The Eighth Guardian

CHAPTER 10

I find a note under my door the next morning, and I yawn as I bend to pick it up.

NUMBER EIGHT

My neck snaps up. When Alpha said I was back to training missions, I didn’t realize he meant the next day. I race to my closet and push all the hangers holding my things to the side, eager to get to my historical wardrobe. I find the hanger marked with an 8 and pull it down.

It’s a knee-length baby-blue dress with a wide skirt and a white Peter Pan collar. There’s a matching purse. I wrinkle my nose. That collar looks like something I would have worn on a jumper when I was four. But then I remember the star next to my name and tell myself it’s time to get serious.

I take a quick shower and zip up the dress. It looks even more ridiculous on me than it did on the hanger. With a pair of white wrist gloves and some sensible heels, I’d be ready for bridge club in the church fellowship hall. I have no idea what to do with my hair, so I throw it back into a low ponytail. I add a thin layer of black eyeliner and a smidge of a shimmery brown eye shadow, then I swipe a few dabs of mascara onto my eyelashes—only because I’m afraid Alpha would put me through another Yellow makeover if I don’t. I take one quick look in the mirror, and the mascara tube clatters to the floor.

I look so much like my mom with the makeup. The old pictures of her. The ones from before her diagnosis or from shortly after, when she was still medicating. The ones when she was young and happy, full of life. Her eyes are green and wide, while mine are brown and close set—my dad’s eyes; but everything else is my mom. In this mirror, I am her.

I hope and pray every single night that looks are the only thing I inherited from her. She wasn’t that much older than I am now when she got the diagnosis. There could be a ticking time bomb lying dormant inside of me, waiting for the right moment to explode its mania and desperation all over the normal life I’m trying so hard to build. I chew my bottom lip for a few seconds, then I’m out the door.

There isn’t. I’m not.

I slide into my place next to Indigo and try to delete my mom from my mind. Indigo leans over and lifts one of the flaps of my collar. “Cute.”

I bat his hand away but then notice he’s ditched the Civil War getup today. Instead he’s wearing a pair of high-waisted, pleated pants and a charcoal tweed skinny tie over a short-sleeved white button-down. His hair is slicked back with probably an entire bottle of gel. It’s not the best look for him.

“Iris,” Alpha says. “We were just discussing you.”

I look at the clock on the wall. It’s seven on the dot. I’m not late, am I?

“This morning you’ll be going on your second training mission.”

“Great!” I say. “You and me? Where are we going?”

A few people at the table exchange worried looks, which is not lost on me. What did I say? Alpha takes in a breath through his nose and closes his eyes for a short second.

“Ah. No. Zeta handles all training missions.”

Ugh. Awesome.

“And Indigo will be accompanying the two of you,” Alpha continues.

I look at Indigo. That would explain the hair. He leans over and jostles his shoulder into mine. “We’re a team, kid.”

I’m not sure why, but I bristle when Indigo calls me “kid.”

Alpha pours a dab of cream into his coffee and gives it a quick swirl with a sterling spoon. “The car will be here in ten, so eat quickly.”

Car? What car? But I don’t have time to think about it, because trays of food are set in front of us. I try to inhale it, but I’ve only managed a piece of toast and a few bites of a scrambled egg when Zeta stands up and announces it’s time to go.

Zeta punches in a code to disengage the alarm before we go out the front door, and once I’m outside it dawns on me that I’ve never been out this way. Just through that little door on the side street, and even then, only in another time.

And now here we are, standing on the sidewalk in modern-day Boston, watching the cars go whizzing down Beacon Street. A group of schoolkids passes us on their way to school, and Zeta gives them a quick nod of his head. On the other side of the street, a young mother speed walks down the steps into Boston Common, hoisting a small toddler to her hip while balancing a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and holding a cell phone up to her ear with the other. She doesn’t even pay us a second glance. These people are our neighbors. They go about their lives every day and have no clue that there’s a group of time travelers living next door with a freaking gravity chamber in the basement.

I turn back around to look at the house. There’s a small bronze sign tacked to the door that reads THE CLAREMONT SCHOOL.

Must be our cover.

A black Lincoln Town Car pulls onto the street and stops in front of Annum Hall. The driver hops out, but Zeta waves him off and opens the back door for Indigo and me. Indigo slides all the way over, then I get in after him. Zeta sits in the front.

“Logan,” he tells the driver.

“We’re going to the airport?” I ask.

