Conspiracy Boy (Angel Academy) (4 page)

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.

By the time I got down to the kitchen, Bertle already had a stack of steaming pancakes laid out.

“Thanks,” I said as she poured a pool of thick syrup over the top. My stomach still felt queasy, so even though the food smelled great, I hesitated.

“You want eggs?” Bertle asked.

“No, this is good. Can I get some of that java, though?”

Chuckling, she dumped the last few swigs from the coffeepot into the sink and started washing dishes. “No caffeine for you. Way things are going, you gonna need all the control you can get.”

I tried to look normal as I downed the pancakes. The problem is if you’re
trying
to look normal, it rarely works. More often, you end up looking like someone stabbed you with a toothpick. After a few minutes of silence, I set down my fork. My smile felt fake. Everything felt fake.

“Benita?”

Bertle’s body stilled as she slowed her washing, but she didn’t turn around.

“That girl told me the fate of the Guardians depends on me. What did she mean? And who wants to talk to me? Is this another prophecy thing—”

“Baby—” She interrupted my questionfest. “Sometimes life is figuring out what you can live with then letting go of the rest. Your momma knew that. So’d your daddy.”

I blinked at the mention of my parents—defectors from the Guardians. The worst kind of traitors, short of actually murdering someone. “I don’t get it. What does this have to do with them?”

“Very little. And everything,” she said. “Ami, baby, you got choices. You can spend your whole life fighting. You can give your last breath to this war. And if that’s your choice, no one’ll fault you. But no matter how much you give, you’ll never save everyone. Guardians can’t save humans, they can only postpone the end. That’s why your momma left.” She set down her dishrag in a way that implied the conversation was over. “Now go get washed up. Your people’ll be here in a couple minutes.”

Yup. It might have qualified as the least useful advice in history—definitely in the top ten. This is exactly why I hated fortune-cookie wisdom. It always
seems
like it’s going to make sense. But when you really pick it apart, the bottom line is that everyone suffers then ends up as worm food.

The chair gave a squeak as I flopped back. Maybe I had choices. Everyone does, right? Even when the options suck and it seems like nothing fits, there’s always a choice there.

Live or die.

Fight or flee.

Pancakes or omelets.

My father once said that freedom to choose is what defines humanity—what differentiates us from the angels. Even the little choices matter. But the thought of choosing to stand aside and let people suffer just because they were fated to left me so empty and dark, I didn’t think I could survive it.

I fell silent as Bertle started washing the plates again.

It was meditative how she did it, slow and methodical, like each plate was a child that needed to be loved and cared for. I wasn’t even sure if they were dirty, but she kept washing them anyway. If it was me, I’d have bought a dishwasher.

Sighing, I set my fork onto the china plate. “I’m gonna need a toothbrush.”

Chapter Five:

The Pains of Being Pure

True to her word, it was exactly two minutes later when Bertle shoved me onto the porch, holding a plastic bag that carried Arianna’s mangled minidress, Luc’s evil pendant, and a scrap of a ragged bunny slipper that had somehow managed to survive the portal.

By the time Luc’s limo finally pulled up, I almost wished I could trade places with the rest of that bunny slipper.

“Get in,” Annabelle snapped through a half-open window, cell phone in hand. “You’re late.”

I scurried into the car. “Don’t you mean
we’re
late? Since, technically, we’re here together and you picked me up?”

Needless to say, she ignored me.

Good thing, since I was busy dodging daylight. I might not have the same sensitivity to light most Immortals did, but that didn’t mean I wanted to stand around like some drugged-out kitten, basking in a sunbeam.

Apparently, neither did the limo driver. I’d barely pulled the door shut before he hit the gas, screeching down the cobblestone drive toward the Garden District.

“We’ve got her, sir,” Annabelle said into the phone.

“I could have grabbed a cab,” I reminded her, but she shushed me.

