Guardians (Seers Trilogy Book 3)

by Heather Frost

  Dr. Radcliffe scanned us all, then he smiled at me, his silver hair shining as he bobbed his head. “It’s all right to be nervous. But I assure you, things will go brilliantly.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Hanif mumbled.

  I silently agreed. I was glad I wasn’t the only one with regrets about what had to be done.

  Lee squeezed my hand. “You can do this, Kate. I know you can.”

  “I think you need to stop overthinking things,” Toni commented.

  Lee cast him a look before handing me a pair of some serious looking winter gloves. I was already wearing a thick parka—military-grade arctic camo, outfits that Alex had ordered the Guardians to supply for the mission into the past. I was sweating under the thick layers, having never worn anything so padded and stuffy. But since Radcliffe’s memory would be depositing us in Chicago in December, I’d been assured that I’d need the protection from the cold. The winter gear I was wearing had been supplied for Ashley, whose place I was taking on the mission. We were close to the same size, so it worked. Peter was shrugging on Alex’s coat, and it was obviously a bit too big. Hanif’s fit perfectly, but he appeared uncomfortable, his face covered in a sheen of sweat.

  Toni stepped up to me and whistled lowly. “Holy heavens, Kate. Would you look at all those pockets? You could steal all sorts of things and stash them in there.”

  “Thanks, Toni,” I said wryly. “That was totally my first thought.”

  “Really?”

  “Not even.”

  “You look like a cloudy marshmallow,” he stated.

  Lee slugged his arm. “Hey, what if I was wearing it?”

  “You’d look adorable as a cloudy marshmallow.”

  “I’m dying of heat in here,” I complained. “Can you flirt on your own time?”

  Toni shook his head, but Lee waved her hand toward the gloves I held. “Now, put those on. If you get frostbite, Patrick won’t ever speak to me again.”

  I rolled my eyes but obediently tugged them up to my wrists. They were surprisingly soft. And incredibly warm. I glanced over at Hanif, who was just pulling a similarly camouflaged wool hat over his dark hair.

  Dr. Radcliffe cleared his throat. “Are you nearly ready?”

  Lee handed me a hat, which I tugged over my head, pulling it low enough to cover my ears. She gave me a confident smile and Toni took hold of her hand. I moved to stand in front of Radcliffe, Hanif following my lead; Peter followed more slowly, but soon he stood at my other elbow.

  Together we focused on Radcliffe’s aura, gradually becoming dominated by a single color—a muted shade of purple I instinctively identified as frustration.

  “Remember—catch a taxi as soon as possible,” Radcliffe advised us. “You’ll need all the time you can get in the past since the Demon Lord will be a good fifteen minutes from where I’ll be dropping you off. You remember the address?”

  I nodded, along with Hanif. Peter’s head haltingly jerked forward. I brushed my fingers over my forehead, tucking some strands of hair under the hat. Beside me, I could feel Hanif shifting on his feet, uncomfortable in the heavy winter gear.

  Dr. Radcliffe chuckled at us, guessing our source of discomfort. “Pull faces now—you’ll thank me quite profusely in a minute. Come now—I think the memory is ready for you.”

  His aura was indeed almost fully a single color. I’d never seen a person isolate a memory so well. Peter was uneasily fingering the sheathed knife inside his coat pocket—one identical to mine, hidden in my pocket. I wished I could help him calm down, but since I wasn’t in a much better state, he would have to get through this on his own.

  I tried to concentrate on the wide color and the result was surprisingly quick—I was getting better at this. I felt myself falling, heard Lee let out a gasp of surprise . . .

  And then it was freezing.

  The wind was ripping through me, and everywhere the parka didn’t cover was stinging with the harsh cold. The streets were covered in white, the snow capping everything in sight. Icicles hung from the nearby buildings, and when I tried to step further back on the sidewalk, away from the honking cars in the street, I slipped on some ice and slammed to the ground.

