Conspiracy Boy (Angel Academy) (3 page)

“No.”

“Fair enough.” She smiled. “I need you to come with me. The fate of the Guardians depends on it. On you, actually.”

“What does that mean?” I demanded. “And while we’re at it, who are you? And how did you do that?” I eyed the ropy remnants of my energy shield. “That shield should have held anything demonic—”

That’s as far as I got before she whipped a black-taloned fist across my face.

It happened in an instant, too fast for me or Jack to react. But in the flash before she made contact, something caught my eye—a glyph etched into the delicate flesh of her wrist. Two overlapping circles with a jagged lightning-bolt slash at the center and a few twisted coils at the edge. It looked familiar, like one of the symbols Hansen had put on our last Advanced Wards exam, but I couldn’t be sure. I was too busy getting my ass kicked to be certain of anything.

The girl’s left hook felt like getting hit in the face by a well-manicured freight truck. I flew through the air and landed on the rocks a few yards away, close to the river’s edge.

“Amelie,” Jack shouted, scrambling toward us. He didn’t get very far.

Lyle launched himself at the girl’s heels as she spun, raking her talons across Jack’s neck. For a second, it was just a scrum of arms, legs, and rainbow-colored hair, then the girl was up again, drop-kicking Lyle like an oversize soccer ball.

“Stop fighting,” she snapped at him in a voice that made a rattlesnake’s sound friendly. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

Jack regained his balance quickly and rounded on her with his sword this time. Again, useless. Her skin was like a tractor tire. The blade bounced off her forearm, barely making a scratch. So, despite the shield thing, she had to be at least part demon. Which meant I was allowed to kill her.

Right?

Lyle hit the ground hard and rolled to his feet, tugging a new set of throwing knives from his belt. Jeez, was he on a Bruce Lee kick? How many sets of those things did he have? Before he could get the first one off, the girl snatched Jack’s sword away and hurled it at Lyle’s face. Or rather, just to the left of his face.

He ducked, and the sword flew past him, stabbing into the ground between a cluster of boulders.

“Stay down,” she said. “Wraithmaker, you’re coming with me.”

“The hell I am.
Desisté.
”

My command hit her in the chest, freezing her for a moment. I’m not sure why it didn’t stick longer. Or why I felt such a wave of unease as she shook it off. A wet stickiness had begun to drip down my forehead, matting a clump of hair to my cheek.

“Get away from her, Petra,” Jack gasped. “Immortal business isn’t your jurisdiction, no matter what Dominic thinks. If he wants to talk to her, he can ask the Synod.”

The girl wrinkled her nose. “Who said anything about Dominic?”

“Dominic Montaigne? Luc’s dad?” I interrupted. “Jack, what’s she talking about?”

Instead of answering, my bondmate tried to stand again. Unsuccessfully.

Evil, dark bubbles had begun to surface around the incisions she’d made in his neck, and his voice sounded garbled and wet, like someone had stuffed tapioca pudding in his throat. As I watched, his neck began to swell, and his body went rigid against a boulder. It reminded me of the videos I’d seen of people who ate a bad blowfish and ended up paralyzed.

“What did you do to him?” I demanded.

“Don’t worry, he won’t die,” she said. “I mean, eventually he will, but that’s more of a fate thing.
You
, however.” She frowned. “Seriously, can you please just come with me? I’ll explain everything later.”

As if on cue, Lyle bolted toward the girl again, his sword raised and mouth open in a battle cry.

He’d barely made it two steps before she had her hand drawn back and talons flexed. This time she gave him a light mosquito slap that sent him careening twenty feet into the parking lot. He landed hard on the pavement, unmoving.

Okay, I
might
be out of my league.

I’d lost a decent amount of blood from the head wound, and the cut on my arm had started to burn. My body had already begun to tremble from the energy draw, and without Jack or Lyle to drain the Crossworld taint off me, there was no way I could dispatch this…whatever she was. Plus, since she wasn’t strictly demon, I had no idea what the rules were or whether I was even
allowed
to kill her.

“Last chance,” she said.

Blinking blood out of my eyes, I wobbled to my feet to see the girl’s fingers stretch open. And open. Within seconds, thin threads of darkness began to collect there, like rabid beetles swarming around her palm, scraping bloody lines into her skin. It was a nightmare come true. Easily the most revolting channel I’d ever seen. Her skin split open under the tail flicks of shadow, the stench of blood and dead things wafting out. Whatever power source that thing drew from, it wasn’t the same as mine. That stuff was
dark.

