I throw myself onto the rubberized floor, arms and legs extended, and sigh with exaggeration.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him. I don’t concern myself with teenage drama. However, there are two things you should consider, Sera. Your new zeal for fighting means interfering with the delicate balance of your three-person team. Bishop instinctively needs to protect you. If he can’t or doesn’t have to, it will affect his ego on a subconscious level. And second, you should come to an understanding with Turner, before he spills your training secrets to his brother.” The professor chuckles. “Both might create some serious problems for you.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.” My brow furrows. “I’ll attempt to bribe Turner later.”
That’s a conflict I definitely need to avoid. Bishop knowing the extent of my abilities would be inherently hurtful, yes, but his brother, Turner, knowing something about me that Bishop doesn’t, might create a larger, unwanted issue. The tension between them is something I can’t comprehend. Bishop only explained their dislike for each other as “sibling rivalry” and refused to say any more.
I think back to the first time I saw Turner, several months ago, the night of my first date with Bishop.
•
After returning from Paris, Bishop and I ambled, hands entwined, to our dorm apartment. We stopped at the front door and faced each other. As soon as our eyes met, he closed the distance between us in one determined motion, melding our bodies together. He placed his full, warm lips over mine, kissing me with a sweet and controlled intensity. His cupped hands caressed my cheeks, and I wrapped my arms around his waist.
The intimate moment was short. I jumped, startled when someone nearby cleared his throat. Bishop and I turned to see a boy standing down the hall, leaning against a wall. The shadows of the hallway swallowed his body, hiding his features. A nearby flickering lamp only revealed the golden contours of his face and shoulder.
“Brother,” the boy said sternly and nodded at Bishop. He crossed his arms and took a confident step forward.
“Turner.” Bishop stiffened and nodded.
Animosity thickened the air. Immediately, though I’d never met Bishop’s fraternal twin, Turner, I wanted to escape and leave them to talk.
“Sera.” Bishop turned to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” He kissed me on the forehead and opened the apartment door. He guided me in, pressing his palm into my back, shuffling me away. I looked over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of Turner. Our eyes met as he walked into the light. An inquisitive expression crossed his face, and then he grinned in such a way that forced my heart to skip a beat.
“Wait, um, okay. Night,” I said confused, looking between the two.
The door shut tight, severing me from their tension. Muffled noises of an intense conversation trickled through the door. What they discussed, I couldn’t make out. But soon the tones turned irate, voices raised. Someone was thrown against the door with a violent smash. They’d broken into a fight.
I rushed and swung the door open, but to my shock, the two were gone and the halls were empty.
“Bishop,” I called, leaning out. My voice echoed, but no one answered.
“Bishop?” I stepped from the apartment, scanning the hallways, worried.
“I’m here.” Bishop crept from the darkness, his face red. I detected a slight limp in his step and ran to him.
“What happened? Are you okay?” I eyed his leg and reached for it. “I heard you two arguing. You said you didn’t get along, but…”
“It’s nothing, truly. Just a normal brotherly scrap,” he interrupted, and wrapped his good arm around my back to guide me inside.
•
That was months ago. At Bishop’s urging, I’d let it go. But I had no idea how far the “brotherly scrap” stretched. On normal occasions they avoid each other, which seems to keep the atmosphere fairly peaceful. In fact, even after that night, weeks passed before I was properly introduced to Turner. After that, he showed up everywhere. He kept his distance, often smiling and waving from afar, but it was enough to send Bishop into hysterics. I still don’t understand why.
If I continue my training in this manner, with Turner’s involvement in the programming of the touchable defense holograms for my practices, their personalities will have reason to collide this coming semester. There’s no way to avoid it, unless I keep my extracurricular training a secret from Bishop.
The professor takes out his pocket watch and glances at its face. “I’ve got to run, Sera. Turn out the lights when you’re finished.”
“You can turn them off now.” I sigh. I don’t have the energy to move from the floor.
The professor flips the switch, leaving the room pitch black, and disappears. He moves so quickly, I sometimes wonder if he’s a hologram. But his speed is merely a skill developed over time, one reserved for a Protector.
I shift my body across the floor, wincing at the pain, until I’ve repositioned myself under an air vent to cool my overheated body.
The quiet and darkness allow me time to meditate, to collect my thoughts, which of course are with Bishop. They always are now that he’s gone home to London for summer vacation. I miss him dearly—my perfect, gorgeous Protector and boyfriend.
I groan and roll over, letting my face muscles relax on the rubberized surface. Cool air dries my drenched back. I’m a complete mess in so many ways. I exhale with exhaustion.
If Bishop knew how hard I’d been working on defense, how far I’ve come, I think it would not only upset him, but perhaps his quiet, sensitive ways would mislead him to believe that I don’t need him. Or more absurdly, that I don’t want him. And if possibly hurting him isn’t bad enough, my actions might tip him off to my ultimate plan: to go back in time and save my mother from the Underground—to finally finish what I started.