“Affirmative.” Zeta reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out two envelopes. He hands one to me and one to Indigo. Indigo and I look at each other before opening them. A driver’s license bearing my picture and the name Kelly Hodges tumbles into my lap, as well as a ticket to Washington DC’s Reagan National Airport and several bills and coins. I look over at Indigo, who’s also holding a ticket, ID, and money.

“Hold on to them carefully,” Zeta says. “Otherwise you’re going to be hitchhiking your way home.”

The three of us get through the security line in record time. The plane is boarding as we walk up, and it’s not until we’re on the plane that I realize we’re sitting in first class. I stop in my tracks in front of Row 2. Indigo comes up behind me and leans down so close that I can feel his breath blow on my neck. It sends shivers down my arms.

“Aisle or window?” he asks.

“Window,” I say.

“Then get in there and quit holding up the line.” He’s smiling at me, so I playfully punch him in the arm and climb in. Zeta takes the seat across the aisle and instantly pulls out his phone and starts typing an e-mail. Or maybe he’s changing national security codes. I have no idea really.

“I’ve never flown first class,” I say, settling into the roomy leather seat. I could get used to this.

“We always fly first class,” Indigo says. “Although don’t get too excited. This flight is barely more than an hour, and you’re not going to be happy when we land.”

I’m about to ask him what he means when a man comes around and offers us bottles of water. I reach up to the seat in front of me to unhook the tray table, but there isn’t one.

Indigo chuckles behind me and taps the armrest of my seat. “It’s in here.”

I stare out the window as we take off, then close my eyes and lean the seat back. I’m starting to think I was too quick to judge Annum Guard before. I’d always thought I’d live a high-pressure life where I was constantly all over the world, putting my life in danger almost daily, never having a permanent address. But now I imagine myself jetting across the country, maybe even the world, traveling back in time and enhancing our history, then making it home all in time for dinner.

Of course, there is no Abe in my future with Annum Guard.

Before I know it, the pilot announces our initial descent. I straighten my chair and fold up the tray before tucking it back into the armrest.

When we deplane, there’s a driver dressed in a black suit outside the airport, holding a handwritten sign that says SMITH. Zeta walks up to him and shakes his hand, then we all pile into another black Town Car and head into the city. No one says a word the entire trip, which only takes about twenty minutes. The driver drops us off on the corner of Potomac and N Street. We’re in a residential zone, and there are a bunch of brownstones lining the street.

Zeta stops us at a house on the corner as a college-age guy wearing black plastic glasses and a yellow-and-green plaid shirt tucked into black skinny jeans slows to a halt in front of us. He turns to Indigo. “Cool tie, bro. Urban Outfitters?”

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing as Indigo flashes a coy smile. “It’s vintage.”

“Going for legit cred. I like it.” And then he nods his head and keeps walking. I look at Indigo and can’t help but smile.

“Can we focus, please?” Zeta asks in a clipped voice. I wipe the smile off my face and turn to see him gesturing toward a brick three-story with a bright-red front door and a little herb garden planted out front. “This is it,” he says.

“Annum Guard headquarters?” I guess. It makes sense that a government organization would have its headquarters in the nation’s capital, but Zeta shakes his head.

“You live in Annum Guard headquarters. We don’t have an official presence in DC. They don’t mention our name in public, our funding is hidden in miscellaneous Title 10 projects, and only those persons with the highest level of clearance know about our existence. Anonymity keeps us safe, Iris.”

I don’t know what it is about Zeta, but he has a way of making me feel as if I’m being scolded every time he speaks to me.

He clears his throat. “Training mission number Iris-Two,” he says as he points to the house we’re standing in front of. “In the fall of 1960, this brownstone was home to one Eugene McCarthy, a Democratic senator out of Minnesota. Do you know anything about Senator McCarthy?”

Senator McCarthy. That name sounds familiar. And then it hits me.

“Communism!” I practically shout. “Senate hearings to determine whether there were any communists living in America. He organized it. Led to a lot of Hollywood people being blacklisted.”

Zeta shakes his head. “Wrong McCarthy. You’re about ten years too late. And that was Joseph McCarthy. We’re dealing with Eugene McCarthy.”

“Oh,” I say. “Then I know nothing about Senator McCarthy.”

