I let out a soft groan.

  It’s not that the necklace wasn’t pretty. In other circumstances, it would have been gorgeous. Antiqued metal formed a vine-like lace at the edges, framing the Montaigne family crest at the center. Most of the hammer work inside the crest was too worn to see details. I could barely discern a lion at the top, with an anvil in one corner and a pierced heart at the other. In the center of the lion’s eye, a tiny stone glowed green, somewhere between emerald and jade.

  The problem had nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with how it made me feel.

  Owned. Invaded. Like I had somehow opened a door to my free will, and now I couldn’t control it anymore. True, every Montaigne wore one. And it was all part of the fledgling process—letting Luc monitor me. But that didn’t make me hate it less.

  My eyes snapped into focus as I tucked the pendant under my neckline and lifted an annoyed gaze to the room.

  Benita Bertle’s house. Of course.

  I’d been here once before, while Jack and I were hiding from the Council of Elders last fall. If memory served, it was a small miracle the place hadn’t fallen over sideways. Even this room looked like it’
d been snatched out of some perverted scene from Lemony Snicket. The walls were painted bordello red and the air reeked of mothballs and vinegar. Along each wall stretched a series of scrolled wooden shelves, each cluttered with glass bottles—sea-green Coke bottles, amber wine bottles, even a few of those blue apothecary things with the strange beading along the base. I’m not sure what swam around in them, and something told me not to ask.

  Below the shelves, heaps of old cigar tins and antique rocking horses huddled on a threadbare rug, each piled with a contingent of dismembered dolls and stuffed bears that looked like doomsday survivors. Even the mildewed velvet couch I’d woken up on was littered with stains and gashes. But the best part—the part that really made me want to move in and call it home—was that there was no door.

  And no windows.

  Yeah, if I wasn’t already freaked beyond reason, this room would have pushed me over the edge.

  “This your room?” I asked, testing my bare feet against the floor.

  “Attic,” Delia replied. “It’s where we keep the evil things.”

  “So, it’s your room.”

  I shot her a sweet smile as I hefted myself vertical. A touch of dizziness, but not as bad as it could be. If Luc really had done Watcher duty for me on the jump, he probably had it way worse.

  “Can you at least tell me if everyone’s okay?”

  “Everyone, who?”

  The polite smile shifted to a glare. I didn’t care how old she was, nobody gave me grief when my friends might be in danger. “The cast of Scooby Doo. Who do you think?”

  “Oh, them,” she said after a moment. “Well, the short one’s at Council Headquarters, in the hospital unit. He wasn’t responding to healing charms, but Momma said you hit him with a good one before you portaled out. He’ll be okay. Same for Uncle Jack. He’s downstairs.”

  I felt my chest unknot. The healing commands I sent must have reached Lyle and Jack enough to pull them out of danger. Lyle would probably be under a healer’s watch for a few days, but at least he’d survive.

  “What about Luc?”

  The kid hiked an eyebrow. “He’s here, too. But he ain’t real happy with you. Maybe you should be nicer to him.”

  “Maybe you should mind your own business,” I said, trying not to think about the massive lectures I was going to get from Luc. The first order of business was getting the hell out of this room. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you people didn’t go potty.”

  “You people?” I repeated, ultra-patient. “What kind of people is that, Delia? Murderers? Prostitutes?”

  She shrugged. “You said it.”

  We glared at each other for an uncomfortable stretch. Granted, it might have only been a few seconds, but seriously, this kid had the stink eye perfected. After a solid minute, I caved.

  “Your mom said I could see everyone after I got cleaned up, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I need a bathroom to get cleaned up,” I explained patiently. “And I most certainly do use the potty. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Momma told me not to let you out,” she repeated.

  I glared at her. “Do you always do what your mother tells you?”

  “Yup.”

  Okay, I couldn’t blame her. If Benita Bertle was my mother, I’d probably spend my childhood hiding in the closet with a baseball bat. On paper, the woman might have been nothing more than a cafeteria lady at St. Michael’s Guardian Training Academy. And sure, she gave good hugs and called me “baby” all the time. But as my father liked to point out, the most successful serial killers are the ones you never suspect.

  Let’s just say I preferred to hang out with people who couldn’t look at the bottom of my teacup and tell me exactly how and when I was going to die.

  “What if I promise not to do anything illegal?”

  “Nope.”

  “I could channel something for you,” I suggested. “A charm to make your homework disappear?”

  “I like my homework.”

  That figured. “Love potion? Vengeance potion?”

  “You know I’m only ten, right?”

  “What if I give you a million dollars?” I suggested. “Ten-year-olds go shopping, don’t they?”

  She made a snorty sound, like maybe she didn’t believe I had a million dollars.

  Which, to be honest, I didn’t. But given an hour and a Watcher to help me portal, I could probably get it pretty quickly. Not that this helped my case on the no-doing-illegal-things issue.

  Since bribery clearly had no impact, I took a step forward to see if I couldn’t work the intimidation angle. Maybe she did give the stink eye from hell, but I was still taller than her.