“Montaignes don’t take
cabs
.” Her eyes narrowed as she chucked a new phone into my lap. “I’ve forwarded your daily schedule to your mobile. Lady Arianna has requested your presence at dinner tonight, and if you have any sense, you’ll make an effort to be presentable.”

“Like you?”

She gave a soft snort. “Let’s not get too ambitious.”

I flicked a sideways glance at her slick blonde hair pulled tight into a bun and the flawless makeup accenting perfectly powder-blue eyes. A stunningly beautiful surface, held together by fathoms of vacuous amorality. I knew Annabelle had been serving Luc’s family for ages, but I still didn’t fully understand why. Or why they hadn’t fired her. Seriously, if I had to employ someone that self-righteous and snotty, I might seriously start considering a temp agency.

My fingers played over the screen of my new phone, adding Jack’s info to the contacts list. If he wasn’t already at school, I could probably call him. As it was, I satisfied myself with a quick text.

My new cell number. Make a note.

Within seconds, the response came back.
Got it. Are you alive?

For the moment. Need coffee
, I sent back.

You want coffee. You need self-discipline
, he replied.

I need a more obedient boyfriend.

A few seconds passed before a smoochy-face emoticon popped onto the screen, with a cruelly seductive-looking coffee cup below it.

“I’ve secured an appointment with an aesthetician and stylist,” Annabelle interrupted my caffeine cravings. “You’d be wise to consult on makeup as well.”

“I’ll do my own thing, thanks.”

“Of course you will.” She gave a tight smile and tucked her handheld into the black leather briefcase at her feet. I’m not sure if she expected me to argue, but the smugness made me uncomfortable. Before I could worry too much about it, she plucked a tablet out of the briefcase, and for a brief, hopeful moment, I thought she planned to ignore me.

No such luck.

“I assume you’ve seen the morning update to the
Immortal Thread
. Such a delightful commentary about you.” She typed a few strokes into the screen. “Shall I call it up?”

Yeah, because I needed yet another installment of
What Not to Wear: The Immortal Edition
.

I’m not even sure why she bothered mentioning the
Thread
. The Immortal Synod leaders had basically forbidden me from getting my own passcode to the online news magazine. Something about information in the hands of an idle young lady being a dangerous tool.

Uh-huh, the governing body of Immortals called me
idle
.

And a
lady.

“Pass.” I smiled sweetly. “Delightful things give me a headache. That’s why I so enjoy listening to you.”

By the time we pulled up at the front gate of St. Michael’s Guardian Training Academy, a small crowd of gossipy teens had gathered on the front lawn—along with a giant, semi-Rastafarian guy.

It’s not that Tyrannus was cruel, or even especially rude. In fact, compared to Annabelle, Luc’s head guard had always been a bit of a sweetheart. Over the past few months, I’d grown used to seeing him in his casual guard uniform—black jeans and a white button-down. Today, he’d apparently brought his A game.

Crisply ironed black chinos ran the length of his legs, topped off by a dark brown overcoat that perfectly matched his tightly braided cornrows. Chocolate-brown eyes sparkled under a matching skullcap, and gloves covered the battle-scarred skin of his hands.

All in all, he made a nice impression—quite a bit nicer than the stuffy white dudes who usually passed themselves off as Immortals. Still, something about him kept my hackles on alert. Maybe it was the scars down his arms. Or that, in the past four hundred years, he’d allegedly guarded dignitaries and ambassadors, princes and sovereigns—people
way
more important than me—and never lost a charge. Whatever the reason, if he gave an order, I followed it.

“Wassup?” I said, as casually as possible.

Tyrannus climbed in beside me and shut the door. “The press is here.”

“Cool beans. Did they bring me Starbucks?”

Tyrannus shot Annabelle a look and reached into the plastic bag Bertle had sent. “You must put it on, please.”

I couldn’t see the thing yet—wasn’t even touching it—but I could feel it. Energy pulsed out of his hand like a deep, dark heartbeat held captive under an ocean. Luc must have dialed up the power level on it. It deafened me.