“Nor do you need to. Your mission is a simple one. At precisely 8:53, Senator McCarthy is going to walk down those steps, hail a cab, and head to the Capitol building just in time for an important vote, which takes place at 9:08. You are going to make him miss that cab and miss that vote, thereby freeing up funds that your modern-day commerce secretary has decided would have been better spent on . . . other projects. Understand?”

This is just like Alpha’s first example to me. The smallest feeling of disappointment creeps in. Making someone miss a cab? Ho-hum. But I nod my head.

“You get one try,” Zeta says in a hushed whisper as he walks a few yards down Potomac and stops in front of a black gate leading into the backyard. He takes a black leather pouch from his inside suit pocket, jiggles the padlock on the gate, and pulls a tension wrench and hook lock pick from the pouch. The lock clicks open in about three seconds. “If you fail, you fail. No going back in time again to correct your mistakes. We can project back here without being seen. Now set your watch. October 25, 1960.”

I look over at Indigo, who’s already turning the knobs on his watch as he steps through the gate into someone’s backyard. I do the same. I start to shut the lid, but Zeta reaches out and grabs my hand before I can.

“One word of caution. This is your first time projecting outside of Annum Hall. The gravity chamber spares us some of the stresses that projection can wreak on our bodies.” Beside him, Indigo nods his head with his lips pursed. “Traveling this way is rough, I won’t lie to you. Most times we opt to travel from Annum Hall and commute to our location in the past. Sometimes this is impractical, say if I needed to get from Boston to San Francisco in 1849. Much easier to hop a flight to San Francisco in present day than to travel three thousand miles in a covered wagon.”

“They had air travel in 1960,” I point out. At least I think they did.

“I know. But I wanted you to experience this. To know how it used to be for all of us.”

“So this is like hazing?” I clutch the watch in my hand and squeeze.

Zeta doesn’t respond. He turns to Indigo. “Are you ready?”

Indigo swallows what I can only assume is the lump in his throat and gives one quick nod of the head. “Ready, sir.”

And then Zeta looks down at me. “Iris?”

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” It’s the truth.

Zeta stares straight ahead. “Watches shut, on the count of three. One . . . two . . . three!”

I slam my watch face lid shut, and instantly I know something is wrong. I’m falling too fast. My body can’t keep up. My limbs are straining, stretching, and I can’t breathe. Can’t talk. My eyes are bulging out of their sockets as wind whips through them, threatening to yank them free. My limbs are being stretched too far. They’re going to pop off. Every muscle in my body shrieks in pain. I try to scream but make no sound. I want this to stop. I want this to stop now.

And just like that I slam hard into the ground. I gasp for breath and look up. I’m on my hands and knees in Senator McCarthy’s backyard.

Indigo and Zeta stand over me, and Indigo bends a knee and comes down to the ground. “Are you all right?”

I nod my head, but it’s a lie.

It’s no big secret that had I been recruited by the CIA, I would have gone through some serious Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape (SERE) training, where they would subject me to Abu Ghraib–type shit. I think this might have been worse. Indigo grabs my hand and pulls me up, and my legs protest. I’m unsteady on my feet. I sway back and forth a few times, trying not to fall over.

Zeta looks amused. Of course he does. He swings open the gate, which apparently doesn’t have a lock in 1960, and I follow him to the corner. He points to the brownstone, and my eyes follow. The front door is black, not red, and there’s no herb garden; other than that, the house is the same.

Nothing else is. Not at all. Huge cars that look more like submarines line the streets. Men hustle down the sidewalk wearing hats. Fedoras. The women all wear dresses and gloves, and one walks past me wearing cat’s-eye glasses.

“Time check,” Zeta says.

I look down at my watch. 8:52. The second hand is ticking past forty seconds on its way to the top. Whoa. Talk about not giving me much lead time. I haven’t even caught my breath yet. A big yellow boat of a cab turns onto N Street a block away.

That has to be the cab.

Behind me, the front door of the brownstone opens, and a very proper-looking man with dark hair and a serious face trots down the steps. He plops a hat on his head, spots the cab, and raises his arm. The car slows, and I forget how much pain I’m in. It all disappears. I have to get to that cab.

“Go,” Zeta hisses behind me, pushing me forward.

I don’t hesitate, don’t think. I sprint across the street, throwing myself in front of Senator McCarthy as he’s reaching for the handle. I open the door and fling myself into the backseat. The senator looks at me with wide, angry eyes.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “Medical emergency. Driver, I need a hospital immediately.”

