The Guardian (29 page)

“You should’ve said something.”

“Why? So you can fight my battles for me?” He unpacks the huge lunch Kate has made him: two sandwiches, Pringles, a cereal bar, an orange, a drink, and a giant brownie. Eating the brownie first, he continues between bites, “I don’t care what she says. She could call me a scruffy nerf herder and it wouldn’t matter. Because
she
doesn’t matter. And if it doesn’t matter to me then it shouldn’t matter to you.”

“But—”

“Just let it go Lexi.” He waives his hand dismissively, his shirt urging me toward the dark side with the promise of cookies.

“I don’t know,” Jonah muses in the wake of our outburst, trying to diffuse the tension. “I can think of a lot worse things than skinhead. You should get in her face and yell ‘AN—AR—CHY!’.” He shrugs. “Self-fulfilling prophecy.”

I agree with Jonah, thinking about how I’d like to make Naomi a
skinhead.
“I certainly feel a hate crime coming on.”

Derry’s shoulder bumps against mine in a gentle warning. “Lexi—”

“Fine!”

Just because I stop talking about it doesn’t mean I’ve got to let it go. Because it’s one thing for Naomi to pick on me, but Derry’s another matter entirely. Later when Coach Mann has us playing volleyball, I “accidentally” spike the ball at Naomi’s head, even though she’s on my team. My lack of control sends her to the nurse with a bloody nose—which I would feel positively smug about if it wasn’t for Gabriel’s undisguised disappointment.

Before he can say anything, I slink into the sanctuary of the girls’ locker room. After school when we meet in the hallway, he’s still radiating quiet disapproval. I can’t quite face him as I shrug, muttering, “What? The ball got away from me.”

He leans in, but instead of kissing me, he stops a fraction of an inch from my face and whispers, “You’re better than that.”

His words, like a verbal slap, cause me to flinch. Not expecting his reprimand, the bottom falls out of my stomach and my chest tightens with something akin to betrayal. Stepping back, I retort, “I guess we all can’t be perfect angels, like you.”

“Alex, I didn’t—” His eyes turn compassionate as he reaches for me.

Too hurt to care about his feelings, I snap, “Don’t touch me!” Spinning on my heels, I charge out into the courtyard to find Derry. When I reach him, I link my arm through his and say, “Let’s go.”

Derry has no choice but to move with me or be dragged, but he cranes his head to glance quizzically back at Gabriel. As if sensing my need for a distraction, he begins talking music; new bands, new downloads, the best screamers, and the upcoming
From Autumn to Ashes
release. “In fact,” he says, enthusiastically, “we should check out the music store across the street and see if they’ve got any of the early CDs.”

Glancing at the used music store with the green awning, my stomach begins to knot. Fear chases my anger, scraping my insides raw. Just thinking about returning to that store causes panic to crawl up my spine. Struggling to drag air into my lungs, I lean forward as spots dance in front of my eyes.

“Lexi, are you okay?”

Feeling the color draining from my face, I hear the concern in Derry’s voice but am unable to reply, or do anything other than hyperventilate. I shut my eyes to stop the nausea.

“She had a panic attack in there a couple of months back.” Gabriel’s at my side, his warm hand softly stroking my back. “It’s really claustrophobic in there.”

“Oh.” Derry frowns as he tries to accept Gabriel’s explanation. Peering at me with sharp eyes, he adds, “I didn’t know you had panic attacks.”

Since I can’t bear lying to him, I cryptically explain, “Sometimes. Especially when it’s dark and closed in… It just feels…”

“Evil?”

 Derry’s description surprises me and I open my eyes to regard him as I straighten. We’ve never discussed matters of good and evil or my curse. Eyebrows raised in expectancy, he waits for my agreement.

“Something like that.”

For a moment he just stares, as if there’s more he would like to say—much more. Then rubbing his bristly, head he stares far off into the distance. “I feel that way sometimes too. I think most kids do. Right, Gabe?”

“Probably,” Gabriel concedes. His voice is carefully neutral.