“Please,” he repeated.

My eyes dropped instinctively as I let him fasten the metal clasp around my neck. It was one of those sensations you have to exhale through—like a flu shot or a vaccination, only way weirder. The moment it touched me, my skin began to warm. My heart twitched a bit then began to vibrate.

“This is ridiculous,” I breathed as the buzz spread through my chest, up to my head. “I’m not a child.”

“You’re a security risk,” Tyrannus replied.

“And a bloody annoyance,” Annabelle muttered.

I shut my eyes and let my fingers rest against the green stone of the pendant. Flickers of sound and light flashed into my neural synapses, fogging me. It wasn’t anything I could latch on to—not in any comprehensible way. More like a susurration of tree leaves in the back of my neck, with a hundred fairy voices tucked into the branches, laughing at me. I shut my eyes for a minute, until the rustle quieted.

One of the most annoying things about Luc Montaigne—bearing in mind this is a man for whom annoyance is an art form—was the fact that I carried at least a couple pints of his blood inside me. Immortal blood. Inferni blood. Like it or not, that linked us. Sometimes in
very
uncomfortable ways.

“He knows I’m safe,” I said. “Can I take it off now?”

Tyrannus lifted a flat palm in a gesture I recognized from the dog-training seminar Lisa and I watched online.
Stay.

I gritted my teeth as the tracking charm wormed its way through my consciousness.

After a second, Tyrannus said, “Gather your things. I’ll walk you to class.”

Fully irritated, I snatched the carved metal pendant and tugged it off my neck. The thing glared up at me from the center of my palm, silver-green and innocuous-looking. Ugh, I didn’t think I’d ever adapt to the fuzzed-out feeling of brain invasion.

“Your coat.” Tyrannus held out something that looked like a string of dead raccoons.

Vaguely grossed out, I slid it on and flipped up the faux-fur collar. At least, I assumed it was faux. The last time Luc tried to give me a real fur, I’d promptly passed it on to the nearest homeless shelter. Whether they’d sold it or gave it to a pimp, I didn’t know.

It took us a few minutes to get through the glut of people at the gates. Pale sunlight filtered through a line of bare magnolia trees, leaving me with a massive migraine. Up ahead, white gingerbread molding edged the St. Michael’s entryway, Corinthian columns lining the front porch. In the literally dozen years I’d been here, my school had always reminded me of a wedding cake. Add the cotton candy sunrise and the sprinkle of powdered-sugar snow everywhere, and the resemblance was downright pastry-like.

The smell of magic burned in the air, along with a comforting scent of paper and old ink. Around the main building, a set of wards crackled, setting my fingers atingle and making my skin sting. They felt weird today. Less bendy than usual.

By the time we reached the lockers, I’d convinced myself that everything was fine. I mean, anyone would feel a little wonky after being attacked and dragged through a Crossworlds portal without their Watcher, right?

It wasn’t until we crossed under the interior wards to the classroom that a hot sizzle of power burned over my skin. “
Yow,
what gives?”

“What is it?” Tyrannus asked.

“The wards,” I yelped, slapping at my skin like I could calm the imaginary flames. “They’re crazy today.”

“Security update, perhaps?”

Security—courtesy of Lori Hansen, our Advanced Wards instructor, who now covered Human Politics, too. As if she knew anything about humans. That woman was about as human as I was a toadstool. Maybe less, since at least toadstools aren’t pure evil.

Honestly, if she’d been anyone besides Jack’s homicidal high school ex-girlfriend, the diligence might not have bothered me. I might have admired it, even. Now that the school’s wards had to accommodate Immortals, vampires, and were-creatures as well as the usual Guardians, the administration had been forced to get creative. Still, it wouldn’t have surprised me if Hansen’s version of “creative” meant the wards were drawn in the collective blood of the student body.

“Yo, Bennett! You missed homeroom,” Ty Webster called out as I hustled through the doorway. “Get arrested again?”

