Meredith McCardle: The Eighth Guardian

“Why did you choose to attend Peel?” Alpha whispers behind me.

I’m starting to get dizzy. “What?”

“Why did you choose to attend Peel?” His voice is rougher. Firm.

I repeat Peel’s mantra for him. “To learn the tools necessary to someday serve my country to the best of my ability.” And that’s true. But it’s only half of it.

“Well, then.” Alpha unlocks my handcuffs. “That day has come. Go forth and serve. Listen carefully, because I’m only going to tell you your mission once.”

The girl with the purple hair flings open the door to reveal blackness. How is that possible? This hallway is so bright that I should be able to see something in there. But I can’t see anything.

What is this place?

Alpha shoves the knapsack into my chest, and my fingers claw at it.

“There’s only one rule,” he says. “No communication. Do not talk, do not gesture, do not interact with anyone.”

“What?” Don’t interact with whom? What is he talking about?

Alpha comes around to the front of me and fiddles with the necklace. I glance down as he pushes on a knob on the top. The owl pops open, revealing a watch face. It’s a pocket watch. The necklace is a pocket watch. Alpha spins a dial to the right of the face, then fastens the watch shut. He takes hold of my chin and jerks it up.

“Your mission is simple. Get back. Leave from the place where you started.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, but Alpha turns me around and pushes me through the doorway. I hear the door shut behind me, and suddenly the room is spinning so fast I don’t know if I’m up or down. But I do know I’m going to vomit. My brain is crushing against my skull, flattening and trying to seep out through my ear canals. My hands fly to my ears, and I’m pretty sure I scream.

I’m falling.

Down.

Down.

Down.

I land. Hard, right on my backside, with a thud. My wrist braces my fall, and I cry out. I cradle my wrist in my hand, carefully moving it side to side. It hurts, but it’s not broken.

I groan as I look up and take in my surroundings. And then my jaw drops open. I’m in . . . a closet? It’s dark, but there’s enough light coming under a door behind me to make it out. I grab the door handle and jiggle it, but it doesn’t budge. It’s locked. I shake it and yell, then pound on the door and throw myself against it. Nothing.

I turn around and lean my back on it, and that’s when I see the other door. There’s another door.

I grab the handle and turn it. The door swings open, revealing a cobblestone street lined with redbrick buildings. I step out into the empty street, and the door closes behind me.

“No!” I yell. Because the handle on this side doesn’t turn. I’m locked out. Or in. I don’t really know.

“Pardon me, are you all right?”

I look up. There’s a young man stopped on the street, maybe twenty feet away. He’s staring at me. He’s insanely good-looking. Movie star good-looking. Big, bright eyes, a strong jawline, and chiseled cheekbones.

But I can barely even process that. Because he’s wearing a tuxedo and a top hat. And he’s sitting in the back of a horse-drawn carriage.

This has to be a joke.

I open my mouth to say something, but then Alpha’s voice is ringing in my ears. Not his actual voice—his warning.

Do not interact with anyone!

I have no idea what’s going on, but one of the first rules they teach at Peel is never to act before you know your location. Have an exit strategy. I can’t start breaking Alpha’s artificial rules—or try to get away—until I at least know where I am. And so I turn and run as fast as I can down the alleyway, far away from the runway model in the carriage.

“Oy!” he yells after me. “I must ask that you stop! You’re bleeding. Allow me to fetch a doctor.”

I run faster. I’m dizzy. My elbow bangs into the side of a brick building. I’m sure that’s bleeding now, too, but I keep going. I zip to the left at the first intersection and throw my back against a wall. I didn’t run that far, but I can’t catch my breath.

I bend forward and clutch at my chest, willing the air to stay in my lungs. I feel like a balloon stuck with a pin. All the air has exploded out of me.

I’m dizzy. I’ve slept for—what is it?—one hour in the past thirty-six? Maybe two? I have no idea what time it is now or how long I was out before I woke up strapped to the table. But none of that matters. I have to figure out where I am.

I straighten up. I’m in a sea of redbrick brownstones with black shutters and black wrought iron railings. They’re to the left. They’re to the right. They’re on both sides of the street.

It’s . . . charming. The sort of place I like to imagine myself living someday. For one brief second I picture myself clutching the metal railing and floating up the staircase, laughing at Abe as he follows behind me.

Stop it.

Stop thinking about Abe. That won’t help.

And then one of the doors opens. The door to the corner house. A girl about my age steps out. She has an impossibly small waist, and her mauve dress with ivory lace trim sweeps across the floor as she turns to let an older man pass. Her father. Must be. He takes her hand, and she shrugs her shoulders to keep her shawl from falling. Her head whips back toward the door, as if she hears something, and her tendrils of light-brown spiral curls follow. Now she’s laughing, turning back around, and—

She sees me.

I freeze.

But that doesn’t change the fact that she sees me. She reaches out and points.

“What’s that?” she asks her father. “That boy with the long hair. What is he wearing?”

I bristle at being called a boy, but only for a second. I push off the wall and run as fast as my legs will carry me back down the street I came from. I stop halfway and sink down so that I’m sitting with my back against a black door in the middle of a redbrick wall.

What the hell is going on? Seriously. I look down into my lap. That girl back in the courtyard thought I was a boy. It wouldn’t be the first time. I have a boyish frame—no hips, no chest—and I put on muscle really easily. But my hair is long right now. I never get mistaken for a boy when I have long hair. It has to be because of my clothes. I’m wearing my old Peel uniform: a white shirt, a navy blazer, and a pair of khaki pants I chose over a skirt because it was a little chilly.

Pants.

That girl thinks I’m a boy because I’m wearing pants.

Who the hell mistakes a girl for a boy just because she’s wearing pants? What is this, the nineteenth century?

A pit forms in my stomach. Of course not. That’s a ridiculous thought. But I can’t help letting myself think the obvious. That what Alpha said before was true. That he gave me the ability to travel back in time, and now I’m here—wherever this is—trapped in a different era.

Your mission is simple , Alpha’s voice echoes in my head. Get back. Leave from the place where you started.

Could it be possible? Could I actually be in a different time?

No. No way. I’m being messed with. Alpha is trying to wear me down for some reason I haven’t figured out yet. He wants something from me. This is an elaborate setup with a bunch of people in period costume meant to throw me off guard.

Well, that’s not going to happen. All I have to do is determine where I am, and I’ll be out of here so fast Alpha won’t know what hit him.

I stand up, take a breath, and walk to the other end of the alleyway, to where the guy in the horse-drawn carriage was. Another horse clomps down the street in front of me, but I shake my head and ignore it. Elaborate setup, I repeat in my head.