“Well, do you guys mind if I go?” Derry looks from Gabriel to me. “I’ll catch up with you at the Fosters’. Besides, I get the feeling Gabe has some apologizing to do.” Flashing a final smile at Gabriel, he chuckles. “Good luck with that, dude.”

I watch Derry cross the street, waiting for him to disappear into the music store before speaking. “You don’t have to jump to my rescue over every little thing!” I feel a small charge of satisfaction as Gabriel’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Most people would just say ‘thank you’,” he replies icily.

Hands on my hip, I plant my feet and stare at him challengingly. “Screw most people! I’m the destiny of mankind or some bull crap. I would be more specific—but unfortunately—I can’t.”

“For someone in denial, you sure seem to be giving this a lot of thought.”

I want to slap the smugness right off his perfect face. “Stop changing the subject.”

“Oh, so you’re the only one allowed to deflect? This isn’t about my jumping to your rescue. This is about gym class.”

I surprise both of us by admitting, “Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” Gabriel captures my chin. His soul-searching eyes begin to work their magic on me. “How long are you going to be mad at me?”

Although some the fury has leeched from my anger, I’m still resistant. “Why?”

“Because I figure we’ve got about forty minutes to make up before Derry catches up with us.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are full of unspoken meaning almost too enticing to resist.

One of the few drawbacks—maybe the only one—of Derry living with me is my alone time with my boyfriend has suffered in a huge way. His offer’s very tempting, but I can’t quite forgive him. “You hurt me.”

Pulling me closer until we’re merely a hairsbreadth apart, he apologizes. “I’m sorry, Alexia. My intent wasn’t to cause you pain. It’s just that—”

“What?”

“You’re so much better than Naomi. She’ll always feed off those more miserable than herself, but you have a huge and glorious destiny before you. It’s hard to watch you act petty—”

Lowering my eyes from his, I drop my head to stare at the ground in shame. Silently, he lifts my chin until we are again sharing breath. “It’s hard to watch because I love you.”

And while I’m mad, on a deeper and more mature level, I understand. Because it’s how I feel about Derry. I want him to rise above all the petty crap and become the truly exceptional human being he has the potential to be. That I’m similar to the Gabriel that’s not my boyfriend, but my protector, is startling. Maybe Seraphs and humans have more in common than we—in our finite perspective—could ever imagine.

Gabriel presses his forehead to mine. “What’re you thinking, Alexia?” When I tell him, he rewards me with a radiant smile. “I love you—and I can’t say it enough. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

His heavenly eyes sparkle with excitement. “So,” he whispers, the timbre of his deep voice more ragged than normal as his lips hover over mine, “can we start making up now?”

*

“I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Turning my attention to Derry’s rigid hand, his fingers interlaced through mine and clutching me as if his very survival depends upon it, I shrug. “I don’t mind the pain.” At least if he’s clutching me, he’s not cradling his scarred arm.

We’re sitting on a plain wooden bench in the hallway outside the judge’s chambers for the Campbell County Municipal Court. Gabriel’s somewhere nearby, but since there isn’t a good excuse for why he would be skipping school or be at the courthouse, he keeps a prudent distance.

This is Derry’s final custody hearing. The Fosters got a lawyer, the day after Steven liberated him from the Eccles and before the police showed up demanding we give Derry back. He doesn’t look like much—longish hair worn in a ponytail, scraggly goatee covering his pointy chin, tape on the bridge of his glasses—but Mr. Dunning knows the custodial system, and he’s good, both skilled in the law and surrounded by a sunshiny halo. Amazingly, he managed to stall both the police and Social Services, as well as get temporary custody granted to the Fosters all in the space of three hours. Now more than five weeks later, we’re at the final hearing, which will determine where Derry will reside. If we get to keep him.

When the door opens, not the main one leading into the courtroom but the more discreet one that goes right into the judge’s private chambers, both Derry and I jump to our feet. A short, stocky bailiff smiles kindly in our direction. “Judge Rettferd wants to speak to you now, Mr. Williams.”