This time would be different, of course, because now I know my mom isn’t dead. All my life I’d believed she died in a car accident because that’s what my family believes. But last semester I saw her for myself, during a disastrous meeting with Cece, the head of the Underground—enemies of the Society of Wanderers. At the time, I was so naive that I walked Bishop and myself into a trap, a trap arranged by our backstabbing classmates Perpetua, Stu, and Jessica. In the end, Bishop and I barely escaped from the Underground with our lives.
So when I go back to face Cece and find my mom, I’ll do it alone, without Bishop. I need to protect him from the truth and never allow Cece to hurt him or anyone else I care for, ever again.
A creeping sound breaks my concentration.
Still on edge from thinking about the Underground, I sit up and glance around.
“Who’s there?”
::2::
Turner
My body tenses, scanning for a figure creeping against the darkened mirrors. Out of the stillness, a boy speaks.
“She rests quietly in darkness/under a perfect cloudless sky/dreaming of Seraphim angels/with which she conspires,” the boy recites. But whether the words are his own poetry or someone else’s, I’m not sure.
Hearing his familiar voice, raspy with a British accent, I relax. “Haven’t you heard it’s not nice to sneak up on people?”
“You seem so peaceful resting there. I dare say, it compelled me to speak in verse,” he says in a playful, sophisticated tone.
“You’re weird, Turner.” A point I have never said out loud but have thought often.
“Quite possibly.” He flicks the light switch on. I glance up from where I rest.
He leans lazily against the wall with his arms across his chest, hands resting on his shoulders, a strange pose he often takes. His dark wavy hair, a well-coordinated mess, falls into his eyes and frames his cheekbones. His physical appearance, that of a fraternal twin, is similar in beauty to Bishop’s, but different, in a darker, complex manner. The intensity of his silvery slate-colored eyes always hold my gaze until they embarrass me, and I’m forced to look away, face red and burning with heat.
>
“I hate it when you stare at me like that,” I say, to make him feel as guilty as I do.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Seraphina.” He strolls forward with dramatic confidence.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“Why?”
“Just don’t. Okay?” The longer, formal version of my name feels of a more intimate nature, one that I exclusively reserve for Bishop.
“As you wish, my lady.” He bows as though rolling an imaginary feather cap from his head, and then he holds out his palm. A small package sits inside his curled fingers.
“For you,” he says.
“What’s this?” I grab the box.
“Don’t know. Ms. Midgenet asked me to deliver it.” He unsnaps the cuffs of his long-sleeve shirt and then rolls them up to his elbows while I inspect the package.
I turn the brown paper-covered box around in my hand and squint at the return address. One glance leaves me electrified. I hadn’t expected the delivery to arrive so quickly. I repress a smile, remembering Turner always watches me closely. Too closely. I clear my throat.
“Thanks,” I say, pulling myself from the floor.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” He cocks his head, trying to decipher the look on my face.
“Later.” I shrug. I dip the box behind my back and hope the old phrase “out of sight, out of mind” holds true.
“Really?” A mischievous smile rolls across his lips. “I think,” he says, looking at the ceiling as though he’s in deep contemplation, then starts to pace with a finger at his lips. He stops and turns to face me. “No. We should open it now!” He charges, swipes the tiny box from my hands, and vanishes, running in the opposite direction, out the door of the training room.
Without thinking, I chase after him. His speed, a blur in time, is unmatched by any other student Protector. And I, of course, am merely a Wanderer, not the team member normally known for speed.
When I reach the door, he’s already rounded the corner at the opposite end of the hallway, two hundred feet away, headed through Olde Town, the ancient underground city below Washington Square Academy for Wanderers.
Desperation forces me forward. The last thing I want is for him to open the package. But I know that, being Turner, he will. After so many of his childish pranks, I’m convinced the boy walks this earth to aggravate me.
Several hundred stairs later, I find him, as expected, in the laboratory. Chalkboards with scientific diagrams, inventions, and complex contraptions cram the claustrophobic space. Each seems to be of another, earlier century, although what they do is beyond current technology. Silver steam crawls through at regular intervals. I suspect the fog has much to do with the weather machine Professor Raunnebaum designed to keep Olde Town a perfect, year round, seventy-two degrees.
I maneuver around several intricate machines with large cranks, bronze pipes, and multicolored gauges. If I weren’t so obsessed with defending myself from possible meetings with the Underground and finding my mom, I might visit this room more often to investigate all the intriguing inventions. And maybe, I amend, if the annoying Turner weren’t here all the time, working as the professor’s assistant.
Thick smoke clears just enough to notice the small ripped pieces of brown paper at my feet. Little shreds, like pieces of bread, wind their way through the room on the floor, making a trail especially designed for me to follow. The paper trail can only mean one thing. Turner’s opened my package.
I grind to a stop. Angry heat rushes to my face. My hands clench at my sides, and I consider my options. It’s important to keep my feelings under wraps. I cannot, under any circumstances, allow him to know the importance of the package’s contents.
Taking deep breaths, I control my temper. My blood pressure drops, and I relax my shoulders. When I regain my composure, I walk on to find him.