  I’d never actually seen snow. When I was little, I thought it would be fun to build a snowman, go sledding, or have a snowball fight. At the moment, I’d never hated anything more than this cold, stinging stuff all around me. I couldn’t breathe—I felt like I was being smothered by the cold. This was a worse sensation than New Mexico’s most stifling summer day. My nose was running like I’d just eaten one of the spicy burritos my parents had often brought home for their in-house date nights.

  Hanif was coughing, but since his breath was stolen by the raw wind he ended up merely gasping, his gloved hands fumbling to jerk his parka’s hood down to better cover his face.

  Peter Keegan appeared beside us, shuffling quickly back from the edge of the sidewalk. His shoes hit a patch of ice, but the tread must have been better than mine—or maybe he’d stepped on ice before and knew how to handle it, unlike me.

  I pushed up from the ground, shaking as I tried to follow Hanif’s example and pull up my own hood.

  “Holy crap,” Hanif shivered, his voice muffled by the high collar.

  I thrust my hands into my pockets, wincing when my face was further exposed to the elements. I dropped my head into my own collar, trying to hunch in on myself for better protection. I was pretty sure I was about to freeze to death. Surely the body wasn’t meant to get this cold, this stiff? I couldn’t imagine not having the army-grade parka—I silently thanked Alex and Radcliffe for their foresight in realizing our need for the cold weather gear.

  We might have just stood there, frozen and unsure, until we did catch our deaths. But luckily we heard a familiar English accent further up the sidewalk, his words thrown toward us by the incessant wind that funneled between the buildings.

  “Taxi!” he hollered, walking briskly from a brown brick building and toward the curb. He waved his heavily bundled arms furiously, his fingers protected by dark gloves. “Bloody Americans,” he muttered angrily when cars continued to whip past. “Steal my wallet, won’t get me a cab . . .”

  I glanced back at the building he’d come from, catching sight of the letters that were illuminated by a floodlight—Elwood Park Police Department. So that’s what his memory had been—getting mugged and then having to take the trouble to report it. Memorable, at least. Happy Christmas Eve, I thought ruefully.

  A few seconds later a yellow car pulled up before him. He jerked the back door open and lowered himself quickly inside. The door slammed closed, and then the car joined the slow-moving traffic on the icy street.

  Though I’d never called for a cab, it looked easy enough. If only my limbs weren’t so bundled with the heavy parka, I might be able to freely lift my arm.

  Thankfully, Peter wasn’t as immovable as I was. He took over by stepping up to the street, attempting to flag down a taxi for us.

  I forced myself to follow him, grateful that Hanif pressed up close to my arm. He wasn’t the most effective windbreaker, but it helped. The cold was relentless.

  We didn’t have to wait long. A yellow cab shifted off the road, coming to a stop in front of us, cracking ice in the gutter. Peter grabbed open the back door, waving us briskly inside. I jumped in first, sliding all the way over. Hanif was directly behind me, and as soon as Peter had squished in with us he closed the door firmly.

  The sudden heat against my face was almost painful. It pinched my skin and made me gasp, but it was better than being outside. “Where to?” the cabbie asked. He sounded tired, but he had a pleasantly deep voice.

  “Avondale,” Peter croaked. “North Bernard Street.”

  The driver nodded. “Sure thing. You mind if I keep the Christmas tunes on?”

  “No,” Peter said.

  We pulled away from the street, the driver’s black head bobbing to the rousing tune of “Jingle Bells.” Once my legs stopped
shaking with the cold, I looked over the cabbie’s shoulder, snatching a look at the dash. The clock read 11:07 PM, and a little calendar showing a pleasant-looking island sported the year 1971.

  We didn’t speak the whole drive, not that the cabby seemed to mind. He was humming along to “Silent Night” now, and between that and the icy road, he seemed pretty well occupied. I was holding on to the door the whole time, sure the wheels would slip on the icy patches just like I had.

  I tried to distract myself from my fear of crashing by peering out the window, taking in the sights of this foreign city. Christmas lights ran along storefronts and houses alike, though many blocks were pretty dark. Golden pools of light fell from tall streetlamps that dotted our path. Snow and ice were everywhere. It looked like a scene from a Christmas movie.

