Meredith McCardle - The Eighth Guardian

“And let me make it clear to you that I didn’t know you were Delta’s daughter until today. I want you to know that. I’d never met you or seen a picture of you or anything like that until the day Alpha brought you to us. Your mom was fiercely protective of you, Iris. She completely cut you off from our world, and for good reason, I now see.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“And what if I decide that I’m done with Annum Guard? That I don’t want to be a part of it anymore?”

“Well, that’s your choice. But I know that I’d be disappointed. You’re a good addition to the Guard. We’re a broken, bleeding Guard, but we’ll continue.”

I nod. “I want to come back.” I do. I don’t think I realized it until this exact moment, but I do. I’m going to go to Vermont, make things right with my mom, and then I’ll be back. Annum Guard feels like a part of me. It’s in my blood. It’s who I am. And I feel like I owe it to the Obermann name to prove that we can do it right, without the corruption. “But what if they don’t want me back?”

“Of course we do!” Indigo says.

“I broke just about every rule we have. I projected in front of people. A lot of people. I changed the past.”

“Oh, of course you changed the past!” Zeta says. “That’s what we do. We give you the ‘enhancing, not altering’ lingo in the beginning; but when it comes down to it, a change is a change. A minor tweak has the potential to change the past just as much as a material alteration. We just try to do our homework ahead of time and make sure we’re not in danger of changing the world for the worse.”

“So changing the past is okay?”

“It can be.”

“In that case, I need to talk to you about something. Alone. It’s important.”

Zeta takes a breath, then turns to Indigo. “Go see your sister.”

“What?” Indigo’s head whips to the glass door. “She’s asleep.”

“I don’t care,” Zeta says. “Go see her. Now.”

We wait until Indigo has shut the sliding glass door behind him. Then I turn back to Zeta. “What’s your security clearance like?”

Zeta raises an eyebrow. “What did it used to be like, or what is it like now? If you need sensitive information this minute, you’re out of luck.”

“I’m not talking about log-ins and passwords,” I say. “What’s your building clearance? Like, for instance, in this hospital?”

“Ah.” Zeta slowly nods his head and unclips the plain white pass key from his belt that got us into the ICU. “They forgot to take this from me. I’m sure they’ll figure it out any second now, but in the meantime you saw the doors it can open. I’m sure I could go observe a brain surgery if I wanted to.”

I hold out my hand. “Can I borrow that for a few hours? I have some unfinished business I need to take care of.”

Zeta hesitates for a second but then hands me the key. “I trust you.”

I close my hands around it. “Thank you,” I whisper. And then I walk out of the ICU.

I dress a little more appropriately this time. I’m in the dress I wore for the Boston Massacre, corset and all. The corset was not by choice. I tried to lace up the dress without it, but hell if it isn’t tighter than it was a few days ago. I mean, a few months ago.

Damn.

I’m going to have to get used to the fact that it’s February. Not November. I slide my brand-new charm bracelet onto my wrist. My mom bought it for me. She’s here. In Boston. Staying at the Omni Parker House, of all places, until a spot opens up at McLean, which has the best damned bipolar treatment program in the country. And it’s only eight miles west of here.

She cried when I called her from the hospital. She’s sorry, I’m sorry, and while we have miles still to go toward fixing our relationship, McLean is a start. A twice-daily dose of lithium is a start. My sincerest apology is a start. The joint therapy and PTSD counseling our government is springing for is a start. And the one charm hanging from the bracelet is the biggest start of all. It’s a bird. Not in a cage. Free from the weight of its past and soaring into the future.

I’ve been down this road before with my mom, but this time it feels different. This time I think she has a shot. I have a shot.

I grab the edge of the dress and puff it out before slipping down the stairs as quietly as I can. Two female investigators are in the library on the computer, but they don’t even glance up at me as I walk by. Perfect. It’s as good as empty.

Except that it’s not empty. I take a few steps, my heels click-clack against the hardwood floor by the stairs, and Abe sits up from behind the back of the couch.

My feet grind to a halt, and I gasp as he makes eye contact.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Um, I live here,” he says.

My mouth drops open. “You mean you’re staying? You’re going to be in Annum Guard from now on?”

“I think that’s what I just said.”

“But what about Ariel?” I didn’t dream that, did I?

“Ariel said one thing,” Abe says with a smile, “but my dad said another. My dad knows about the Guard. Always has. I guess he’s a little resentful that Ariel refused to let him join. My dad thinks it’s a great honor, and the physical risks aren’t nearly as bad as they were a generation ago. I have my dad’s blessing.”

“And you live here now.” I repeat the words, but my brain is having a hard time processing them.

“Seriously, were you always this bad at listening?”

I run. I pick up the edge of my damn dress and I run. Straight to Abe. I fling myself into his arms and throw my hands around his neck.

“You’re here,” I whisper. “You’re really here. To stay.”

Abe slips his arms around my waist and touches his forehead to mine.

“I thought you were going to break up with me,” I say.

“Never.”

I press my mouth into his. I’ve missed the soft feel of his mouth, the tenderness of his kiss. I don’t know how long I stay there, entwined with him. For once I don’t care how much time passes.

Soon enough, Abe pulls away. “What’s with the costume?”

“Oh.” I look down at the dress and all of its restricting layers and bones. “I have one last mission before I can put this whole experience behind me.” I hold up the plain brown bag I’ve been clutching.

“What’s that?” Abe asks.

“Penicillin I swiped from the hospital.”

“Isn’t that a felony?”

“Possibly,” I say. “But it’s for a good reason. There’s a little girl in 1782 who needs this. And I promised her I’d help her. I won’t be long. Wait for me?”

Abe smiles. “Always.”

He slips his hand through mine and walks me to the gravity chamber. I enter the code they gave me that morning—seriously, they change the codes around here every twelve hours now, and let’s not talk about how many forms I had to fill out to get this mission authorized—and the room opens to blackness.

I give Abe’s hand a squeeze because I know he’ll be right here when I get back. Like he promised. Like he always will. And then I leap.

I’m not sure how old I was when I first started figuring out that some of the history that filled my schoolbooks was a partial, if not total, fabrication; but this discovery stayed with me for a while. It even inspired many of the events in this book. I tried to stay as close to true historical accuracy as I could, but there were a few instances where I fudged the truth for the sake of narration.

In the Boston Massacre scene, I have James Caldwell and Samuel Maverick running to the location together, under the impression there was a fire. There’s no indication in history that Caldwell and Maverick knew each other, much less that they ever spoke during the massacre. And while it’s true that both boys probably would have assumed there was a fire when they first heard the church bells ringing throughout Boston, by the time they reached the Old State House—the location of the Boston Massacre—they had already realized what was going on and joined the mob.