Our lawyer warned us this would probably happen. Derry’s old enough that the judge wants to hear what he has to say—both about his experiences with the Eccles and where he would prefer to reside. Upon our arrival, Mr. Dunning gave him a pep talk.
“All you have to do, Derrick, is to tell the truth. And trust that the system works for the benefit of those who need it.”

Easier said than done, especially for those who’ve repeatedly experienced “the system” failing us.

Forsaking his usual t-shirts, Derry has dressed for the occasion wearing new khakis and a pale blue shirt with a matching tie. His dark brown hair has begun to grow out in uneven tufts, and for now it’s styled into a chaotic mess of tiny peaks. For a minute, he looks at me, scared. He tucks his left arm against his body covering it defensively with his right before he notices what he’s doing. Forcing both arms to drop at his sides, he turns resolutely toward the bailiff.

But I can’t let him go without throwing my arms around him and whispering assurances into his ear. When I finally release him, all the doubt in his eyes has been replaced by conviction, which cause the gold flecks in his eyes to shine. With a wink, he says, “Thanks,” and walks away.

When he’s gone, I reseat myself on the bench trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Courthouses are very uncomfortable for me. Not only is there an overabundance of dark ones, but many of the “good” guys—the policemen and lawyers—have waning or slightly darkened halos as well. It’s as if the system has sucked the goodness right out of them, like a parasite.

A man in shackles passes with an armed escort. Although the prisoner stares straight ahead, as he crosses my path his head does a ninety-degree turn to glare at me and he stops moving. His halo oozes sluggishly around him like tar, making it impossible to distinguish his features. My stomach plummets. But I know, in this instance, I’m safe so I defiantly meet his gaze. The guards surrounding him tense before prodding him forward. With a sickening chuckle, he continues moving down the hall.

Left feeling shaky and with an upset stomach, I start to examine why the really dark ones—demons, I guess—are attracted to me and how that relates to my particular gift. For the first time since learning about the Gifts of the Saints, I feel the need to understand what I possess. And the purpose behind it.

But later—today is about Derry.

Taking out my phone, I text Gabriel and Becke—who will report the news to Jonah—that Derry’s in the judge’s chambers. Becke’s reply of
good luck
is nearly instantaneous. But Gabriel’s response is even quicker.
Am around the corner. Can B 2 U in seconds if needed.
Love.
Just knowing how near his is, is reassuring.

Minutes later, Derry emerges. “Well?” I ask, jumping to my feet to meet him.

He nods his head as if trying to convince himself. “I think it went okay. She asked me a ton of questions about the Eccles and then wanted to know my preference. I think I remembered everything Mr. Dunning said.”

“Good.” Since he seems a little shell shocked, I lead him back to the bench. Sitting beside him, I wrap my arm around his shoulder, smiling as I recall underneath his conservative button up, his white t-shirt proclaims, “The Force is Strong with this One
.”
His crazy version of a good-luck charm to sway the universe in our favor.

I silently pray it works.

Reaching into his pocket, Derry pulls out my—his—little pink MP3 player and two sets of earbuds connected though a splitter. Still dazed, he states, “I made us a
Waiting for Someone Else to Decide My Fate
mix.” As expected, I laugh.

Taking the earphones, I lean against him, grateful we’ve got music to fill the wait. The mix is long, which is good because nearly thirty songs later the doors to the courtroom burst open, and a chaotic whirl of ashy-black stomps out. Just inside the halo, I can make out the features of a balding man in his mid-to-late forties. With a mismatched suit coat and trousers in contrasting shades of brown, a yellow shirt and red tie, he looks like he raided a thrift shop for something to wear to court. Behind him totters the gravelly-haloed Mrs. Eccles wearing a dress that barely covers her thighs and reveals her surgically enhanced chest. Guess no one told her the judge was a woman.

“Is that your foster father?” I whisper, pulling off my earphones and removing the one from Derry’s closest ear. The dark man stops to glare at us before stalking in the opposite direction followed by his plastic wife.