I flinched as she pulled it back, prepared to fling it at me.

“Okay, I’ll go with you,” I said, backing up.

I hated the backing up part, especially when all I wanted was to burn her face off, but it gave me enough space to sketch out a portal ward to the north of her. I couldn’t risk her hurting Jack and Lyle if things got violent. Maybe I couldn’t win in hand-to-hand channeling combat, but with a little luck, I might be able to send her back to whatever hell she came from.

“I’ll do whatever you ask. Just leave my friends alone.”

Her mouth fell into a frown as I edged to the side, sketching an eastern ward along the way.

“Amelie,” she said, “I’m not trying to hurt you. Or your bondmate.”

“Who says he’s my bondmate?” I shifted a few more feet to my left. The southern ward went up smoothly, also hidden from her view.

She looked momentarily troubled but allowed the dark threads of power to crawl back into her skin. The surface knitted itself together under sparks of black energy.

“No offense, but it’s kind of obvious.”

I didn’t bother responding. The western ward had barely begun to flare when the girl leaped at me, her legs straddling my rib cage.

In one smooth motion, she slammed a palm onto my sternum and pressed her face close to mine. Her black demon claws pressed into my throat like knives on an overripe peach.

“It’s time to go.”

I tried to push her away, but I swear, the girl’s bones must have been made of titanium. Either that or she was having a serious water retention day. Spots danced in front of my eyes as my lungs began to collapse under her weight.

“Amelie, duck!”

I turned my head in time to see Lyle stagger to his feet. When his knife whipped through the air, it reached its target, stabbing into the girl’s cheek like one of those magician’s daggers in a target dummy. Black goop flowed down her neck in a human oil spill. It splashed over my arms and left revolting, tar-like streaks in my hair. But the girl didn’t go down. If anything, she just seemed more annoyed.

As her hand reached to grab the knife and hurl it back at my friend, the golden symbol on her arm came into view again. This time, I got a better look.

It definitely had seraphic origins—a Guardian glyph. Which meant only a Guardian Elder or a wards specialist could have marked her with it. That realization almost distracted me from the sound of Lyle’s knife plunging hilt-deep into his solar plexus.

I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Maybe because the girl had tightened her fingers on my throat until my vision went dark and swimmy.

For the record, I consider myself a pretty even-keeled person—the kind of girl who helps stray kittens and escorts old ladies across the street. Which is why I’m not entirely sure how this whole thing sent me so deep into meltdown mode. Maybe it was the feel of Lyle’s soul flickering again, or the sound of Jack’s body hitting the pavement. Whatever it was, all my helplessness and frustration and lack of caffeine over the past three months ignited into a full-blown nuclear event.

I wiggled a hand free and lifted it to her face.

“Malédictus!”

For a second, nothing happened. Then, like a slow-rising tide, her features twisted into a mask of horror.

Frankly, I was a little shocked it even worked, since I’d never used that command in a fight before. I was typically more concerned with blowing enemies up than torturing them. So maybe it wasn’t the nicest thing to do. But, in my defense, I’d had kind of a rough week.

With a grunt, I hoisted her twitchy body off me.

Across the jagged incline, Jack continued to convulse against a rock, the wounds at his neck gurgling sickly. He’d dragged himself to one elbow, but whenever he tried to sit up, his hands kept sliding on the blood-slicked rocks.

“
Desisté magnum!
” I shouted. This time the girl froze on the ground, though I had no idea how long it would last.

Moving quicker now, I launched a healing charm at Jack, another at Lyle, then finished the west ward for the demon dispersal portal. Lyle’s stab wound didn’t look fatal yet—neither did Jack’s scrapes—but I couldn’t risk letting the girl stay here. Demon or not, whatever she’d done to them still seethed under the surface of their skin, and until she was gone, none of us would be safe.

“
Caret initio et fine, ab initio, ad patres.
” I called the channel, wincing under the portal’s vicious kick. I’d already wielded more Crossworld rohms than the Guardian Council allowed for students, and my allergies were starting to give me trouble. Unless a Watcher could siphon some power off me soon, I’d probably pass out.

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, Mum 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.