Senator McCarthy blinks a few times with disbelieving eyes, but then he nods at the driver and shuts the cab door. I breathe a sigh of relief and sink down in the seat as the driver steps on the gas. I did it. I prevented him from getting the cab. That was so simple. Too simple.

I pivot around to see if I can spot Zeta or Indigo. But all I see is Senator McCarthy climbing into the backseat of a cab that must have pulled up ten seconds later.

Son of a—

“On second thought, I’m feeling better,” I snap at the driver. “Let me out here, please!”

The driver slams on the brakes, which sends me flying into the back of the front seat. He pivots around, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “What the hell do you mean, let you out here? We’ve gone half a block.”

“I’m very sorry.” I open the door. “What do I owe you?”

The driver lets out a noise of disgust. “Thirty-five cents.”

I fish out two quarters from the purse and shove them into the front seat. “Keep the change.” I slam the door shut and take off running back down the block. I need to get Senator McCarthy out of that cab!

It’s coming close. What do I do? What do I do? There’s only one thing I can think of. The cab’s not going that fast. I can do this. I draw in my breath and lean back. Here it comes. Just another couple seconds—

“Iris!” Zeta shouts from down the block. He runs toward me. “Stop! No!”

But I’ve already launched myself up in the air. My shoulder lands hard on the windshield, and I cry out in pain. The cab slams on its brakes and swerves to the right, and I go flying off the hood onto the hard, unforgiving pavement of N Street.

I groan as I hear two cab doors open and slam shut, and Senator McCarthy crouches down beside me.

“She jumped in front of me!” I hear the old cab driver yell. “This crazy broad jumped in front of me!”

“Quiet!” the senator barks. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“Yeah, in the head,” the cabbie says.

I turn my head to the side and see Zeta and Indigo, standing across the street half a block down or so. They’ve stopped running, and Zeta has his arm out, holding Indigo back. I’m on my own with this one.

“Are you all right?” the senator repeats, his voice firm.

Am I all right? No. Clearly not. My body has already been through hell this morning, and then I got hit by a moving vehicle. A snaking line of purple bruises is already starting to dot my right arm and shoulder. My left arm is scraped and bleeding. But I don’t think anything is broken.

“I think so,” I say. But then I glance at the senator’s wristwatch. It’s only 8:55. There’s still plenty of time to get to the Capitol for the vote. I have to stall him. He pushes off his hands to stand.

“Wait, no!” I yell. “My leg, I think it’s broken!”

Senator McCarthy looks down at his own watch. He sighs. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tend to you now.”

But then the cops show up, in their long, flat, black-and-white cars with domed flashing lights; and I know this mission is over. No way a cop is going to let an eyewitness leave an accident scene. Sure enough, the cops survey the scene and make everyone stay for questioning. I ditch my purse in a nearby bush, then tell the cops I realized I’d left it back at the house and had run to get it and didn’t see the cab. No one gets ticketed or arrested, but the cops take almost half an hour. I’ve done it. I’ve made the senator miss the vote.

The senator and the driver get back into the cab to head off to the Capitol, I assume, and I smile. Every muscle in my body is protesting; and as I see Indigo and Zeta walking toward me, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach, too.

“Damn!” Indigo calls as he gets close. “That was so badass! That’s dedication right there, huh, Z?”

Zeta doesn’t say anything as he comes up next to me. Instead he stares at me with cool, hard eyes. “That’s . . . something,” he finally says. “Tell me; did you forget that the laws of physics have always existed? Or did you think that hurling your body in front of a moving vehicle wouldn’t hurt you in the 1960s?”

“I just thought—”

Zeta makes a buzzer sound. “Eh. Wrong. You clearly weren’t thinking about anything. Had you been thinking, you would not have jumped in front of a car.”

“Okay, fine!” I say. “I wasn’t thinking. I just knew that I had to stop the senator from getting to the Capitol, and I did the first thing that popped into my head. But it worked, I’d like to point out.”

Zeta takes a slow breath. “Indeed it did,” he admits. “You successfully completed your mission, and my report will reflect that.” Yes! Finally. I’ve finally done something right. “However, I told you before that whatever happens on a mission stays a permanent part of history. Had you died, it would have been nice knowing you. So I will also make sure your reckless behavior is included in the report. Now are we ready to go back?”

I get that uneasy feeling my stomach has come to know and love. And now we have to go back. My body will be put through hell again. The voice in my head cries out in protest. Throws itself on the floor, kicking and screaming like a toddler who’s been told to do something she doesn’t want to do. But I whip out my watch and punch the top knob like it’s as easy as climbing a flight of stairs. Never show weakness.