  It took about twenty minutes to get to Bernard Street, and once there the cabbie asked for a house number. Peter gave him a false one, but one but one that would get us close to the right house without drawing too much attention to ourselves.

  We pulled up to a house with no Christmas lights. It was tall and thin. A small driveway slipped up the side, and it looked like two families lived inside. There was a basement door and an upstairs porch. According to Dr. Radcliffe, we would find the Demon Lord in a similar house, living in the basement portion.

  My heart began to pound, knowing we were close. I fingered the knife in my pocket, but I was pretty sure I’d be too cold and clumsy to pull it out and defend myself in the event of trouble.

  Peter paid the cabdriver and we all climbed reluctantly back out into the cold. The driver wished us a merry Christmas before pulling away.

  Hanif shivered violently. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I say we get this over with as quickly as possible.”

  “Agreed,” Peter grunted.

  My lips were too cold to form words. Luckily the wind wasn’t blowing as stiffly here, but the cold was sharp. Snow was falling around us, white flurries merging into the frosty piles already on the ground.

  Once again, Peter took charge. He led the way down the deserted sidewalk, Hanif and I quick to follow. I felt weird just walking up to the house. What if some Demon saw us and realized we were coming to change the Demon Lord’s past? If nothing else, we would fall back on Hanif’s plan—pull back to the present at once. I was already tempted to do that, just because of the cold. How could people stand to live in this weather?

  We reached the house, hesitating on the front sidewalk to stare collectively at the basement door. There was a wreath on the door, but that paled in comparison to the Christmas spirit the people above them were displaying. Colored lights outlined every window upstairs as well as the roof and the railing on the porch. They made everyone else on the quiet street look like a horrible Scrooge. There was no sign of anyone, anywhere.

  Hanif’s voice trembled, but that could have been from the temperature. “I-I’m going to go around b-back and get the phone line.”

  Peter spoke quickly, his voice less influenced by the cold. “Kate, go with him. I’ll go around the other side to see if there’s anyone suspicious.” His shoulders shuddered as a shiver ripped through him. “Make sure you keep your eyes open.”

  I nodded; we each knew what to do. We’d gone over the simple plan many times.

  Peter went left and Hanif and I moved cautiously up the driveway.

  I winced when I heard our crunching footsteps. I hesitated, Hanif just behind me. What if someone heard? What if the sound of stupid footsteps got us killed?

  Hanif’s hand brushed my arm, and he nodded to the ground beside us. “Maybe if we walk in those tire tracks? The snow’s pressed down—it might not be as loud.”

  I nodded and stepped to the side, moving onto the indented track. Our footsteps were muted now, but as we drew closer to the house, I could feel my apprehension growing. If we were right, the Demon Lord was in that house. A young boy, about to face death. If we succeeded, he would die.

  Hanif concentrated on watching the side of the house, his eyes on the power lines that fed into the house. I found myself peering at the basement windows we began to pass. It was hard to get a good look into any of them, because they were so low to the ground. Also, each one I passed was covered and darkened with hanging sheets, patterned with patches of faded flowers, making it impossible to see inside. As we neared the back corner of the house, I finally found one that was glowing with a halo of light from inside, blocked by a slip of cardboard so I couldn’t really see anything but the uneven ring of light. I stooped closer, confused by the ill-fitting cardboard. Why not a sheet? My eyes danced over a crack in the glass, near the top of the window. It webbed down the whole pane, and several small pieces of glass were completely missing; the taped-up cardboard would keep the frigid wind out better than a sheet.

  I stopped walking altogether, glancing up at the levels above. All of those windows were dark, so I assumed the family up there was asleep. They had no idea such horrible crimes were about to take place downstairs.

  According to the police report, the young Demon Lord put the time of the shootings at about 11:40 p.m. I didn’t have a watch, but I knew that could be any minute now.

  Hanif stepped around me carefully, making a small footprint in the snow when he slid off the tire track. “It looks like it’ll be around back.”

  I nodded but continued to hesitate by the lighted window when I heard a scant cry from inside. Hanif slipped around back while I crouched closer to the damaged window, the sounds louder than I would have expected—probably thanks to the crack.