“Not this week.”

“Too bad. Handcuffs suit you.” He leaned back in his desk chair, cocky grin at his lips. I flipped him a quick unladylike gesture and kept moving.

Veronica Manning, self-appointed queen of the known universe, scooted out of her seat to greet me. Stunning how fast cheerleaders can move.

“We thought you’d never get here.” Queen Vee dug her nails into my elbow and hoisted me down the aisle to a spot in the back where her minions clustered. “See? We saved you a seat.”

“Does this involve me getting a latte?” I inquired uselessly.

Veronica and I had never been especially close. Which is a bit like saying vultures and squirrels aren’t besties. However, now that I’d been deemed both super-powerful and noncompetitive for Watcher pref lists, she’d apparently decided I was worthy of something besides peer torment. Lucky me.

I smiled benevolently at the girls clustered where Veronica plopped me.

“Hi, Ami.” Skye Benedict waved a perfunctory hello as my former BFF, Katie Shaw, swiveled toward her desk and started scribbling notes in silence.

And there’s high school for you. Before last fall, Katie would have been the one person I’d expect friendship from. Now she was the first one to hang me out to dry.

“Ignore her,” Veronica said. “She’s just jealous.”

“Speaking of jealous”—Skye sat forward, brunette ponytail swinging against her shoulders—“I
love
that coat.
Valentino
, right? Did Luc get it for you?”

“Lord Montaigne,” Veronica corrected.

“Whatever. Did he?”

“His mom, I think,” I said. “She’s got expensive tastes.”

“
Très
chic.”

“Because what’s the fun of murdering innocents if you can’t buy nice things?” Katie contributed.

“
Katie!
” Veronica snapped.

I gave her a reassuring smile, which—hopefully—didn’t look too predatory. “It’s okay. Everyone’s entitled to their opinion.”

“It’s not an opinion.”

Veronica looked momentarily flummoxed as Katie piled her books in a stack and stomped to the other side of the room. Yeah, senior year was shaping up brilliantly. All I needed now was a demon virus and a staph infection to really round out the experience.

I slid lower in my seat and extracted my
Human Social Politics
text, pretending to take notes in the margin. A few seconds later, the door to the hallway opened and shut with an almost-happy
whoosh
.

“Good morning, class,” Lori Hansen greeted us. “We’ve got a full hour of lecture and discussion today. I hope you’re ready for final exams.”

“Ready for
vacation
, yo!” Ty gave her a big thumbs-up as the rest of the class twittered laughter. My stomach sank further. Though it didn’t have much to do with final exams.

Lori Hansen
—Jack’s ex-girlfriend. You know, the one he was assigned to bond with in high school three years ago before he got recruited to teach here?

Yeah, that one.

As usual, her hair was perfect, her teeth sparkled, and her skin glowed like an airbrushed advertisement for facial cleanser. I probably would have hated her even if she hadn’t tried to kill me and Jack when we were hiding from the Guardian Elders last fall.

She smiled along with the class.

“Anyway, I hope everyone finished the reading last night, because today we’re going to jump into our section on familial politics. This will be the last discussion before we start review for the exam. Miss Bennett?” Her features darkened as she glared at me over the edge of her podium. “Did you manage to catch up on those extra reading assignments this week?”

“Actually, yeah,” I said. “I squeezed them in between the genealogy homework, warding quizzes, and spell-casting drills you assigned. Thanks for asking.”

“Excellent. You’re welcome.”

Swear to God, the woman didn’t even blink at the sarcasm. Or maybe she was too evil to recognize it.

“Now”—she bent over a leather text on the podium as I dropped my gaze—“in
The Iliad
, Homer discusses the deference and obligation that hold families together. We see this illustrated between Andromache and Hector, as well as in Achilles’s duty to his own aging father. There is, however, one value Homer holds in even greater esteem.” Hansen glanced up, her eyes boring a hole into the top of my head. “Can anyone tell me what that is? Miss Bennett?”