  When my feet reached the middle of the room, I stopped. It wasn’t much, maybe a half-millimeter shift under the carpet.

  Trapdoor.

  Delia glared at me as I yanked the rug away and kicked it to the corner. “You’re gonna get in trouble.”

  “Maybe.” The door came up easily in my hand. “Stay here.”

  She scampered to the edge of the hole and sank to her knees. “Uncle Jack says you’re gonna die if you don’t start listening better.”

  “I’m perfectly safe.”

  “Uncle Jack says—”

  Before she could finish, I dropped down onto a waiting footstool and slammed the latch shut. Perfectly safe seemed pretty far from what I was, but no way was I going to admit that to a snotty ten-year-old.

  The floor bucked, and the hallway walls swam dangerously as I made my way toward the stairs. Faint morning light spilled through the windows, making my eyes burn, but I didn’t slow.

  I could already hear them in the kitchen—Jack’s deep baritone punctuated by Benita’s soft alto, all overlaid on a chorus of sizzling eggs and frying pancakes. Every so often, someone’s spoon would clang against the side of a teacup or a fork would scrape against a plate.

  I tried to pause at the lapses in conversation, so their words muffled my progress on the creaky stairs. The last thing I needed was Bertle heading me off before I even made it to the kitchen. It wasn’t until I came around the corner into the living room that I stopped.

  Jack was dressed and freshly showered, still wearing his torn jeans and Converse sneakers. He’d traded his T-shirt for a flannel button-down, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Pale light made a halo out of his hair, and his charcoal eyes gleamed in the early morning sun.

  “I don’t get it,” Jack said, elbows propped on the table. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I was sure it wasn’t smiling. “How did this happen?”

  Luc let out a soft groan from the chair beside him but said nothing. His collar was stained with something dark, and his face held a decidedly gray pallor—probably from the Crossworlds hangover of pulling me out.

  “I’m talking to you, cousin.” Jack snapped his fingers in front of Luc’s face. “How did Petra find her? No one but you should be able to do that.”

  “Sod off, Jackson. Any Montaigne can find her.” Luc slumped back in his chair and pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead. “And I’ll give you fifty quid if you stop yelling at me.”

  “I’m not yelling,” Jack practically whispered.

  “Shh,” Luc hushed him. “I’m dying.”

  Benita sighed. “Sugar, that’s just the Crossworld taint workin’ through you. It’ll be done in few hours.”

  Luc clutched his head. “I’d prefer death.”

  Jack glared at his friend. “What are we supposed to do, Benita? Go back to school and pretend none of this happened? She’s right, you know. I’m her bondmate. I’m supposed to keep her safe.”

  “Which you did,” Bertle soothed.

  “No, he did.” Jack pointed at Luc, who had practically passed out on the table. “And you did. Barely.”

  Sighing, Luc sat up and chucked his napkin on the table. “Not to be rude, but I’ve got a peace summit in the morning, Mu
m arriving in two hours, and an interdimensional assassin hunting my fledgling. I’m going home.” Before anyone could argue, Luc shoved his chair behind him and stood. “Benita, thank you for the tea. Give Delia my love, would you?”

  Bertle stayed quiet as Luc grabbed his jacket and shuffled out the back door.

  Jack didn’t say anything, either. He just kept staring at the teacup in his hands with that dark, brooding expression.

  That expression, I knew.

  That expression, I hated, because it meant there were volumes of pain and secrets he was hanging on to, and it would take an army of bulldozers to pry them loose.

  Finally, Benita held out a hand. “Done?”

  I figured Jack would give the mug to her. Then he could ask her whatever question was burning on his conscience and get an answer that might make him smile again. I jumped a little when he stood instead and strode to the counter, dumping his cup’s remnants into the porcelain sink.

  “First bell’s in an hour. I need to get to school.”

  “Jackson—”

  “Do me a favor,” he added, tugging on his coat. “Don’t tell Ami about the peace summit. I’ll explain when I see her at school.”

  Benita watched him vanish out the back after Luc then shuffled to the stove to start clearing pans. She probably knew I’d been listening. Or maybe she just pitied me enough not to bust me in front of Jack. Either way, I appreciated it.

  As quietly as I’d come down, I retraced my steps up the stairs, prying the trapdoor open for Delia. It might be a sin to lock a ten-year-old girl in a creepy attic, I’m not sure. Normally, I’d make an effort to keep track of these things, but it’d gotten a bit cumbersome lately. With all the prophecies and killing and whatnot, something told me when I finally did hit my judgment day, this would barely make the list.

  True to her word, Delia showed me to the bathroom and brought me what I assumed was an old dress of her mother’s. Obviously vintage, with a low neckline and a bright floral print that belted tightly at the waist. Except for the 1960s saddle shoes, I looked pretty chic. And weirdly curvy.

  That thought made me want to tug the skirt down and the neckline up until the stupid flower print covered both my knees and cleavage. Some people were just born for jeans, I guess.