“I’m ready, sir,” I say as I march myself toward the senator’s backyard.

Zeta lifts an eyebrow and looks over to check that my watch is set correctly. “All right. Then go.”

I snap the watch face lid shut before I have time to reconsider. My body is shot up so fast that my arms are plastered to my side. It’s as if I’ve been stuffed into a cannon. A real one, not a circus one. All the pressure is on my shoulders. They’re pulling down and away from my body. They’re going to be ripped off. My head is pulled up, as if someone is trying to twist it off. Pressure. So much pressure. My neck muscles strain and scream, and the pain travels down to my arms, already bruised and black from the cab. It feels as if someone is taking a rubber mallet and swinging away at the bruises. I would scream if I could.

And then I land, back in present-day Washington. I hear two pops as Indigo and Zeta appear. I’m still on the ground, the wet morning grass staining my dress. Never show weakness, I remind myself. But I can’t get up. I can’t move.

Indigo drops to my side, and I lower my chin. Everything hurts, and I want to cry. I can’t believe that this is how they used to travel all the time. That this was routine. It’s no wonder nearly all of them are dead or disfigured. Time travel—projecting—is hell.

Indigo reaches out a hand and gently guides my chin up. I should push him away. I should fight him off. But I don’t. I stare into his eyes, unable to hide what I’m feeling. His hand is still on my chin, and he lifts a finger to tap my nose.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and I choke. Because that’s something Abe would have done.

I jerk my head to the side and push up. I wobble, and Indigo hops up to help me. I try to shake him off, but he puts an arm around my shoulder. I miss Abe. He’s going to be here next year, almost right where I’m standing. Georgetown. And I’m not going to be with him. Ever again.

I lean into Indigo. It hurts so much. More than that time I broke my arm when I was eight, and it took four tries to reset the bone. More than when I took a roundhouse kick to the groin during combat training at Peel. Physical pain subsides. Emotional pain never will. I know that all too well.

Zeta has already called for the car, and it pulls up only a few minutes later. Zeta gets in front, and Indigo and I climb into the back. We sit on opposite sides of the seat, not even remotely close to touching, and I stare out the window at the yellow and orange trees the whole ride.

I just projected back in time. I have the ability to time travel. Chronometric Augmentation, my mind says in a superserious government voice. I’m one of only a handful of people in the world who can do it.

So why aren’t I happier?

Zeta hands us first-class tickets again. The plane takes off, and I recline my seat and shut my eyes.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I hear the flight attendant ask.

I shake my head without opening my eyes, but then I hear Zeta say across the aisle, “Three glasses of champagne,” and my eyes pop open. Champagne? I’ve never had it before. I don’t drink. Ever. When you grow up with a mom who counts alcoholism among her many problems, you don’t really have a desire to drink.

The flight attendant gives Indigo and me the once-over. “I’m sorry; I’m going to have to ask for some identification.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t want—” But then Indigo elbows me in the rib. My right rib, which is so sore and tender that I cringe.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.

“It’s fine.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the ID Zeta gave me that morning. I glance at it and, holy crap. It says I’m twenty-one. My boss got me a fake ID. I hand it to the flight attendant, who examines it and hands it back.

“Three glasses of champagne, coming right up.”

She brings them, and Zeta tips his glass to me across the aisle. “All in all, a very successful day.” My head whips over to look at him. Did he just use the words very and successful in the same sentence, directed at me? “You still have to work on your impulse control, but I would be honored to teach you further.” He takes a sip while my hands shake.

Then Indigo practically shoves his glass in my face. “Cheers.” He taps his glass into my mine. It makes a soft clink!

“Cheers,” I tell him before taking the smallest sip. The champagne is sweet and bubbly and goes down way too easily, so I set it back on the tray.

“Not thirsty?” Indigo downs his glass.

“Not really.”

He smiles. “You fascinate me, you know.”

“I . . . what do you mean?”

“I mean—” Indigo reaches for my glass. “You gonna drink that?” I shake my head, so Indigo picks it up. “That I can’t quite figure you out.”

“Who says I want you to figure me out?”

Indigo chuckles and empties the other glass. “That’s part of what fascinates me.” He sets the glass on the tray, leans his seat back, and closes his eyes. I can’t help but stare at him for a little while. I try not to think at all.