  “No, James, please!” a woman cried desperately, her voice muted by the wall. “He didn’t mean it—he won’t do it again.”

  She sounded so broken. So terrified. I swallowed hard but leaned closer to the house.

  A man swore, and when he spoke his words were slurred. “No, he won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Please—don’t!”

  There was a sound I couldn’t place at first. And then I heard a small voice shout. “Don’t hit my mom!”

  “Steven, go back to your room,” the woman choked. “I’m all right.”

  “Listen to your mom, you freak!”

  I crouched closer to the window, my heavily gloved hand pressing deeply against the side of the house for balance. I’d never heard anything like this in real life. Knowing that this sort of thing really happened . . . that it was happening right now, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it . . .

  “Let go of my mom!” the little boy shouted again.

  “Shut up!” the man said heatedly. There was an angry footfall followed by a horrible ringing slap.

  The boy whined and the mother sobbed, “James, please!”

  “I don’t want the neighbors hearing anything!” the man snapped angrily. “You got it?”

  “I’m not afraid of you!” the boy Steven rasped with white rage. His emotional voice was nothing like the Demon Lord, but I knew it was him. And in that moment, my heart went out to him.

  I swallowed hard, pinched my eyes closed tightly. Don’t aggravate him, I thought sorrowfully. Don’t do it . . .

  “Leslie!” James growled. “Where’s that freak daughter of yours?”

  “James, please, she’s sleeping . . .”

  Someone touched my arm. I jumped and stumbled away from the house, nearly falling back in the snow.

  It was only Hanif. “I thought something happened to you!” he nearly hissed.

  “Did you cut it?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I thought you were right behind me.”

  I heard the silenced gunshot inside the house, and the shriek of a small boy in agony.

  “Cut it,” I choked back on a rush of tears. “Just cut it!”

  Hanif wheeled around, almost startled by my tone. Had he even heard the shot, or was I just attuned into to the nightmare unfolding inside? It didn’t really matter—he was rushing to follow my orders, as desperate to escape this place as I was.

  He disa
ppeared around the corner and I stumbled after him. Before I could round the corner I heard a second shot, followed rapidly by a third. Tears stung my eyes, freezing on my cheeks. The guilt I felt for letting these things unfold when I could have prevented them . . . I’d never yearned for Patrick’s warm embrace so badly. I just wanted to get out of here—get back to my own time. Have someone assure me that I’d done the right thing—the only thing.

  Hanif would cut the line, and we’d wait around until we were sure the young Demon Lord—I couldn’t even make myself think of him as Steven—was dead. After that, we could go home. I just had to keep breathing until then. Keep moving, stop thinking . . .

  I stepped into the backyard, coming face-to-face with the heavily scarred face of Takao Kiyota, the Demon Lord’s most trusted Seer.

  “Hello, Kate,” he said slowly. His voice was strained and airy from a cut to his windpipe, the reward from a some past knife fight. He was almost my height, though he was older by several years. He had a horribly twisted face, which never smiled. His aura was darkly colored, the slim gold lining around his body the only bright spot. Every inch of visible skin was crisscrossed with scars, and his eyes were cold on mine.

  Before I could react he leveled a gun at my forehead. “Don’t make a sound.”

  I saw Hanif forced up against the back of the house, his face turned away from me. But it was his captor that surprised me the most.

  My stomach dropped as I saw Peter Keegan’s knife pressed against the side of Hanif’s straining neck.

  Peter glanced my way, his face neutral.

  “Peter?” I gasped in shock.

  “I’m sorry, Kate,” he said softly, voice devoid of emotion. “I had no choice. I had to tell Selena everything. It’s the only way to keep Lee and Jeanette safe.”

  I blinked, shaking my head in blatant denial. “No. No, I trusted you!”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, unmoved.

  Takao cocked the gun calmly. “You will return to your own time now. We all will. The Demon Lord will be waiting for us there.”

  “What?” I whispered, completely dazed.

  Takao’s arm shifted to the side, his weapon discharging in almost the same second.