Turner appears out of a puff of hazy smoke. He smiles, pleased with himself. His sculpted arms hang lazily, flung over the back of a mohair-covered couch. He tilts his head back, relaxing his neck, and stares at the wood-beamed ceiling.
“Seraphina, you’re so incredibly slow,” he says in an exasperated drawl.
“Please don’t call me that.” I frown.
He lifts his head and careless black locks of hair fall forward, partially covering his face. Dazzling eyes land intently on mine, again. Always staring. Turner’s eyes always seem to search mine in that sultry manner. What is he looking for?
I look away from his annoyingly handsome face. My gaze falls on the box. It rests on an overstuffed ottoman before him. He’s unwrapped the outer paper. From here, it’s unclear if he’s opened the box to see what’s inside.
“Don’t you want to open it?” He smirks.
I exhale, attempting to act unfazed, but don’t answer.
“Don’t worry, you can take it now. I’ve had my fun,” he says seriously, but I’m not sure if he’s teasing, still playing games.
I raise my eyebrows and place my hands on my hips, remaining silent.
“Really, take it. It’s yours, after all.”
My eyes never leave his, no matter how uncomfortable they make me feel. He enjoys toying with me, so I’m not positive if he will jump up, grab the box, and disappear again.
I inch toward the ottoman. When my shins butt against the edge, I bend down and quickly scoop up the package. My fingers curl around its edges and I relax, knowing it’s in my possession again.
“See, I told you.”
“Whatever, Turner. Really, you’re a pain, you know?”
“I try.” He grins. “Seriously, why don’t you open it?”
“Later!” Completely agitated, I turn to walk away.
“Professor Raunnebaum mentioned that you needed to discuss something with me,” he calls out.
Right. I forgot. I swing around. “Yeah—that. I need a few more defense holograms.”
“Already? You’ve mastered all thirty-six?”
“Yeah.” I cough, waving away a silver plume of smoke.
“I’m impressed.” He’s thoughtful for a moment. “Although, it seems unnecessary to program more defense routines when Bishop returns tomorrow, and your Defense Arts classes will start soon.”
“About that—”
“Yes?” He says the word with cautious curiosity.
I pace, looking at the floor. “I was hoping—I—we—could keep my summer defense training off the record? I mean…” I exhale, looking for the proper words, ones that seem less alarming. “Of course, Bishop knows I’ve been practicing, but I really don’t want him or anyone to know how intently I’ve been working.” I hesitate and stop to face him. “Like a surprise,” I lie with a tight smile.
He sits in attention, folding his hands on his legs and leans into the conversation. “Really?”
“Yes.” I begin to pace again. “In fact, I want to continue the lessons, shall we say—on the side. Quietly, of course.”
“Hmm.” He sinks into the maroon couch, regarding me with suspicion.
Clocks tick, machines crank, and another plume of smoke rolls through the room. But he doesn’t answer. He only looks at his fingernails, acting preoccupied and bored.
“Well?” I put my hand on my hip.
“Well—you know how I would love to keep the secret for you, but…” He waves his hand with a dismissive flip.
“But—what?” Nerves jolt my body. I cross my arms, trying to control myself. Even telling Turner as little as this without an agreement could create real tension between him and Bishop. I can imagine Turner now, acting like a child, taunting Bishop with the secrets he knows. I roll my eyes, pushing the thought out of my head.
“You’re putting me in quite a predicament,” Turner finally responds.
“Do tell, Turner.” I lean on a nearby machine.
“Well, if Bishop were to ever find out, it would be my extremely handsome head on a platter.”
“That’s the whole idea. He can’t find out,” I force through gritted
teeth.
“Well then, I’m afraid, I won’t be able to help you. I’m endeavoring to be a better brother.”
“Ha!” I say reflexively, but when I inspect him closer, he isn’t smiling. “Are you serious?”
“Quite.” He nods.
“Of all the times he has to choose to be a good brother,” I snarl under my breath, and turn to stomp away.
“That is, of course, unless you want to tell me what you’re doing with this lovely relic you ordered from Rome?”
::3::
A Challenge
I stop in my tracks when he says the words and realize the box in my hand is empty. My anger multiplies a thousandfold when I spin to see the new relic I just ordered from Rome, a black beaded rosary, hanging from his fingertips.
“It’s a pretty little thing, Sera.” He looks at me. “So where might this lovely relic be taking you in history?”
“You said you didn’t open it!” I scream and throw the empty box at his face. He ducks to the side, easily evading the flying object.
“Temper, temper,” he tuts, shaking his head. His provoking smirk returns. The game continues.
“It must be of real importance to you.” He stands, then circles dangerously like I’m some kind of weak prey.
“I never said that I didn’t open it. You merely assumed.” He smiles. “Quite wrongly, of course. You should know better.”
Instead of thinking, I just attack. I jump, reaching for the necklace, but my small frame can’t compete with his height. He dangles the beads higher in the air. I find myself pawing at his body to gain some momentum. The thought of seriously injuring him crosses my mind, but he speaks before our fight escalates.
“As much as I like this attention, I think you should calm down. I’m positive we can come to an agreement.”
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